Gosford's Daughter (30 page)

Aware that she spoke too quickly, Sorcha explained
why they had come to Fotheringhay despite orders to the contrary.
Napier, leading them in the opposite direction from Drury, nodded
once or twice, then headed up a twisting stone staircase to a
drafty wing of the castle that looked out directly over the River
Nene.

“
Our quarters are cramped,” he told
Sorcha and Ailis, pausing midway in the corridor and fingering his
bearded chin. His preoccupation with practical matters provided a
more relaxed veneer. “Let me think—you could stay with Gillis
Mowbray and Elizabeth Curle.” Napier finally turned his hunter’s
gaze on Sorcha. “I suspect, alas, it will not be for
long.”

“
Then it’s true? The Queen
will … be executed soon?” Sorcha’s voice was wispy in her
ears.

Napier nodded gravely. “All is prepared. Though,” he
added, gazing from one end of the empty corridor to the other,
“there is a curious reluctance on Elizabeth’s part to act. It makes
me wonder, as I did when I followed Her Grace here.” He shook his
head, and gave a rueful little laugh. “Either way, our poor
sovereign lady will die. Unless, as Patrick Gray has hinted to
Elizabeth, Jamie intervenes.”

“
Gray!” Sorcha involuntarily stepped
back a pace at the Master’s name. “And how does that loathsome
creature figure into all this?”

Napier brushed Sorcha’s wool sleeve with his fingers.
“He has written to the Queen of England, stating that King Jamie
will not tolerate the execution of his mother. I think Gray
blusters. Jamie will not sever the bond between himself and
Elizabeth, not even to save his mother’s life.”

“
I would to God it were Gray going
to the block, instead of Mary Stuart!” Sorcha couldn’t still her
tongue and felt herself flush. “As for Jamie, I am embarrassed for
his lack of heart.”

Again, Napier touched Sorcha’s arm. “So are we all.”
He glanced at Ailis, who still had her cold hands tucked up her
sleeves. “Come, Gillis will see to you. I believe Elizabeth Curle
is with the Queen.”

As Napier opened the chamber door, Sorcha lifted
searching eyes to his face. But the priest avoided her gaze,
ushering them into the room with only a brief greeting for Gillis.
The rabbit-like face twitched with excitement, but Sorcha was still
eyeing the door as it closed behind Napier. So, she thought to
herself, here I am at Fotheringhay, and so is he, but what good
does it do us? In her frustration, she snapped at Gillis who was
trying to lead her toward the fireplace.

“
Hold on, let me take off my cloak*”
said Sorcha crossly. She saw Gillis step backward in confusion and
immediately became contrite. “I’m sorry, Gillis, I’m weary. And
cold.” She made a vague gesture of appeasement in Gillis’s
direction. “Nor does the news which met us bode well.”

“ ’
Tis terrible!” moaned
Gillis, pushing the settle closer to the fire. “Yet our sovereign
lady is so brave and cheerful. She writes her last letters and
disposes of what little is left to her and spends much time in
prayer. Her chaplain, de Preau, was allowed to visit for a time.
Queen Mary is a saint, mark my words,” asserted Gillis. Her hands
fluttered nervously, as if to excuse herself for speaking with such
conviction. “Though who wouldn’t pray, being so near to
judgment?”

“
Aye,” agreed Sorcha absently,
dropping down onto the settle to feel the warmth of the fire touch
her face. As Gillis chattered on and Ailis responded in her terse,
unemotional manner, Sorcha stared at the flames, wondering if
fervent prayer at the close of one’s life did indeed help pave the
way to heaven. Burdened with her own sin of loving a man who had
taken Holy Orders, Sorcha questioned her right to salvation.
Perhaps she could neither bid love to come nor to go. But she had
willfully, shamelessly, pursued Gavin Napier to Fotheringhay.
Sorcha meant to tempt him—why else had she come? And how could
Napier ever love her when she clearly dismissed the jeopardy to
their souls? Yet Sorcha knew she could not stay away from him. She
was drawn like a river to the sea, like a flower to the sun. And
even the threat of hell couldn’t seem to stop her.

T
he Queen of Scotland’s
chambers were far more austere at Fotheringhay than they had been
at Chartley. Gone was the royal dais, removed by Sir Amyas Paulet,
and in its place hung a stark crucifix. The furnishings were old
and shabby; the room itself seemed very damp. Nor did Mary Stuart’s
spirits appear as buoyant as Gillis had described them. Sorcha
found the Queen doleful, devoid of energy, and considerably more
crippled than she had been just three months earlier at
Chartley.

“
I have written twice to my cousin,
Elizabeth,” Mary said querulously to Sorcha and Elizabeth Curle on
a dark January afternoon. “I have begged her to end my misery, not
for my own sake, but for yours. You are both peaked, Jane Kennedy
is unwell, my poor maid, Renée, cries all the time, Gillis trembles
whenever someone comes to the door. Father de Preau has been sent
away. Yet I hear nothing—Sir Amyas remains ill, unable to bring me
news.” She paused to wave away a bowl of beef broth proffered by
Elizabeth Curle. “Now my household is being further reduced.
Melville is removed; so is my butler—who will be next?” Mary moved
fretfully in the bed, where she had spent the past two
days.

“
Still,” interposed Elizabeth Curle,
“you must eat. Shall I have chicken fetched? Or fresh
salmon?”

Sorcha, who hadn’t eaten since breakfast, felt her
stomach stir with hunger. But Mary Stuart shook her head. “No,
ma chère
, I have no appetite. Nor could the English ever
cook properly.” She uttered a feeble laugh. “Mayhap that has been
the hardest part of my captivity—being subjected to English
food.”

“
Then we should request something
French,” Sorcha declared brightly, unable to pass up an opportunity
to quiet her own hunger pangs. As the Queen started to protest,
Sorcha gently waved her hand. “Please, Your Grace, I insist on
having the cooks create a delicacy to tempt you. Please?” She gave
Mary Stuart a winsome smile.

The Queen relented, and half an hour later Sorcha had
all but miraculously reappeared with broiled trout stuffed with
nuts and raisins, slices of sugared apple in cream, and a plateful
of honey tarts. “It may not rival Chenonceaux, but it smells most
enticing,” Sorcha asserted, placing the large tray before her
mistress.

“
La,” exclaimed Mary Stuart, taking
one look and falling back among the pillows, “it’s very good of
you, but I cannot.” She shook her head in apology. “Forgive me,
ma petite
, food turns my stomach more than it tempts.”
Seeing Sorcha’s face fall in apparent hurt, the Queen held out her
hands. “Oh, dear Sorcha, I mean no ingratitude! Here,” she said,
pointing at the tray, “you and Elizabeth eat. I shall receive
pleasure from watching you.”

Sorcha, with visions of apples, trout, and tarts
being thrown to the castle hounds, all but snatched the tray from
the bed. However, Elizabeth Curle merely nibbled at the food,
apparently sharing the Queen’s loss of appetite. At first, Sorcha
ate somewhat self-consciously, but so sweet and tender was the
trout, so crisp and tangy were the apples, so light and flaky were
the tarts, that within less than ten minutes, the entire meal was
devoured. After all, thought Sorcha, using her napkin to stifle a
hiccup, the Queen of Scotland’s stomach disorders were well known.
In such a time of great stress, it was no wonder the poor woman
couldn’t eat.

She could pray, however, and expressed a desire to
say the rosary. Brushing crumbs from her bodice, Sorcha knelt with
Elizabeth Curle by the bed to tell their beads in French. Since
Mary was inclined to spend several minutes meditating on each of
the Sorrowful Mysteries, nearly an hour passed before they kissed
the small crucifixes and put their rosaries away.

It had started to snow by then, persistent small
flakes that swiftly covered the ground outside Fotheringhay Castle.
Mary Stuart declared that she would take a nap. Moments later, she
had fallen into a fitful sleep, and Elizabeth Curle suggested that
Sorcha might as well leave.

Somewhat sluggishly, Sorcha agreed. Her digestion was
unsettled, no doubt the result of eating too fast. When she reached
her quarters, Sorcha told Ailis she wanted to lie down and
rest.

“
Are you ill?” Ailis inquired with a
hint of concern tugging at the corners of her small
mouth.

“
Nay. Mayhap I’m bored. Where’s
Gillis?”

Ailis pulled back the counterpane and the sheets.
“Tending to the laundry.” She stepped aside as Sorcha fell onto the
bed, shivering slightly. “You appear flushed. Are you feverish?”
Ailis’s glance had sharpened as she peered at Sorcha.

“
Flushed? Her Grace said I was
peaked.” Tentatively, Sorcha touched one cheek. “God’s teeth, I am
overwarm. And thirsty. Is there water or beer?”

“
Certainly. Wine, too.” Ailis waited
for Sorcha to state a preference, but she merely nodded and closed
her eyes.

By the time Ailis had poured her a cup of water,
Sorcha appeared to be asleep. Yet Ailis noted that her breathing
was irregular and her face was a blotchy crimson. Alarmed, Ailis
hurried from the chamber to fetch Dr. Bourgoing, but she almost
collided with Gavin Napier at the end of the corridor.

With her usual economy of words, Ailis explained
Sorcha’s condition. Napier told her where she might find Dr.
Bourgoing, then headed for Sorcha’s quarters, where he, too, was
distressed at her feverish state and unnatural breathing.

“
Sorcha!” Napier whispered her name
hoarsely, then bent to shake her by the shoulders. She flopped
about in his grasp like a floundering fish, but her eyelids
fluttered open.

Napier grabbed the cup of water Ailis had left on the
night table and forced it between Sorcha’s lips. “Drink this,” he
commanded. With a flickering, glazed stare, Sorcha gulped down a
swallow or two, then pushed the cup with one weak hand. But Napier
batted her away, bringing the cup back to her mouth. “Drink, by
God, or I’ll pour it down your throat!”

The fury masked the fear in his voice, and Sorcha
drank again. With his free hand, Napier searched under the bed for
the chamberpot. “Take more, Sorcha,” he ordered. “It’s dog
piss.”

Sorcha’s eyes flew open, her body convulsed, and she
screamed just once before vomiting into the chamberpot that Napier
had swiftly hauled up onto the bed. As she retched violently, he
held her shoulders tight and relaxed his own ever so slightly.

At last, Sorcha went limp. Napier still held her, but
pulled the long, tangled hair back from her face and waited to make
sure she was through being sick.

“
Was it truly dog piss?” Sorcha
whispered hoarsely.

In spite of himself, Napier laughed. “No. I only told
you that to make you retch. ’Twas water.” Carefully, he laid her
back among the pillows and was shocked to see how suddenly her
flushed face had turned pale. “Sorcha, what did you eat today?”

Sorcha grimaced at the mention of food. “Trout. And
apples and honey tarts. I was greedy.” She attempted a smile, but
it was a pathetic effort. “I’d had the meal prepared for Her Grace.
She had no appetite so I ….” Sorcha paused as the door opened
to admit Ailis and Dr. Bourgoing.

Napier rose from the bed to greet the Queen’s
physician. “Mistress Fraser vomited everything,” he told Bourgoing
as Ailis went to tidy up. “It was poison, I’ll stake my life on
it.”

Bourgoing’s thin face turned grim. “Henceforth no one
must serve the Queen but her people.” He waited until Ailis had
removed the chamberpot, then sat down next to the bed. “Poor child,
such an irony that you ate that food! Yet you are young and strong.
No doubt Her Grace would have perished.” Gravely, he crossed
himself.

A trace of color was returning to Sorcha’s cheeks. “I
don’t understand—why would anyone poison Queen Mary when she is to
be executed?”

Napier had moved next to the physician but remained
standing. “She is sure to be killed, yes. But all along I’ve feared
a treacherous end for her, rather than a public, legal one.
Elizabeth dallies and dithers over the warrant. Ever since Queen
Mary grew ill a week or so ago, I suspected that she was being
slowly poisoned. I also suspect that’s why Sir Amyas is ill as
well.”

Sorcha tried to sit up but failed. Slumping back
against the pillows, she gazed in bewilderment from Napier to
Bourgoing. “Sir Amyas is being poisoned, too?”

Napier shook his head. “No, no. I mean that it may
have been suggested to him that he do away with Queen Mary by other
than legal means. His strict Puritan conscience would balk at that.
So he took to his bed, claiming illness as an excuse to not carry
out such an odious order.”

“
Then who?” asked Sorcha, realizing
that her voice had grown stronger, though her body was still weak.
“Drury?”

Napier shrugged. “Perhaps. But it could be anyone who
feels compelled to murder a Catholic sovereign or please Elizabeth.
The reward, after all, would no doubt be great.”

Ailis, who had completed her domestic tasks, came
round to the far side of the bed. “I beg leave to inquire. My
Lords, why Mistress Fraser became so violently ill when the Queen
has not.” She turned her myopic stare on the priest and the
physician. “Pray enlighten me, if you will.”

Bourgoing sighed, bony fingers brushing at the scant
gray hairs that grew long across his balding pate. “We can but
assume Her Grace was being given poison in small doses that merely
weakened her and made her lose all appetite. The less she ate, the
longer she lived. The assassin must have decided that a large
measure would result in immediate death.” He lifted his narrow
shoulders in an expressive gesture. “So, this time the poison was
sufficient to prove fatal for one already ill. Praise our Holy
Mother that it was consumed by someone in good health.”