Gosford's Daughter (25 page)

By the bed, Gillis’s eyes darted from Sorcha to the
three women. She seemed on the verge of tears. Sorcha surveyed
their adversaries and wondered if it came to physical force, who
would win the day. She and her companions had youth on their side,
but Gillis might simply go to pieces. As for Ailis, she was as trim
and fit as Sorcha. Still, Sorcha questioned Ailis’s nerve.

That was a miscalculation. The stocky woman had
advanced on Ailis, who held her ground and assumed a lethal
expression. “If you touch me, I shall gouge out your eyes.” With
astonishing quickness, Ailis put up her hands, contorted into
claws. The woman stood stock-still, staring in disbelief. But there
was no mistaking the chilling threat in Ailis’s words. She seemed
rooted to the floor, like a primeval goddess sprung from a Highland
bog.

“
We are doing only what we’re told,”
the tall matron said from her place by the door. “Sir Amyas’s
orders must be obeyed.”

“
I doubt that Sir Amyas wants a
blind gentlewoman on his hands,” Sorcha asserted, moving casually
to stand by Ailis. “At Inverness, we call Ailis ‘The Bat.’ ”
Sorcha smiled sweetly. “That’s because she has made so many people
sightless. But they should not have vexed her.”

Ailis hadn’t moved. She still crouched, her grasping
hands a scant six inches from the stocky matron’s face. The tall,
gaunt woman cleared her throat. “If any of us is harmed, you’ll all
hang.”

“
Perhaps.” Sorcha flipped the long
black hair over her shoulders. “But you won’t be able to see
it.”

A low, guttural growl erupted from Ailis’s throat.
Gillis shrieked in terror, falling to her knees and cowering
against the bed. Sorcha threw her a reproachful look. “Oh, Gillis,
don’t fash yourself! The Bat has never disfigured or maimed anyone
unless they annoyed her! Except for Margery MacKim, and that was a
misunderstanding. A pity, too, since she was such a fine
needleworker.”

Sorcha gave the three matrons an apologetic smile as
Ailis snarled again. “I’m afraid she’s gone beyond my control.
Forgive me if I look away. It’s quite a gruesome sight.”

The stocky woman sucked in a deep, rasping breath.
Gillis whimpered by the bed. The tall, gaunt matron exchanged
terrified glances with her birdlike companion. Sorcha had turned
her back, barely able to stand still, but determined to display an
air of calm. The tension in the room was oppressive.

A firm knock on the door snapped the spell. Gillis’s
whimpering melted away, Ailis stood up straight, dropping her hands
to her sides, and the three matrons all gasped in audible relief.
The birdlike woman opened the door to admit Sir Amyas Paulet. He
surveyed the entire group with cold, probing eyes. “Is the search
completed?”

The hesitation on the matrons’ part was barely
noticeable before the tall, gaunt matron replied, “Yes, Sir Amyas,
it took just a few moments once our visitors realized how vital
security is here at Chartley.”

“
Excellent.” He nodded in a detached
manner at Sorcha. “Very sensible.” His hand waved at the matrons.
“Come. As always, there is much to be done.” The trio followed him
out of the room, with not one backward glance.

As soon as the door closed behind them, Sorcha rushed
to Ailis and hugged her. “God bless you, Ailis! You’re brilliant!”
She felt the other girl stiffen slightly and then relax. Sorcha
stepped back to scrutinize Ailis’s bland, oval face. “Tell me—would
you have actually gouged the old hag?”

Ailis looked thoughtful. “I shouldn’t think so. I
find violence most repellent.” She tapped a finger against her
cheek. “Still, I was put out.”

Gillis had struggled to her feet. “Do you mean,” she
gasped incredulously, “that Ailis isn’t … The Bat?”

Sorcha laughed and gave Gillis’s arm a little shake.
“Oh, by the Mass, no! ’Twas all a ruse. And, as ruses go, quite a
good one.” She smiled broadly at Ailis, whose mouth twitched in
droll response. In that moment, Sorcha knew that the prickly,
somber Ailis was more than a Fraser protégée—she was also a
friend.

Rob joined them after supper. He was thinner, and his
boyish aura had dimmed. But his spirits were good, his humor
intact, and his delight in seeing Sorcha was evident. Since Gillis
was unaware of his real purpose in joining Queen Mary’s household,
Ailis tactfully led her out of their rooms after the first few
minutes. Though Sorcha’s most burning question was the whereabouts
of Gavin Napier, she refrained from asking straightaway. Instead,
she queried Rob about the Queen and his duties in attending
her.

“
She is in better health than I’d
expected,” Rob said, sitting cross-legged on a cushion opposite his
sister. “Indeed, she has become quite merry in recent weeks. I
spend some two hours a day reading French with her and helping with
her correspondence, though Master Nau does most of that, as is his
duty. Little freedom is allowed here, and no trappings of the
Catholic faith are permitted.” He paused to drink from a tankard of
beer. “It’s far worse than Scotland,” he added, lowering his voice.
“Someone in the household was rumored to have attended Mass a while
ago, and Paulet had him hanged in full view of the
Queen.”

Sorcha shuddered. “God’s teeth, how horrible! You
mean the Queen can’t receive the sacraments?”

Rob shook his head sadly. “Paulet is a Puritan, more
vehemently opposed to Catholics than are other Protestants. I fear
he takes great pleasure in tormenting Queen Mary over even the
smallest matters. In all the years of her imprisonment, she has had
no gaoler as severe as Sir Amyas.”

While Sorcha was genuinely dismayed at the Queen’s
plight, she was still anxious to hear about Father Napier. And
unwilling to ask outright. “What of you, Rob? Do you still wish to
be a priest?”

Rob brushed at the stray lock of red hair. “Oh, aye,
my desire to take Holy Orders has been strengthened since I’ve been
here. The evil opposition fuels my resolve. There is persecution
here in England ten times worse than in Scotland. The days of
Edmund Campion—God rest his soul—have not fled.”

Sorcha crossed herself rather absentmindedly.
“Campion … ah, the Jesuit martyr. Poor man.” She racked her
brain to find a natural way of turning the conversation to Gavin
Napier. “If … Napier can’t give the Queen the sacraments, what
does he do?” she asked, hoping her voice contained no more than
ordinary curiosity.

Apparently it did not, for Rob merely shook his head.
“There’s little he
can
do, save pray with her and meditate.
He reads with her, as I do, of course.” He gave his sister a rueful
look. “You’ll find us dull company. I was astonished to learn you
were coming with Gillis Mowbray.”

“
King Jamie was set on my attending
his royal mother.” Sorcha stood up and stretched, her muscles weary
from long hours in the saddle. “When do I meet Her
Grace?”

Rob fretted at his unruly lock of hair. “Tomorrow,
perhaps. She was feeling unwell this afternoon. Though,” he added,
setting his tankard aside and also getting to his feet, “I’ve been
told by Secretary Nau that her spirits are much lighter these days
because she has been able to renew her correspondence abroad since
coming to Chartley.”

Sorcha turned skeptical. “And how is it that the
strict Sir Amyas permits such freedom of the pen?”

Rob gave Sorcha a tight little smile. “Paulet doesn’t
know. It’s a secret system devised by Nau and someone in the
village. The brewer, I believe.”

“
It sounds most strange,” Sorcha
said with a deepening frown. “To whom does Her Majesty
write?”

“
I’m not sure.” Rob adjusted his
somber doublet. Everyone at Chartley seemed to be attired in
severe, even drab, clothing, no doubt in deference to Sir Amyas
Paulet. “I’ve not been asked to write anything but the most
official sort of letters. Eventually I may, when I win her
trust.”

Sorcha began to pace, vexed at the sense of
restlessness that was creeping over her. She had been at Chartley
but a few hours. There was great pleasure at seeing Rob again, and
shortly she would meet the tragic, charismatic woman who had once
been Queen of Scotland, yet Sorcha was still discontent. She paused
by the casement, pushing it wide open to feel a warm summer breeze
touch her cheek.

A single rap on the door made Sorcha jump and Rob
turn questioningly. Gavin Napier’s muffled voice sounded on the
other side of the heavy oak, deep but scarcely audible. Sorcha
started for the door, hesitated, and watched Rob glance quizzically
at her before he got up to admit their visitor.

Gavin Napier was dressed as somberly as the rest of
the household, in black doublet, hose, and boots, relieved only by
a thin silver chain draped across his chest. He could not have
looked more austere had he been attired in clerical vestments.
Greeting Sorcha with a curt bow, he rested his dark eyes somewhere
beyond her face. “It seems that our sovereign lady has changed her
mind and wishes to see you now. Will you come?”

“
Of course.” Sorcha glanced at Rob,
as if for reassurance. He lifted one shoulder and smiled faintly.
“Will you join us, Rob?”

Napier answered for him. “No. Too many would tire her
this time of night. I will escort you only as far as her chamber
door.”

Sorcha couldn’t suppress a look of annoyance, though
whether it was for the Queen’s nervous state or Napier’s arrogant
indifference she could not be sure. Hastily, she rummaged about in
a partially unpacked trunk for her mirror and a hairnet. The mirror
proved elusive, but at last she pulled out a wide green velvet
bandeau that would serve to keep her unruly hair in place. Her
appearance was hardly suitable for meeting the former Queen of
Scotland, but then, this sudden invitation was not a formal state
occasion.

Nor, Sorcha thought with bitterness, did it matter
how elegant she looked as far as Gavin Napier was concerned. She
dared not be comely; she must force herself to resist any show of
encouragement. If she had been resolute in turning Moray away, she
must be ten times as determined with Father Napier.

So ran her thoughts as Napier closed the door behind
them and led her down the shadowy corridor. While Chartley’s tall
windows might fill the manor house with sunlight on a summer day,
Sir Amyas’s economies didn’t permit the luxury of more than an
occasional sconce at night. Sorcha imitated Napier’s purposeful
step as they passed two guards and a pot-boy on their journey to
the Queen. Napier didn’t utter a single word, nor did he so much as
glance at Sorcha. At last, even as she could see two more guardsmen
flanking a chamber door near the end of the long passage, Sorcha
bit off the question she had vowed not to ask:

“
Are you truly displeased that I
came here?” She was startled by the harsh sound of her
voice.

Napier paused almost imperceptibly before speaking.
“Aye.” The affirmation rambled out like an animal growl.

Of course there could be no other answer; Sorcha had
known that before she asked. So why did she feel that heavy, dull
thud in her breast; why had the color drained from her face? She
was afraid to look up at the grim, set profile, well aware that it
exhibited all the rigid self-control she had promised to show
him.

“
It was a royal command,” she
replied with a crispness she scarcely felt. Nor was the explanation
entirely accurate; Jamie’s self-righteous pleading had been more
likely an apologia. But Napier needn’t know that. Like her kingly
cousin, Sorcha felt obligated to make excuses.

“
As you will,” Napier muttered,
waving one hand toward the mildly curious guards. “Her Grace
awaits.” He turned on his heel, leaving Sorcha to face Mary Stuart
alone.

Over the years, Sorcha had heard the Queen of Scots
described in great extremes. She was frivolous; she was plagued by
bad luck; she lacked political acumen; she was blindly willful; she
was easily swayed; she paid no heed to sound advice. Depending upon
individual bias, Mary Stuart ran the gamut from saint to whore. But
virtually everyone who rendered an opinion agreed upon one thing:
the former Queen of Scotland was a charismatically lovely creature
whose charms were either heaven-sent or the work of the Devil.
Tall, graceful, auburn-haired, skin like alabaster—even Mary’s
enemies had to acknowledge her beauty.

It was natural then that Sorcha should almost make
the second mistake of her life in failing to recognize a royal
Stuart. Yet there could be no doubt that the sad-eyed,
sallow-skinned, middle-aged woman who sat up in the heavily
curtained bed was Mary, Queen of Scots. A terrier lay on the
counterpane, and a lady-in-waiting announced Sorcha in a mournful
tone.

Sorcha took a deep breath before dropping to her
knees. The hand that reached out to her was stiff with rheumatism,
and the lips that formed a smile seemed so thin as to almost
disappear inside her mouth. Yet the eyes were bright and lively;
the voice held the famous lilting French inflection from the
Queen’s youthful years abroad.

“
Ah, ma petite
! Another
Fraser joins us in our English cage.” She gestured clumsily toward
a high-backed chair as the terrier stirred on the bed and went back
to sleep. “Pray sit. Tell us fresh news of your family.”

Sorcha composed herself as decorously as possible in
the chair. Swiftly, she calculated the Queen’s age—middle forties,
younger than Lady Fraser. Yet she looked at least ten years older,
no doubt the result of too little exercise and too much sorrow.
Sorcha was moved to pity.

“
There is nothing much to tell,”
Sorcha said carefully. “My father is away on a voyage.” She saw the
Queen’s lips twitch slightly. “My mother and my sister, Rosmairi,
are at court. Though,” she added hastily, “this is their first
visit in many years.”