Elizabeth grinned in response. “He was terrible that year — he showed off all summer to impress Lettice,” she said. “I was always amazed when our little She-Wolf agreed to marry him.”
“I think she did it for you, Venus,” sighed Mary. “She was keeping him close, just in case you ever changed your mind and decided you did like him after all.”
“Really?” Elizabeth was astonished that Lettice would even consider making such a sacrifice. “But she does love him, doesn’t she?”
“Oh yes, she adores him, but she is loyal to you and will always put your happiness first.”
Elizabeth did not speak as she considered this unexpected and extraordinary idea. She was stretched out on the bed next to Mary, Ralph was in a chair beside them, and for those few minutes, it was as though they were ordinary siblings, reunited for a happy event, rather than three relative strangers who were joined by a twist of fate and their tainted royal blood. They knew the visit would be short but for those few precious moments, they were reliving shared memories and silly jokes, basking briefly in the glow of family love.
“And Ralph, do you remember Christmas night with the Shrewsbury’s at Sheffield Castle?” said Mary. “Your son, William, was ten and there were so many children there that year. We played games with them for hours and in the end they were so overexcited, you suggested a competition to see who could stay quiet the longest.”
Ralph laughed. “I hadn’t imagined for one moment it would happen,” he said, “but they sat there for nearly 15 minutes before Dorothy Devereux couldn’t stand it any longer and began to giggle. It set them all off.”
“Such simple pleasures,” sighed Mary.
The stories came thick and fast. Elizabeth noticed the slight sorrow in Ralph’s eyes. Although he had always been part of their inner circle, she could see he was curious as to how his status, had it been known, would have changed events. The past is done, thought Elizabeth, squashing the burning wave of guilt at keeping this from Ralph for so many years. We have this moment, the three of us, siblings, we must take this small gift and remember it always.
It was as Elizabeth began regaling a tale about Mary chasing Robert Dudley with a wooden practise sword during a visit to Brocket Hall that she noticed the sudden change in her younger sister. Her jaundiced face contorted as pain engulfed her and in a moment, Mary’s happy laughter turned without warning to a violent cough.
The sound of merriment was swallowed by a deep rasping noise that wracked her entire body, sending it into convulsions. Jane Kennedy and Mary Beaton, two of the Scottish queen’s most loyal women, surged forward holding goblets containing soothing tinctures. Elizabeth scrabbled from the bed to allow them room to work, to calm Mary and make her comfortable, while Ralph stood so quickly to clear space that he sent his chair flying and it collided with a small table causing a huge crash.
Mignonne was on her feet — all this time she had been sitting with Elizabeth Curle, working on a detailed sampler of a mermaid and a hare, but her needlework had been thrust aside in her panic.
“Your Majesty, you must hide.” Her voice was taut, urgent. “The guards will come to investigate the noise.”
Elizabeth dragged her eyes from Mary, who lay ashen-faced on her pile of pillows, her eyes closed, her breathing shallow, her coughing fit soothed for the moment.
Mignonne took Elizabeth’s hand and pulled her across the room.
“Your Grace,” she called to Ralph, who stood frozen to the spot, staring down at his twin sister. “You must hurry.”
The high-pitched tremor in her voice roused Ralph from his torpor.
“In here,” said Mignonne, as she wrestled open a narrow door cut into the panelling. “I’m sorry, there isn’t much space, but the guards don’t know about this. We think it was once a servant’s room but was turned into a priest’s hole some years ago. We’ve been using it to keep the Queen’s medications and food hidden from Fortescue and his men.”
Elizabeth hesitated as the fetid air of the tiny chamber overwhelmed her but Mignonne ignored all protocol and gave her a hearty shove in the small of her back. Seconds later, Ralph was beside her and Mignonne had fitted the panel back in place, plunging them into darkness. There was barely room for the two of them and they stood with their backs against the stone wall, their faces so close to the door, they were almost touching the wood. Elizabeth opened her mouth to whisper to Ralph when there was a crash outside and the sound of heavy boots.
“What was that noise?” came an angry male voice.
“In my rush to attend the Scottish queen, my skirts knocked the chair and it overturned the table.”
The heavy footsteps marched across the room and Elizabeth nearly jumped out of her skin when she heard the man speak again — he was inches from where they were hiding.
“Search the room,” he shouted, his voice menacing, “and make sure you search the bed. I wouldn’t put it past these bitches to hide someone in there.”
It took every ounce of self-control for Elizabeth to remain quiet. Her eyes were wide with outrage and fury but she was also conscious of the fact that if she were discovered, she would never leave this castle alive. Ralph’s reassuring hand slipped into hers and squeezed. Tears of fury, frustration and fear filled her eyes as she listened to the brutality with which the women on the other side were being treated as the men searched every inch of Mary’s chamber. When they were back at court, she would ensure these men paid with their lives for their barbarous treatment of her sister and her subjects. Philip II would learn that she was not to be underestimated merely because she was a woman.
“Check for priest holes,” came a newer, softer, but more menacing voice. Elizabeth recognised it as belonging to Black Fortescue, the man who had tried to bully her during the meeting at Boughton Hall. “I have long suspected there of being at least one within these walls.”
Elizabeth swallowed her gasp as someone began tapping the panelling. Beside her she felt Ralph reaching for his dagger. Closing her eyes, Elizabeth summoned all her courage, preparing herself for possible confrontation if they were discovered. The tapping came closer. Her only hope if they were found was to trust that these men would fail to recognise her without her finery. Stripped of her court elegance and the thick white make-up, she was almost unrecognisable from her painted images. Fortescue had only met her once — it was unlikely he would guess her true identity, not at first, anyway.
The tapping noise came again, on the panel nearly touching their noses. Neither of them moved. Elizabeth wondered if she would ever dare to draw breath again. Tap, tap, tap. Again, the enquiring noise and a long pause. She felt Ralph try to manoeuvre himself in front of her, then to her relief, the tapping came again but this time from a panel further away, until eventually, with much shouting and what sounded like someone being slapped, causing a female scream of pain, the men left the bedchamber with a ringing slam of the door.
Fury was overwhelming her when Mignonne finally released them from their dark prison.
“I’m sorry, Your Majesty,” she whispered, white-faced as she pulled Elizabeth into the room, sinking into a curtsey, her head bowed.
“My dear, Mignonne, you saved our lives,” Elizabeth whispered, raising the girl to standing. “I shall tell your grandmother — she’ll be very proud of you. Will it be safe for us to leave or will they have positioned someone outside?”
“There aren’t enough of them to keep a permanent watch on us,” said Jane Kennedy. “Most of the Spaniards have left, either when they escorted de Quiroga y Vela away a few days ago or they’ve deserted, slipping away with the twilight and never returning. Black Fortescue is in a constant fury as he feels he has been betrayed by all sides: the Spanish, the Church and by the men who claimed to be loyal Catholics…”
“Your Majesty, I’m sorry to interrupt but we don’t have long. It’s time to say goodbye.”
Ralph, who had been standing beside Mary’s bed, staring down at her prone figure, reached down to her
, whispering to his twin sister before placing a kiss on her forehead. When he turned away, tears filled his eyes. Elizabeth threw him a sorrowful smile, then fumbling with the pouch on her belt she removed the two ruby rings.
“Mary,” she whispered, “do you have the strength to open your eyes?”
The eyelids of the Scottish queen flickered, then with a huge effort she looked up at her elder sister.
“Our rings,” Elizabeth whispered, “can you see? I commissioned my royal jeweller to add embellishments so we have them as a constant reminder of each other and our shared past. Here is yours, the one that belonged to your mother Catherine Howard, it has the sapphire clip, the colour of her eyes, and inside I’ve had the words Semper Sorores inscribed, one of our codes and a phrase that is so very true — we will be sisters always. It is like my motto: Semper Eadem, Always the same.”
Mary reached out her ghostly white hand and Elizabeth placed the ring on her palm so she could see the detail.
“In the bottom, I had her painted, your mother, an image of Catherine from the portrait my father had commissioned of her when they wed. She is wearing the silver locket which Ralph has as his memento of his true heritage.”
From the corner of the room, Ralph gave a stifled sob but he turned to watch the scene on the bed.
“And this is mine,” said Elizabeth, placing the second ruby ring into Mary’s hand. “Mine reads: luncta sanguine, as we said, we are joined in blood on both sides of our lineage, through our father and our mothers, Anne Boleyn and Catherine Howard who were cousins. In mine, I’ve put a picture of my mother.”
“And here’s mine,” said Ralph, striding forward, allowing the locket to slide across the two rings, cold and slippery, completing the trio. “Spe et nereidum, hope and mermaids.”
“Arbella,” whispered Mary. “Give them all to Arbella. It is the women who will tell our tale and she must be the first of our secret keepers. She will always have hope and mermaids.”
With a shudder, her hand slumped to the bed and Mary slid into unconsciousness.
“Mary, no,” gasped Elizabeth but she was pushed aside by Mary’s physician, Dominique Bourgoing.
“She is sleeping, Your Majesty,” he reassured her, “but her time will not be long.”
“Your Majesty, Your Grace, we must leave,” said Mignonne, her voice tense and urgent. “The guards will return soon. I believe they may search the room again.”
“But what about Mary?” said Elizabeth, tears welling in her eyes.
“There’s nothing we can do for her now,” said Ralph and gathering the three pieces of jewellery that had scattered across the bed, he tucked them into a leather pouch at his belt. “Come Elizabeth, we must take you to safety.”
Elizabeth hesitated, not wanting to leave but then sense reasserted itself. Leaning over the bed, she hugged Mary’s wasted body to her and kissed her sunken cheek, then with one last desperate look at her sister, she forced herself to turn from the prone figure in the bed to follow Ralph and Mignonne from the bedchamber and back into the gloom of the tunnel.
Once more Mignonne’s candle led the way through the dark corridors. Every nerve in Elizabeth’s body was alert as they crept through the shadows, until finally, they were by the concealed door.
“Hurry,” whispered Mignonne. “I must return — it would be a disaster if they knew we have a key. Chidiock supplied it. Morgan thinks that once they’ve locked us in at night we’re their prisoners. Stupid men.” Her voice rang with contempt.
“Take care, my dear,” said Elizabeth, hugging Mignonne. “Send word to Ralph if you need him.”
“We shall — now, please, Your Majesty, be careful.”
The concealed door creaked open and Golding peered out. Mignonne bobbed a curtsey then melted away into the darkness. Elizabeth hurried through the gap and into the dank tunnel, Ralph behind her. They paused as Golding shut the door, sliding it back into place with care so no unexpected noise would alert the prowling guards to their presence.
“We must hurry,” said Ralph, and taking Elizabeth’s hand, he pulled her along the slippery tunnel.
None of them spoke as they fled. Their footsteps seemed so loud to Elizabeth that she felt sure they would be heard inside the castle, but neither Ralph nor Golding showed any inclination to slow their pace. Elizabeth realised that the encounter with Black Fortescue had unnerved the usually calm duke. Perhaps he regretted allowing her access to the Scottish queen. Had they been found, she had no doubt she would be languishing in a dungeon now — if she had been allowed to live. The thought sent icy shivers down her spine.
“Stay here, Elizabeth,” said Ralph, coming to an abrupt halt. “Golding, check the tunnel entrance, I will be right behind you.”
Elizabeth, once again, stood shivering in the darkness with water sliding down the walls beside her, wondering what had possessed her to plan this night-time adventure. The visit with her younger sister had been both wonderful and devastating. For the brief period when she, Ralph and Mary had been laughing, she had glimpsed the lives they had all lost because of their royal blood. There were many who envied her the position of Queen, with its privilege, money and power. Yes, she was lucky but with the trappings of monarchy, which provided so much on a material level, it also destroyed personal relationships.
After watching Philip II try to steal the country from under her elder sister, Mary’s nose when they had been married, Elizabeth had realised it would take a remarkable man whom she would trust enough not to be overwhelmed by the lure of the crown. Anjou had come close but their union had been short. It had barely been announced to the country before he had succumbed to the sweat — not syphilis, as his enemies were fond of suggesting. Perhaps, she thought, as she waited in the dank gloom, his early death spared me having to watch him being corrupted by power. Her mind flickered to Mary’s second husband, Henry Stuart, Lord Darnley, cousin to them both through Lady Margaret Douglas. The Scottish crown had never rested easily on Darnley’s handsome head, altering him almost the moment he was able to wield such power.
“Elizabeth, there is trouble afoot,” came Ralph’s voice through the darkness. “Merrick and Abel have been attacked. Merrick is dead, Abel is injured. Fortescue is not as useless as we thought — after searching Mary’s room, he sent out the few soldiers he has left. Luckily, our men were able to move away from the tunnel entrance so it wasn’t discovered, but I must be certain it is safe for you before you leave this place.”
He slid his cloak from his shoulders and wrapped it around Elizabeth, then led her to a rocky ledge which was wide enough to use as a seat.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered, his face white with fear, “but you will have to remain here for a few moments longer.”
“Ralph, no,” she responded.
“Trust me?” he asked and after a moment’s hesitation, she nodded.
“I will return for you,” he said, and leaning forward he kissed her forehead as he had Mary’s earlier, then he was gone and Elizabeth was alone in the blackness.
Chapter Three
The queen of England was at her favourite palace of Richmond in Surrey. The letter was addressed to Bess because her granddaughter, the doubtless Mignonne, had, in her grief, reached out for her beloved grandmother. Katherine Newton had translated it and, after some consideration, the queen had gathered her most trusted group from the Ladies of Melusine around her — they had been by her side throughout her protection of Artemis. Reading the letter was the most difficult task she had ever performed but she would not fail. With tears in her eyes and pain in her soul, she delivered the final instalment of the eventful and extraordinary life of Mary Stuart, Queen of Scots.
My dearest Lady Glass, this is a day of great sadness. Our Lady Artemis has been taken from us in the most brutal way.
Two evenings ago, she weakened further and was unable to rise from her bed. Despite his cruelty, we knew the man they call Black Fortescue to be an ordained priest and I sent word, begging him to gi
ve Our Lady the blessing of the Last Rites. We had no response and I feared Artemis would die without hearing the sacrament that is of so much importance to those of her faith.
Early yesterday morning, there was a knock on the door and Black Fortescue entered, followed by two of his men. He administered the sacrament of the Last Rites to Her Majesty. We were all most humbly relieved and believed at last our captors were showing their compassion. The men left, assuring us they would return within the hour. This was when we understood we should fear their intentions. However, our beloved Artemis was unmoved. She sank back into her mound of pillows, calling us to her. Once more she requested her Book of Hours should be passed to Arbella, along with the gift of the ring, which Her Majesty, the Queen has in safekeeping.
Her breathing faltered and as we sat, weeping at our sadness, her face became radiant as the angels carried our beautiful Scottish queen to her final peace. As the pain left her, she sighed so happily, free at last from the torture of illness.
Oh Grandmamma, we were hugging and weeping, mourning our loss when the evil Fortescue processed into the room and read an official decree from the Spanish king, ordering her execution. Mary Beaton laughed in their faces and told the man he was too late before spitting at his feet. Screaming with rage, the evil Fortescue struck Mary Beaton to the floor, then ordered his men to lift the queen’s body from her bed.
They carried her downstairs, ignoring our screams and protests. Her little dog, Otto, barked and growled but when one of the guards tried to kick him, I pulled him safely into my arms. The guards tried to hold us back but Mary Beaton and I managed to run after Our Lady.
She was wrapped in her beautiful red silk robe with its fine embroidery. The phoenix, which she had taken as her symbol so many years ago, flew boldly on her retreating back, her motto — In my end is my beginning — glinting gold in the torchlight. The guards carried her to the Great Hall and laid her on the raised dais, her head resting a block. Mary Beaton screamed and, I could not help myself, I began to sob. I ran forward but a guard caught me around the waist and held me fast.
The Elizabeth Tudor Conspiracy Page 30