The Fugitive Queen (22 page)

Suddenly, shockingly, it occurred to me to wonder what the outcome would have been if Mary had had the good sense, after the murder of David Riccio, to charge her husband Henry Darnley with high treason, for endangering her life and that of the child, the heir to the throne, that she was carrying. Cecil had remarked that she could well have done. If Darnley had been tried, found guilty, and executed, Mary, the ill-used wife and offended queen, would have remained safely on her throne, her credit unshaken. Or would it have been shaken?

Would people still have been shocked, I wondered, by the spectacle of a young woman, even one so wronged as Mary, sending her own husband to the block? Would they have whispered that perhaps she had been too intimate with Riccio and that perhaps, after all, Darnley was not such a villain and Mary not such a saint?

Maybe. But it might have been otherwise. Perhaps the wrongs of this virtuous young queen would have echoed around Europe! In which case, she would have been in a wonderful position to rally support for her claim to seize Elizabeth's throne as well as that of Scotland.

From England's point of view, the decisive mess that the
Queen of Scotland had made out of dealing with Henry Darnley could well have been a very good thing. It hurt seeing the truth of her, and yet I was also glad that I had. I am not one to take kindly to being fooled.

Meanwhile, here before me was Pen, her eyes full of pleading. I must deal with her first.

“There is no question now of you marrying Tobias,” I said. “He has betrayed his master. He is supposed to be working for Sir Francis, after all! His business is to write and sometimes read his employer's correspondence, not to search the satchels of passing guests and copy out other men's letters for the benefit of Mary Stuart!”

“But he is Catholic, and he only wants to help Queen Mary! I don't like her very much myself, but if Tobias thought he was doing right—if he thinks of her as his queen . . . I know my brother George does . . .”

“He has fallen for the wiles of a murderess and betrayed both his employer and his
rightful
queen!” I snapped. “We shall leave Bolton at once. I will speak to Master Littleton before we go.”

“Are you going to tell Sir Francis?” asked Pen, horrified.

“Of course,” said Brockley. “What else can she do?”

“Quite. I have to, Pen. And yes, I daresay Master Littleton will soon be looking for new employment.”

“Oh no, Mistress Stannard, please don't! Even if I can't marry him, don't ruin him! He'll be sent off without a character and . . .”

“His bad character will no doubt recommend him to some employer or other who shares his views,” I said shortly. “Dale, help Pen to pack. Brockley, please saddle our horses. We won't be staying the night, after all. I am going to find Sir Francis.”

Sir Francis saw me in his study. I told him what Littleton had been doing and his reply came as a surprise. “I know.”

“You
know
?”

“Oh yes.” Sir Francis, seated behind his desk, smiled in a kindly way, which checked me just as I was about to begin striding up and down the room. “It was bound to happen, of course.”

“Bound to . . .?”

“I have a kindness for Lady Mary. I think most men would feel the same, with the apparent exceptions of her husband and brother! I am glad that you and Seton came back today to help her. But I have always known that it was dangerous to trust her. If only I could have turned her toward the Reformed faith! But she has resisted all my efforts and she remains, alas, a danger to England, though she sees herself, of course, as England's savior. That being so, I quickly realized that if she could, she would suborn some unfortunate man or other and turn him into a spy. She has such a power to spellbind.” He shook his head ruefully. “Did you know that the Duke of Norfolk wants to marry her?”

“The . . .?” This conversation was taking an unforeseen turn. I hadn't expected the Duke of Norfolk to crop up. I knew who he was, of course. I had seen him at court, though I had never spoken to him as far as I could recall. He was one of Elizabeth's foremost
noblemen. I looked in astonishment at Sir Francis, who gestured me considerately to a stool. “Has he been here?” I asked. “Has he met her? I thought he was married. And so is Mary married—to James Bothwell!”

“The marriage to Bothwell took place under irregular circumstances,” said Sir Francis. “Well, perhaps not that irregular, the north being what it is, but ecclesiastical law still exists, in the north as much as in the south. She
can
claim that she was kidnapped and took her vows under duress. The marriage could probably be set aside. As for Norfolk, he's a widower now. He's only thirty-two; quite a suitable age. He hasn't met her but he has written to her. Norfolk's sister, Lady Scrope, was at Carlisle when Mary was there, and she may have put the idea into his head. Tobias smuggled the letter in. I knew all about that, too.
I've
met Norfolk, in London. He's ambitious. I think he has ideas of making himself King of Scotland or maybe—well, if Elizabeth never marries, Mary is the next in line.”

“Or her son is. Mary's discredited.”

“I fancy Norfolk hopes that Mary's credit will be restored, and that if they marry, he may one day be King Consort of Scotland. And later, perhaps, of England.”

“But that's . . .!”

“Very nearly treason? Not quite. Not if it is done through the proper channels and Elizabeth were to consent.”

“But that would be tantamount to setting up a rival court, and if Mary won't change her faith . . . Elizabeth would
never
consent!”

“No,” agreed Sir Francis. “I don't think she would. But ambitious young noblemen have been known to convince themselves of extraordinary things before now, especially when there's a lady, reputedly beautiful and charming, in the bargain.”

“My God!” I said, with feeling.

“Tobias has served me well, unknowingly,” Sir Francis said. “I virtually arranged it, you know. It was easier to use him than to use the Douglases. They manage to whisper things to her sometimes, but I make sure they never have the chance to transmit
letters, either from her or to her, and if I'd started being lax about that, she might become suspicious. Tobias I could appear to trust. Once I realized that his father was Catholic, I investigated a little further and found out that Tobias was, as well. That's when I saw my chance. I took to putting him in her way and it worked.”

“Are you saying that you expected him to go through that courier's baggage?”

“Oh yes. I already knew what Cecil's letter contained. Cecil obliged me with a copy. I didn't mind if Tobias passed the gist of it on to Mary. I couldn't see that it would do any harm, and if I let it happen, they would feel safe. I wanted Tobias to feel sure he wasn't suspected. I suppose that's all over, now, since Mary went and let it out to you. Foolish of her!”

I gazed at him in wonder, seeing the grave, honest Sir Francis in an entirely new light. He chuckled.

“Deceit goes against the grain with me,” he said, “especially when it concerns a lady as delightful as Mary Stuart. And yet, sometimes, I confess, I derive amusement from it, as though it were a game. One pits one's wits against the wits of others. It can be—entertaining.”

I understood that very well. At one time, when I first began to be an agent, I had found entertainment in it, too. Since Sir Francis was unaware of my past, however, I limited my reply to a small nod.

“I soon knew that Tobias had done what I expected,” he said. “Joan, the excellent maidservant who keeps an eye on Mary for me, saw him slip back into the castle just as the hawking party was preparing to leave. She followed and saw him put his note in her workbox. I had a full report of its contents from her. Joan also reported to me what happened when Lady Mary came back and found it! That
did
take me by surprise. I didn't expect her to fall into quite such a state of hysteria.”

“She's still very upset,” I said. “But Mistress Seton is looking after her. I imagine she'll recover.”

“And I shall have to replace Tobias,” said Knollys glumly.

“Sir Francis, I think I should tell you that Tobias has been
making approaches to my ward, Pen Mason. I can't let the matter go any further. I am looking for a husband for her, as you know, but . . .”

“I wouldn't recommend Tobias, Mistress Stannard. At the moment I regret that I have no suitable name to suggest.”

“Tobias is certainly not that,” I said. “Forgive me, but I think it best that I should leave the castle at once and take Pen with me.”

“I understand,” said Knollys.

Back in my chamber, I found the hampers packed and Dale on her knees fastening a strap around the last one. Her face was red and she was muttering in disapproval, because over by the window, Pen and Tobias were clasped in each other's arms, kissing like mad things.

“Tobias!” I shouted.

He broke away from Pen. “Mistress Stannard. I beg your pardon.”

“I should think so!”

“I'm sorry. I came to see Mistress Pen and she tells me that you have decided against the marriage. I imagine because I am Magnus Whitely's cousin. I am sorry for that. Nothing that he did, or failed to do, is my fault, Mistress Stannard.”

Pen had evidently kept the real reason to herself. Mary would soon tell him, of course, that I now knew he was working for her and he would be a fool if he didn't know that I would pass the news on to Knollys. But Pen had decided not to tell him herself. She did have a sense of responsibility, I thought. She only needed to grow up a little more (and be partnered with the right man).

“We were saying good-bye,” she said defiantly and began to cry.

“Now, hush,” said Tobias. “Sometimes, these things have to be. Mistress Stannard, I have said my farewells. I'll go. Goodbye, dear Pen, and may your life be happy.”

“I suppose you've told Sir Francis about him?” Pen asked bitterly when Tobias had left the room.

“Sir Francis is well aware of Tobias's indiscretions and
always has been. He has made use of them,” I said quietly. “Dry your eyes. I am tired of this whole business. We're going back to Tyesdale, today.”

 • • • 

We reached Tyesdale safely in the early evening. Pen sulked all the way. During the night, I heard her crying, but when I went into the room she now shared with Meg, she turned her head away and refused to talk to me.

In the morning, I was irritated to find that she had gone out, saddled her horse, and borrowed Meg's merlin, all without permission, and I caught a glimpse of her, cantering about on a nearby hillside, flying Joy at small birds. Meg was highly indignant and Brockley, who had intended, with John Ryder, to ride toward Fernthorpe and begin searching for signs of disturbed earth, left Ryder to go searching on his own and went to bring my ward home. He did so eventually, having had hard work to find her.

“When I got up the hill, she'd gone, madam,” he said, coming into the hall while Pen took the merlin back to the mews. “I found her in a hollow, off her horse, sitting with her back to a tree, and letting the horse graze. I told her she was behaving like a silly wench. It isn't safe for a young woman to go about on her own hereabouts.” Brockley's opinion of northern England was forcibly expressed in a snort.

I forbore to lecture Pen myself, feeling that Brockley had done it for me. I didn't want her to hate me.

Ryder came back disappointed, having found nothing useful. Jamie Appletree had also had an errand that morning, for I had sent him to the Moss family to ask if Clem could come sooner than he had suggested. He returned to say that Clem would be with us on Friday.

“He'll be speaking to Mistress Holme tomorrow about his marriage date. He's meeting her and the girls at Fritton Market.”

The next few days passed quietly. Brockley and Ryder continued their search, though with caution and, alas, without result. They were taking pains to keep out of sight of the
Thwaites and couldn't pursue their business systematically. Meanwhile, my forbearance with Pen brought rewards. She came out of her sulks and asked, quite meekly, if she might ride on her own again provided she didn't go far from the house, and after a little hesitation, I agreed, thinking that perhaps she needed some freedom and privacy in order to get over her distress.

“Don't think I don't know what the loss of love feels like,” I said to her. “But it's the future that matters. I was wildly in love with my second husband, Matthew de la Roche, but I suffered greatly because he was the enemy of my queen. I spent years in a state of conflict. I don't want that to happen to you. Nor do I want you being turned into an enemy of the queen yourself.”

Pen said nothing in reply; just curtsied. She duly exercised her mare each morning after that, and stayed near the house as she had promised, as far as I could see, rarely out of sight of the windows and never for very long. When she came back, she remained very quiet, but was polite, and even apologized to Meg for taking the merlin.

On the Friday morning, Clem Moss arrived. He was accompanied by Peter, and they were leading a pack pony. “My belongings, mistress,” he said, indicating the pony's hampers, when I went down the steps to greet him. “Peter will take the pony back when we've unloaded.”

Mistress Appletree had made Whitely's old chamber ready for its new occupant and after helping to carry his brother's hampers in, Peter stayed for a tankard of ale and a pie. “Though I'll not linger after that,” he said, “as there's all to do at home. I've a new chicken house to build. I picked up ten fine young birds at Fritton Market on Tuesday.”

“It sounds like a successful market day for you,” I said.