Watch the Lady (43 page)

They ride without speaking, glad of the clement weather and the moon, which is not far off full. Penelope allows herself to be lulled by the steady beat of the horses' hooves, the puff of her own exhalation adding to the rhythm and the murmur of the passing wind like a drone string beneath the melody. She follows in Alfred's wake, glad to be in his safe hands; he knows this route well enough, has ferried the family back and forth to Nonsuch many a time. He has served the Devereuxs longer than anyone and is loyal to the core. There have been some amongst the Essex House staff who she is sure have sold secrets and one long ago in the kitchens whom she discovered was on Cecil's payroll. She persuaded him to turn on his master but he died of the plague before he had a chance to be of any use.

She can see the dark shapes of buildings up ahead. “Is that Ewell?”

“It is, my lady.”

They walk along the grassy mound in the middle of the road so as to make less noise—the fewer who are aware of a party of riders arriving in the dead of night, the better. She sees the sign of the keys, its gilding glowing in the moonlight, and there beneath it are two figures. She is relieved to see the unmistakable silhouette of Southampton, his long hair and the fitted cut of his doublet, realizing only after that the man beside him is Blount. Her heart bloats and it is all she can do to stop herself from leaping from her horse and running into his arms. They dismount quietly; she feels Blount's hand take hers and is reassured by his presence, knowing his support will see her through whatever it is that awaits her. He whispers, close to her ear, “My darling one.”

They leave the horses with Alfred and make their way on foot. The palace looms, a shadowy shape, above the village, its twisted turrets dark against the sky, which is beginning to take on the first blush of dawn. Southampton explains the situation as they walk, keeping tight into the hedgerows so as not to be seen. The birds have begun to sing, trilling out their incongruously pretty morning tunes. “How is he?” she asks.

“It is hard to say,” replies Southampton.

“How will you get me in unseen?”

“The night guards have served under me,” says Blount. “A full purse works wonders.”

“It will lift his spirits to see you,” says Southampton.

“His wife is in her childbed as we speak. I think it best he doesn't know—just one more thing to vex him.”

“How is she?” asks Blount.

“Nervous. You know what she's like.”

They enter the rear court silently, hugging the walls and slipping in the door to the servants' stairs. They hear footsteps and see the glow of a candle on the turn of the wall. Blount pushes her into the shadows, standing in front of her so she can't be seen. She pulls up her hood and gathers the dark fabric of her cloak tightly about her.

“Up early, my lords.” It is one of the ushers, rubbing sleep from his eyes.

Her heart is thumping so loudly she fears they will hear it.

“Actually,” says Southampton, nudging the man conspiratorially, “we have not yet been to bed.”

“There's not much carousing to be had round here, dead as a doornail,” says the usher.

“You'd be surprised what can be found in a rural village.” Southampton winks. The usher's eyes brighten, his curiosity clearly aroused.

“Better be getting to bed,” says Blount, feigning a yawn and stretching his arms out. The usher bids them good morning, moving on down the stairs.

“That one's in Cecil's pocket,” whispers Blount. “But he seemed convinced by our tale of debauchery.”

“So convinced, one might think you were up to such things all the time,” she teases. Her anxieties have receded a little in his presence but as they arrive and see the two men at the door, their halberds propped up beside them against the paneling, her throat dries out. Blount produces a purse from his doublet, passing it to one of them. The man weighs it in the palm of his hand and loosens its drawstring, holding up a candle and peering in to verify he is not being duped, as if these men before him are not two of the realm's greatest peers but common market hawkers. He nods eventually and lifts the latch on the door, allowing Penelope to pass through. She wonders if the guards recognize her, bundled up as she is with her face obscured by her hood and none of her usual finery, or if they believe her to be nothing but one of Essex's lowborn mistresses come to comfort him in his hour of misfortune.

Essex sits crouched on the floor in the corner of the chamber in the gloom and makes no move to stand as she enters. The vague glow of early dawn barely makes it beyond the window, and the fire is just an ashy pile. She takes the poker, prodding the hearth until a vivid glow appears, throwing on some kindling, and then tips in the half bucket of coal that sits nearby. It catches easily, the flames fluttering up in blue and orange ribbons. She wipes her black-smudged palms on her cloak and, taking a candle from the mantelpiece, lights it from the fire, then touches it to the others about the room. Their wicks fizz as they flare. “Things cannot be so bad if she has allowed you coal and beeswax candles, Robin.” She tries to sound bright, to draw him out of his torpor.

His reply is a vinegary laugh. She goes to sit beside him. The cold of the stone flags cuts straight through her clothes and his hand beneath hers is icy and unresponsive to her touch. After a time in silence she coaxes him to shuffle reluctantly closer to the hearth, which is now fully ablaze, throwing light and warmth into the chamber. His face is pallid and gaunt, as if he hasn't eaten in days, and his haunted expression tugs painfully at her heart.

“It would have been better I'd died a hero's death in Ireland,” he mutters, looking at her at last with those empty eyes.

“No, no!” she says, drawing him to her. He allows himself to be enveloped in his sister's embrace. “Where's that fighting spirit, Robin?”

“She says I made an alliance with England's enemy. It's not true.” His voice is plaintive. “It was nothing but a temporary truce. All those carpet knights round the council table send commands to do this or do that, but they have no idea what it is like out there. It's brutal, Sis, and I risked too much. My men would have been slaughtered. I truly believed I had done the thing that was best for England, and now it is called treason.” He looks directly at her, and she is glad to see his eyes are now wild with anger. Anger is better than torpor. “I'd like to see Cecil handle himself under an Irish onslaught, the ambushes, never knowing when or where we might be attacked, the mud, the wet, the fear, the sickness, the hunger, the lack of supplies. Our supplies never came. I can only think that crookbacked rodent was behind that.”

“My poor, poor boy,” she says, stroking his hair.

He breaks away, sitting upright. “I discovered things out there, Sis, things about Father that I wish I didn't know. He committed terrible acts, inhumane, so far removed from any code of chivalry . . .” He stops, holding his head in his hands. “That place drives you to brutality. But I wouldn't . . .” He seems unable to articulate what it is he wants to say. “I wouldn't . . .”

“I know.”

“But you don't know. I wouldn't be driven to such savagery. That is why I made the truce. I did not inherit Sidney's sword to fall into barbarity.”

“You have right on your side, Robin. God will recognize that.”

“I would sooner not make my case to Him just yet.”

“We shall get you out of this. You are not alone.” She can sense his spirit stir a little. “I am here with you and there are many who will be prepared to stand at your side—the whole army, I wouldn't doubt. And we have the Scottish King behind us, remember.” She is chilled by her own words, for the end point of the army's involvement, Scotland's involvement, means . . . what does it mean? She cannot even think it. There must be another way to secure her brother's freedom.

“You must take this.” He fumbles inside his shirt, pulling out the black leather purse containing James's letters, lifting it over his head and handing it to her. “I am to be taken into the Lord Keeper's care under guard at York House and I can't risk it being found.”

“Has he written recently?”

Her brother nods. “We are all in accord.”

“So if the worst comes to the worst, we can put
him
on the English throne a little earlier than expected.” She slaps her hand over her mouth, barely able to believe she has said this out loud, but they have all thought it: her, Essex, their mother, Blount, Southampton . . . the list goes on. This is about survival. “But we are
not
at that stage. If she would just name King James, the entire country could breathe a sigh of relief. It is the uncertainty that does the damage.”

“We are not at that stage
yet
,” he echoes.

“You have to muster all your charm with her and I will do everything in my power to secure your release.” She looks straight at him, attempting a smile. “Once you are out we can think about our alternatives. I wouldn't put it beyond her to forgive you—stranger things have happened—but it depends on who is whispering in her ear.” She doesn't need to mention Cecil by name. “Look, I must leave before the palace is up. But trust me, Robin.” She stands, pulling him to his feet.

“I'm frightened,” he says, his voice small. He has said this before and she supposes herself to be the only soul he can confess such weakness to. She is reminded of Frances birthing his baby back at Barn Elms, swathed in dread, and wonders how it is that she became the one to contain all the fears of the family—the one who can never be afraid.

She kisses him on both cheeks. “I am by your side.” And she slips out of the chamber, where Blount is waiting to take her back to Ewell.

Once they are beyond the palace gates, she pushes him up against a tree and kisses him with a desperate urgency, as if somehow it will give her strength. She closes her eyes, losing herself for a moment in the firmness of his hold, feeling the urgent pulse of his heart pressed hard to her breast, enveloped in the soft murmur of his breath. Tears suddenly surprise her, stinging behind her eyes. She allows them to come, in great sobs. Blount says nothing, just holds her tight until they have subsided. Then he whispers, “Whatever happens, I am yours.”

Lady Rich and her sister approach Cecil in the long gallery at a sedate pace. He is seated in one of the alcoves awaiting a summons from the Queen. Now Essex is in decline—three months of incarceration and no sign he will be forgiven—the Chief Minister of England must rise up and make his mark.

The women both nod, saying, “Good day, Minister,” in unison, their insincerity not entirely hidden. They are both dressed in mourning, though no one in their family has died. It is a gesture of support for their brother, who festers at York House and is said to be gravely ill. It has caused a great deal of gossip and a number of other ladies have taken to wearing black feathers in support. The Queen has assiduously ignored all the ersatz mourning, though when the bell at Clement Danes was erroneously tolled to mark the earl's demise and was the catalyst for a great outpouring of grief, she asked one of her ladies who it was who had passed away. Cecil watched the color drop from her face, as the lady answered. Even the thick white paint could not hide her distress. She had to reach out to the back of a chair for support and pretend she was light-headed from lack of nourishment.

Where black drains the color from most women's complexions, these two, who are so alike, are rendered quite lovely by it, Lady Rich in particular. Her sister, though undeniably beautiful, is like a copy of a great painting: delightful, yet lacking the perfection and depth of the original. Lady Rich seems not to care how she looks: her clothes, on close inspection, are carelessly put together, dirty hems and pulled threads; she goes unrouged, her ruff wilts and her nails are ragged, everything a little higgledy-piggledy, and all this conspires to confound a man like Cecil who strives for order.

Inexplicably, she still fascinates him as she did when he first laid eyes on her. Cecil reminds himself that they are the same age, but she wears her thirty-six years lightly and could be a decade younger. The exhausted reflection he encountered in the glass this morning bears testament to each and every one of his own years. Lady Rich's allure is a puzzle. Beauty alone means nothing in a place where loveliness is the currency, and her age cannot compete with the youthful flesh that adorns the privy chamber; her ruthless intelligence, too, ought to poison her charm, but somehow all these things conspire to bewilder convention. Even so, Cecil has long been baffled by the extent to which Blount has fallen under her spell. He could make a fine match, a great heiress, good blood, but he remains loyal to a woman he cannot wed and accepts having bastards for children. Cecil would never go
that
far.

He smiles at them, tilting his head politely. “To you too, Lady Rich, Lady Northumberland.” To his surprise they stop, hovering over him, and out of politeness he makes to stand.

“No need to get up,
my lord
,” says Lady Rich with a suspiciously warm smile, and her emphasis on “my lord” makes it seem as if she is mocking him for having a title only of office and not of heredity. It renders his recently acquired role of Lord Privy Seal seem somehow tawdry.

He picks a spot of dust from his sleeve, feeling, now, a little disadvantaged at being seated while they tower above him. “You must be delighted by Lord Mountjoy's appointment to the Irish post, Lady Rich.” He cannot help himself. Blount has been doing everything in his power to convince the Queen that he is not cut out for the job, and a little bird at Essex House has told him of Lady Rich's distress on hearing of her lover's appointment.

“Quite overjoyed,” she says without missing a beat. “It is a consummate opportunity for him. One is always happy for the success of a dear friend. We are all delighted, isn't that so, Dorothy?” The sister nods in agreement. That smile is still spread over Lady Rich's face. “You look tired, Cecil,” she adds, bending down to pick up the little dog that is at her heel. “You have a wonderful estate at Theobalds. You might benefit from a rest there.”