“Oh, we were friends before she went to him.” She was winding the yellow ribbon around her wrist, round and round, like a bracelet. “We were girls together here, at the Hall. She was the master’s daughter, the traitor I told you of.”
He felt a clutch of something like panic.
It
is
my Justine!
“She . . . lives now with Thornleigh?”
She nodded. “He took her in, and lucky for her, poor girl, for who would want the penniless child of a traitor? She loves his lordship and the baroness his wife. Loves them like she was their own.”
Fury flooded him. Damn Thornleigh! The man and his brood had stolen everything from him. Land, property, home.
He stole my life. Even stole my daughter!
Alice was looking at him with a strange light in her eyes. “It’s a funny thing—you’ll think me brainsick—but when you first spoke to me at the market you put me in mind of her.” She shrugged with a smile and tapped the side of her head as though to say she was a lunatic. “Too much sun, I warrant.”
He wasn’t listening. He was too filled up with rage. A rage that boiled and blistered. It needed out. He snatched the tail of the yellow ribbon she had wound around her wrist and with it he yanked her to him. She gave a small gasp, but she didn’t pull back. He grabbed her other wrist and wrapped the ribbon around it in a flash, then tied the ends together, making silken manacles that bound her hands. She blinked in surprise. And in pleasure? He didn’t know, and cared less. He shoved her against the wall, her back by the window so he could see Yeavering Hall.
Mine,
was his thought as he pulled up her skirt, his eyes on his stolen house.
“Hey!” she cried.
Mine,
as he fingered her and felt himself stiffen.
“Stop that!”
Mine,
as he wrenched his codpiece aside, ready to ram into her as he wanted to ram a blade into Thornleigh’s heart.
“Ow! That hurts!
Stop!
”
He covered her mouth with his hand to keep her quiet and to pin her head against the wall. Her tied-together hands were caught between their bodies, and with his knee he forced her legs apart. She squirmed, but he was stronger.
She bit his palm. He flinched at the pain and whipped his hand away.
Breathless, she wrenched her manacled hands up to his face. “Bastard!” Her fingers were rigid to scratch him. He jerked his face aside and she missed. With a grunt of fury she gripped his hair and yanked. His hair came off his head.
She gasped at his shorn scalp. Blinked at the wig in her hand. Then let it go as if it were diseased. It dropped to the floor like a severed head.
Horror filled her eyes as she gaped at him. He knew what she was seeing. The burned side of his head that the wig had covered. The red ear shriveled from the flames. The skin, taut and shiny, over half his scalp where no hair grew.
A breath of shock escaped her. “All your questions . . . about Justine. About the Hall. You’re
him
. The master!” She shrank back in fear. “Sir Christopher.”
He didn’t know what to do. He wanted to push the words back into her mouth, push the discovery back into her head, make it disappear. He could not let a report get out that he was alive, and home. As a traitor, he would hang.
She seemed to realize it at the same moment. She lurched aside, so quickly he was not prepared for it. He lunged for her, but she was already bolting past him, making for the open door. He snatched up his wig from the floor and jammed it back on his head, then grabbed a length of braided gold cord from among the hanging ribbons and went after her, running down the steps. She raced to the bottom, her hair flying.
He caught up to her as she ran down the nave. He snatched the back of her dress and she staggered to a halt. It unbalanced him and they tumbled together.
“Let me go!”
She struggled to her knees, encumbered by her tied-together hands. He got to his feet faster. They were both panting. He whipped the cord around her neck. Her hands flew to the cord to claw it away, but he twisted it tight. She gagged. She flailed at him. Her body thrashed. He twisted the cord tighter. He held it firm, unyielding, as she struggled.
She weakened. Then slumped.
He let go the cord. She fell to the floor with a soft thud. Dead.
Christopher straightened, catching his breath. He forced his mind onto what mattered. His mission to get to Mary. Had he jeopardized it? He cursed himself for his damnable selfish detour. No time to waste, now.
Get to Carlisle,
he told himself.
To Mary.
He dragged the girl’s body behind the altar. No one would find it until Sunday. By then, he’d be seventy miles west of here.
A scrape sounded behind him. He whipped around. No one in the nave. The sound came again, to his right. The vestry door stood ajar. He hurried into the vestry. Across the room the door to the churchyard was open. A figure was running away through the graveyard, round the headstones, running too fast to catch.
Christopher turned back.
Get to Carlisle,
he told himself as he walked down the silent nave. His hand wasn’t quite steady as he mounted his horse and turned its head for the western road. He calmed as he trotted on, bending his thoughts to the tasks that lay ahead. He would have justice. For himself. For Mary. For God.
4
Will’s Gambit
I
t wasn’t the first time that Will Croft, assisting Sir William Cecil, had been in the presence of Queen Elizabeth, but it was definitely the most important. For Will, it was a golden chance to make his mark.
He had been up for hours making sure he had Sir William’s papers in order, arranged by date, with the most pertinent on top, and going over once again all his own notes about Mary, Queen of Scots. He had arrived an hour early at Whitehall Palace, and now he stood at the lectern desk in a gilded chamber that was part of Elizabeth’s suite, ready to hand Sir William whatever documents, scrolls, letters, or lists he might request. Will was determined to use the crisis with the Scottish queen to prove that he was capable of any commission his patron cared to entrust to him. Sir William was Elizabeth’s closest adviser, and the crisis had made him all the more invaluable to her. Will meant to become invaluable to Sir William because the sooner he could distinguish himself and gain advancement, the sooner he could marry.
Justine
. The thought of her sent a ripple of excitement through him. Her eager, glowing eyes that night of the fireworks. Her sweetly crooked smile. Her perfume, a scent that rose from her skin as though she’d been lying in a bed of springtime heather.
He caught his uncle, Baron Thornleigh, looking at him, which snapped Will’s thoughts back to the present. Elizabeth had called in his uncle Richard along with Sir William for this private discussion. She stood with her back to the tall oriel windows—voices in the garden had drawn her attention—and both of her advisers stood waiting: the spare-framed Sir William, forty-eight, bearded, professorial, brilliant; Uncle Richard, twenty years older but more erect, more imposing, a veteran of trade missions and the sea. The moment Will had seen his uncle arrive a quarter of an hour ago he had burned to ask him whether Justine had told him yet of their decision to marry. But he could not do so in the presence of the Queen; could not speak at all unless spoken to. His uncle’s grave countenance told him nothing: He was here on matters of state.
Patience,
Will told himself.
Talk to him later.
But it was hard to be patient. Will was itching to be independent. At the moment, his uncle paid for his ongoing law studies at Gray’s Inn, and though the law term had ended with the start of summer he faced four more years of attending lectures and sessions of moot court before he could become a barrister and earn a living. Or—and that’s why this meeting was so important—he could leap ahead through advancement here at court, win a post with an immediate income. Familiar with the issues around Mary, Queen of Scots after preparing Sir William’s papers, Will had a rough mental draft of how he might make the leap. He only needed the right moment.
The men waited in silence as Elizabeth watched whatever was going on in the garden below. The morning sunshine streaming in behind her gilded her slim silhouette. A canary in its cage flitted down from its perch. Across the room two ladies-in-waiting sat in a cushioned alcove silently busy at their tasks, one embroidering a stretched hoop of silk, the other stringing a lute. Will heard, outside, the soft whack of a tennis ball.
The voices in the garden drifted away and Elizabeth turned back, all business. She fixed her dark eyes on Sir William. Her powers of concentration always impressed Will, and especially today with the pressure she was under. The Spanish and French ambassadors, lords of their own hubs of power here at court, pressed her daily to tell them her intentions about Mary, and at this very moment her full council was assembling down the corridor for a meeting with her to decide on her policy. She had asked in Baron Thornleigh and Sir William to lay out the options first.
Elizabeth raised an eyebrow to Sir William, an indication of her desire for him to continue.
“Paramount, Your Majesty, and most alarming,” he said, anxious to warn her, “is the Scottish queen’s request, repeated in her many letters to you, that you help restore her to her throne, by force if necessary. This is utterly impossible. Any English intervention would antagonize our Scottish allies. And why should we? Having supported the Earl of Moray’s government, we have established crucial ties with them. They are England’s bulwark against our common nemesis, the French. To provoke Moray would run counter to our interests. Any move to restore the deposed queen could hurl us into war with Scotland.”
These were strong words.
War.
Will watched Elizabeth. She betrayed no alarm.
“Indeed,” Sir William continued, “even to allow her to come to court as your guest, as she continually petitions you . . .” He held out his hand to Will, who grabbed the sheaf of Mary’s letters and handed it to him. Sir William held it up in a theatrical show of its volume, then thudded it back down on the desk. “A flood of entreaties. But to succumb to her would be unwise. If you show her the honor of bringing her to court you would sully your reputation, both at home and abroad, for many would see you as the protector of a murderess and adulteress.”
A shadow of distaste flitted over Elizabeth’s features, but still she said nothing.
“However,” Sir William went on, “there is also a danger, perhaps an equal danger, if you let her roam freely in your realm. Look to the north, Your Majesty. Catholic sympathies there have merely slumbered. Mary’s presence could rouse them, rouse some mighty lords to rash passions over religion.”
Will knew the likely candidates. The Duke of Norfolk. The Earl of Northumberland. The Earl of Westmorland. Powerful men, all. Norfolk was the richest man in England. The latter two controlled vast territory in the north, far from the reach of the Queen’s justice.
“Mary Stuart could inflame these passions,” Sir William warned. His provocative use of her common name was intentional, Will knew. Moray’s government had forced Mary to abdicate and had taken stewardship of her infant son and crowned him King James. “Indeed, I fear she already has, for my lord Northumberland smarts at your denying him the honor of housing her at his castle. Your command that she be lodged at Carlisle under the care of Lord Scrope was judicious. Scrope is loyal. But the longer Mary remains in England, the greater the danger that Your Majesty’s council will break into factions, those lords who champion her religion against those who hold dear the religious settlement that is the hallmark of your reign. We dare not reopen that dark chasm.”
He took a moment to let the danger sink in. Then he concluded, “My recommendation, therefore, is twofold. First, keep Mary away from you. Second, keep her in custody.”
Elizabeth did not take her eyes from him as she digested this. Will could almost hear her mind at work on the problem, but her expression, though somber, gave no hint of how she rated Sir William’s advice. She looked at Will’s uncle. “Lord Thornleigh? What say you?”
He did not hesitate. “That Your Majesty has no grounds for keeping the lady in custody. The charges against her have not been proved. She took refuge in your realm in good faith. You would appear a tyrant.”
Her chin jerked up a fraction.
Tyrant
was not a word to throw in the face of a queen. There was a chill of silence.
Undeterred, he carried on. “As for her remaining free in your realm, Sir William may have a point about Catholic sympathizers. Mary may attract that kind of high feeling. But what’s the alternative? We must not send her back to Scotland. That would put her life in peril. When Moray locked her up, John Knox demanded in his every sermon that she be put to death. And the Scottish people are all for it. That howling mob when Moray brought her into Edinburgh as his prisoner.” He shook his head in disgust. “The curses they hurled at her.”
Whore,
the people had called her. Will had read the reports. The people believed she had colluded in the murder of her husband, Lord Darnley, so she could be united with her lover, the Earl of Bothwell. After less than three months of widowhood, she had married Bothwell. Then, when her army lost to Moray on the battlefield, Bothwell fled to Denmark. Will didn’t know if Mary
had
colluded, and in fact he was glad the case was ambiguous. It gave him the opportunity here that he needed. At least, he hoped it would if the stalemate continued.
“I grant,” his uncle went on, “there are some in England, especially among these hard new Puritans, who would rejoice at Mary’s execution. But I say her death would be bad for us. It would destabilize Your Majesty’s realm, for she is your heir presumptive. Sir William warns of factions if Mary remains freely among us, but sending her back to her death could spark a power struggle for supremacy among your lords jockeying to be named your heir, and that could become truly bloody.”
Elizabeth was visibly annoyed at this mention of the succession. “Have a care, my lord,” she said, “that you do not stray from the issue.”
He made a slight bow, deferential enough to acknowledge her command but stiff enough to display his disagreement.
Will was impressed by Elizabeth’s forbearance. Her council were unanimous in their anxiety at her unmarried state, and since her coronation nine years ago they had ceaselessly urged her to accept one of her royal suitors, for everyone wanted her to produce an heir lest civil war ensue should she die. An attack of smallpox a few years ago had left her unconscious for days, and the moment she had recovered they had doubled their efforts to persuade her to marry. Will himself had witnessed one of their torrents of advice, which Elizabeth bore with grim tolerance. Actually, she had entertained several candidates, but chosen none. It was unusual, Will granted—all monarchs married. Yet he admired her caution. After all, by marrying she would make some foreign prince the king of England. The thought made him shudder.
His uncle winced slightly as he shifted the foot he had his weight on. Some discomfort there, it seemed. But he pressed on. “If Your Majesty agrees that Mary cannot be sent back to probable death, nor be kept in custody, yet should not be allowed free rein in England either, there is another alternative. Send her to France. She grew up there. She owns extensive lands there. Let her settle into one of her fine French châteaux and you will be done with this vexing problem.”
Sir William’s frown showed his strong disagreement. “That would only add fuel to the fire,” he said. “Reunite her with her powerful Guise relations who hunger to see her as queen of England? They continually harp on her right, as the great-granddaughter of Your Majesty’s grandfather, to be England’s monarch. If we oust her from England she would spur on the Duc de Guise’s campaign that she claim Your Majesty’s throne
now
. And, as we know too well, he is far from alone. Unofficially, France and Spain support Mary. As does the pope.”
Will bristled at the stance taken by Europe’s two most powerful nations. He was sure all loyal Englishmen felt the outrage he did that Catholics had never recognized as valid the divorce of Elizabeth’s father, Henry VIII, from Catherine of Aragon, and therefore the legitimacy of his marriage to Anne Boleyn. In their eyes, Anne’s daughter, Elizabeth, was a bastard. Will’s feeling was:
Damn
their eyes.
“Mary herself is not innocent in this,” Sir William warned. “We know she has sent beseeching letters to every potential ally in Europe. I need not remind Your Majesty that the most dire eventuality for England would be a Catholic League, led by France and Spain, backed by the pope, zealous to put Mary on your throne.”
Lord Thornleigh shook his head in opposition. “The French king is too busy hunting down Protestants and massacring them. His country is being torn apart by religious strife. His full attention is there. As for Spain, Philip is basking in his conquest of the Netherlands with its enormously rich trade with England. He will not endanger that trade to help the French press their dubious claim here. No, with all due respect to Sir William, the most dire eventuality for England would be civil war, and Mary’s demise could spark it. Like it or not, she is Your Majesty’s legitimate heir.”
Elizabeth’s eyes narrowed as she regarded him. “Thank you for your counsel, my lord. And yours, Sir William.” Grave of face, she turned to the canary’s golden cage as though for a glimmer of diversion. Will thought,
She’s not satisfied with their arguments. They keep going over the same ground. They need to look at the problem another way.
It gave him a jolt of excitement. Did he dare speak up now?
Elizabeth nudged her finger in between the gilded bars, and the bird fluttered down onto her fingertip. It teased a small smile from her. She murmured some affectionate words to the bird, then flicked her finger to send it fluttering back up to its perch. Withdrawing her hand, she turned to the waiting men. “Here is my answer. I will not abandon Mary. She is my cousin, and has sought my protection in good faith. More to the point,” she added sternly, “she is a queen. Anointed by God. Subject to none.”
Sir William seemed about to interject, but she held up her hand to forestall him. “Make no mistake, sir. By law, she is not bound to answer to her subjects. Much as I value our good relations with Moray’s government, he crossed a dangerous line when he imprisoned Mary. God’s wounds, we set an evil precedent if we countenance rebels threatening their monarch’s life! Furthermore, I would have the ambassadors
know
that I stand by Mary. Philip of Spain and Charles of France shall not call me derelict in defending a fellow sovereign.” She let out a tight sigh, then said in a new tone, wryly aware, “However, neither will I send her to France to stir up trouble in those parts.”
Will noted Sir William’s relief at the last point. Will felt the same, and was again impressed by Elizabeth’s unsentimental pragmatism.
“Your fellow councilors are expecting us,” she said. “Let them wait.” She added pointedly to both men, “Devise a way for me to deal with Mary honorably.”