Barbara Kyle - [Thornleigh 05]

by Blood Between Queens

  “So he did. Yes, he has showed me kindness. Other gentlemen, too. Sir George Bowes sent a Turkey carpet.” She added bitterly, “This place where I am going, I do not know the people.”

  Justine switched to French to stress her sympathy. “Bolton will not be your home for long, my lady. The inquiry commissioners will quickly dispatch this matter.” Mary herself had told Justine that the inquiry was about to begin. Not in London, but York, just fifty miles from Bolton. Elizabeth had sent a dozen commissioners to hear the case the Scots would make against Mary. The Scots, led by Mary’s half brother, the Earl of Moray, had arrived with their retinue of lawyers, while Mary had sent her loyal men Lord Herries and Bishop Leslie to lead her team. “Their findings,” Justine assured her now, “will end your purgatory in this country.”

  Mary gave a mirthless laugh. “Will they, indeed?” Now that they were speaking French, her tone was both more relaxed and more pointed. She was at home in this language.

  “Of course. Her Majesty’s purpose is to compel the Scottish lords to account for their conduct against you, their sovereign. I am no lawyer, but how can their actions be called anything but treasonable?”

  Mary turned on her with sudden sharpness. “Do not pretend with me.”

  Justine’s skin prickled with caution. “Pretend, my lady?”

  “You know the purpose of this inquiry as well as I. So does all of Europe. Calling Moray to account is just the official reason. The real reason is to debate what everyone wants to know. Did I abet the killing of my husband.”

  Justine was stunned. No one in Mary’s retinue ever mentioned the murder of Lord Darnley to her face. But what an opportunity! She quickly gathered her wits. “That tragedy is past, my lady. I know the talk continues, but Her Majesty’s intention is to put an end to it.”

  “Bah. It has just begun.”

  “Then you shall stop it. With the truth.”

  Mary looked her dead in the eye. “Will I? Do you know the truth?” Her tone was a challenge, almost a taunt. “Go ahead. Ask me.”

  Justine was itching to do it. Did you order your husband’s death? She opened her mouth to say the words.

  “Dinner, my lady,” a man’s voice rang out.

  Startled, both women turned. Lord Scrope was trotting back to them. “We’ll set the tables under those trees,” he said, pointing to a shady copse of holly and hazel. Justine could have screamed at him for interrupting. Mary had been so close to answering! Now the moment was lost. Already, Scrope’s men of the vanguard were turning their horses off the road.

  “Thank you, my lord, you are kind,” said Mary, suddenly all charming complaisance. The instant change in her unnerved Justine. It was as though their dangerous talk of murder had not happened.

  Scrope wiped sweat off his upper lip with the back of his gloved hand. “I warrant you are saddle weary, my lady, so rest as long as you like.” What a fool he is, thought Justine. Mary was an excellent horsewoman, known to love hunting and hawking, and her smooth face bore not a trace of fatigue. She could probably outride Scrope. Justine glanced nervously at the woods that flanked the road ahead. If Mary’s supporters intended an ambush, they would find their prize ready and willing to ride.

  Bolton Castle, a fortress staked on the moors, was a quadrangle of four gray stone ranges around a central courtyard, with bulky rectangular towers rising at each corner. The entourage rode in before nightfall. No ambush. No mishap. Nothing but tired ladies and bored men-at-arms looking forward to a tasty supper and soft feather beds in the comfortable chambers of Lord Scrope’s castle.

  Justine helped Jane and Margaret unpack Mary’s wardrobe as maidservants bustled to lay fresh linen sheets on the royal guest’s bed, tack up the final tapestry on the wall, scatter sweet herbs among the floor rushes, and light candles in the deepening dusk. Mary lounged in a bath.

  It was dark by the time she and her ladies finished a light but succulent meal of roast capon and fig tart. During it, Mary had given an audience to Scrope’s chamberlain and the captain of his castle guard, both of whom seemed in awe of her poise and beauty. Justine was used to seeing men gaze slack-jawed at the Queen of Scots. Women, too. How little it takes to impress people, she thought. Surface glitter. Yet she had to admire Mary’s gentle way with inferiors. Haughty she was, always the queen, but with a mildness of manner, never raising her voice to servants, that seemed to make maids and footmen stand taller in her presence.

  “Stay with me, cherie,” she murmured to Justine as Margaret and Jane moved to the door, dismissed for the night.

  “Of course, my lady.” Justine hid her surprise and delight. Hoping to resume their conversation cut short on the road, she had been about to ask if Mary wanted her to stay and read to her. “Shall we continue with Sir Thomas Wyatt’s sonnets?”

  “No, no,” Mary said with a sigh, “enough of English.” She strolled to the casement where the window stood open letting in the evening breeze, earthy with the smells of cut hay and ripening fruit. Torchlight winked in the distance across the fields. “We’ll sit here, cherie. And sew.”

  Justine fetched her embroidery hoop and basket of silk yarns and Mary’s cherrywood box of beads. She had seen Mary at work on bracelets for friends, male and female, eye-catching creations that were her own design. Justine pulled their chairs to the window and they sat side by side, rummaging through the yarn and beads, discussing which colors to choose. Justine settled back to ply her needle through the stretched linen while Mary worked at stringing a bracelet of garnet beads and tiny glass pearls. Justine was all thumbs at embroidery; she had no knack. Mary’s needlework was superb, as was her skill with these bracelets, and Justine told her so.

  Mary’s smile was rueful. “A skill I honed in the long days at Loch Leven.” Justine understood: her eleven months as a prisoner in a tower on an island in Loch Leven. Mary added bitterly, “As Moray’s guest.”

  She always called her half brother “Moray,” which sounded odd to Justine, as though the two were not kin. They had had the same royal father, James V, but while Mary’s mother had been his wife and queen, he had sired this son between adulterous sheets. The boy had been raised almost on an equal footing with Mary, though, and given the best education, and they had once been close; in the early days of her reign she had ennobled him as the Earl of Moray. Then rivalry for power had shattered their friendship. Each was now the other’s mortal enemy.

  Mary said, while slipping a shiny pearl onto the silver wire, “He’ll be as eager as a new-trained hawk now that Elizabeth has cut him loose from her jesses. This inquiry is his grand chance to ruin me.”

  Justine held her breath, trying not to show her eagerness to hear more. She concentrated on poking her needle in and out of the linen. “He has tried to before and failed.”

  “Ah, but this time the hawk has been starved and will go for the kill. He must win, you see, by proving my guilt. If he does not, and I am restored to my throne, he fears I’ll have my revenge on him.”

  Justine dared to look up. “Would you?”

  Mary’s eyes locked on hers. “Wouldn’t you?”

  In the silence, a dog howled far across the fields.

  An apologetic smile softened Mary’s face. “Forgive me, cherie, I should not burden you with my worries.”

  “It is no burden, my lady. I am your friend. I hope you know that.”

  “I do.” She leaned closer and whispered conspiratorially, as though aware of Lord Scrope’s spies at her door, “The sacred object you gave me? It is safe in my keeping.”

  Justine felt a rush of victory she could not hide. But she made her smile one of reassurance. “As your secrets are safe in mine, my lady. You can tell me anything. I am your servant.”

  Mary’s look was intense, as though to examine her. Then, grave of face, she went back to stringing her beads. Justine’s hope plunged. Had she gone too far? She went back to plying her needle, but her mind was far from the stupid task. She had bungled this chance to get Mary to talk. She w
as a fool to have pushed.

  The candle flames jerked in the window breeze. Someone in a far room was plucking a lute idly, tunelessly. Justine struggled to decide what to do next.

  Then Mary said, very quietly, her eyes on her task, “It wasn’t my husband they came to murder. Their target was me.”

  Justine tried to stay still, to lure her to go on, but she was too surprised. “You?”

  “It was the coldest night that winter. February. Henry and I were traveling to Edinburgh.” Justine was so surprised to hear this intimate use of the Christian name it took a moment to realize: Henry Lennox, Lord Darnley, Mary’s husband. “We stopped for the night just outside the city at Kirk o’ Field, at the old priory, where we settled into the provost’s lodging. We had stayed there before in the happy days when we were first married. How I loved Henry. He was so dashing, so . . . manly.” She glanced up with clear eyes. “Have you ever loved a man?”

  Justine felt a blush heat her face. Will. “Yes,” she said, perhaps too quickly.

  Mary’s smile was tender. “Then you know what I mean. What woman ever forgets that feeling? Henry gave me my baby boy, James.” Her smile faded. “I have not seen my son for over a year. Moray keeps him under his thumb in Edinburgh.” Her eyes stayed on her bracelet as she worked on it. “Henry and I had our disagreements. What married couple does not? Gradually, he drew away from me. We spent more time apart. I don’t know why. Perhaps it was my fault. He was a proud man, and maybe in my efforts to rule my realm I did not pay him enough attention. Whatever the reason, I deeply regretted the bad feeling between us and I wanted to repair it. So I invited him to join me at Glasgow. He came, and we had friendly words, which heartened me, and then we set off for Edinburgh to see our son at Holyrood Palace. But that February night was so cold, so bitter, we stopped at Kirk o’ Field, at the old priory, the provost’s lodging. That’s where Moray’s killers struck.”

  Moray’s? Justine blurted in surprise, “Your brother?”

  “Not in person. He is clever, he stayed far distant from the vile deed itself. But he had done his work, inciting his fellow Protestant lords against me. Morton, Lindsay, Ruthven, and more. Their henchmen set gunpowder in the basement of the priory. Many barrels, packed with gunpowder. I went out that evening to pay a brief visit I had promised to two faithful servants who were getting married. The murderers hadn’t expected that. While Henry slept, they struck. The explosion was so huge, so monstrous, people in Edinburgh felt the ground tremble. They found my poor husband’s body in the garden, in the snow, the blast so powerful it had thrown him there, all mangled. When I returned and was told I almost collapsed in shock and grief.”

  Tears sprang to her eyes. Impulsively, she reached for Justine’s hand and squeezed. “It is such a relief to have someone to talk to. A friend. I have been so alone.”

  Justine saw her raw loneliness, and it moved her. “Oh, my lady. How terrible for you.”

  Mary nodded, then drew back, clearly struggling to regain her composure. “After, the lords who had done the foul deed, and who held sway in my fractured government, quickly laid the blame on a man they loathed for his ambition, the Earl of Bothwell, James Hepburn, the captain of my guard, a hard, experienced soldier. Long before this tragedy he had done good service to me and I had rewarded him by making him an earl. That had angered many nobles who felt they were his betters. So they tried him for the murder of my poor husband.”

  “But Lord Bothwell was acquitted, was he not?” That much was common knowledge.

  “Yes, but the lords had created a monster. Bothwell hated them for trying to bring him to the executioner’s block. He decided to strike for power—the power that lay in me. He proposed marriage to me. You can imagine my revulsion—poor Henry’s body was scarcely three months in the ground! That did not daunt Bothwell. He came at me in the countryside. I had left Edinburgh to visit my baby son at Stirling Castle, where I had moved him for his safety, and was returning to the capital accompanied by a small escort of thirty men. Five miles from the city, near the bridge over the River Almond at Cramond, Bothwell intercepted us with a force of over four hundred men, all with swords drawn. We anxiously drew to a halt, and Bothwell took hold of my horse’s bridle as though I were his captive. He told me I was in danger from a brewing insurrection in Edinburgh and he was taking me for my own safety to his castle at Dunbar. My men did not believe him and were about to defend me, but I was appalled. Stalwart they were, but so vastly outnumbered. How could I let them be slaughtered for my sake? So I stopped them, and I went with Bothwell.” She shook her head in bitterness. “There was no insurrection, of course. It was Bothwell’s ruse to lay hold of me, to control me and thus control the crown.”

  Her voice became tight and thin. “And lay hold of me he did. It was a forty-mile ride to Dunbar. We arrived at his castle at midnight, and after we entered, all the gates were shut. He took me to his chamber and boasted he would marry me. I refused. But I was so weakened by these terrible events—Henry’s murder, this violent abduction—and felt so alone I was near to breaking. I knew I was completely in Bothwell’s power. He forced me into his bed and . . .” She shrank back into her chair, as though cringing at the memory. “He is not a gentle man.” Tears choked her words.

  Justine was horrified. Rape.

  Mary swallowed hard, raised her head, and went on. “With me so weakened, Moray and his band of murderers saw their chance. Ascendant in the government, they sharpened their knives for Bothwell. They declared publicly that they would liberate me from his tyranny and thralldom, protect the Prince, my son, and bring Bothwell to justice, as they said, for my husband’s murder. And I?” She lowered her eyes, “By then I knew the worst. I was with child by Bothwell.”

  Justine gasped. She pressed her hand to her mouth, wishing she had not made the sound which seemed coarse, a further insult to Mary, who had suffered so much. But she was mesmerized by the tale and could not help hungering to hear more.

  “Yes,” Mary said, “he had won. What could I do but marry him?” She took a breath before going on. “But our marriage was the end for Bothwell. With his enemies so strengthened, he knew he had gone too far—he could not fight them all. He fled to Denmark, and is there still.” Mary seemed to take no joy in relating his downfall. “That’s when Moray and his fellows finally came after me. They publicly accused me of having masterminded my husband’s death, using Bothwell as my creature. They took me to Loch Leven, to a lonely tower on the island. They took my son away . . . my baby boy. I have not seen him since . . .” Her voice faltered. She closed her eyes. “Forgive me.” After a steadying breath, she went on, “At Loch Leven they came to me with papers of abdication, Lord Lindsay and Robert Melville and more, the cowards. They crowded into my small room and shouted at me, demanding that I sign. I refused. Lindsay held his knife to my throat and told me if I did not sign he would slit my throat. I was weak with fear. I signed their miserable paper, silently vowing to have it overturned when I was free. Every court in Christendom rules that an enforced abdication is void. Their paper was worth as much as Lindsay’s spittle.”

  The desolation on her tearstained face was awful to behold. Justine had seen her tears before when Mary had been crossed, tears of anger and frustration, but this was something else. No one with a heart could behold this woman’s pain and not feel pity. Justine felt close to tears herself. It startled her, unnerved her. Was she being disloyal to Elizabeth by pitying Mary?

  Mary shook her head at the misery of remembering. Her face was pale, her mouth trembling. “At Loch Leven I was so distraught I became ill. And in that weakened state of abject wretchedness, I miscarried. Twins. Born dead. Dear God . . .” A groan escaped her and her eyes closed and she slumped forward.

  “My lady!” Justine lurched to break Mary’s fall, taking her by the shoulders. Mary felt limp in her arms. In pity Justine went down on her knees and wrapped her arms around her to hold her upright in the chair. “My lady, you are ill!”

 
Mary jerked, resorted to consciousness, though her face was drained of color. “No . . . no, I am fine . . . though sick at heart!” She smiled faintly through her tears. “God bless you, cherie.” She stroked Justine’s cheek. “God bless you.”

  That night, sleep was impossible for Justine. She lay on her bed, her body as still as if hands pinned her there, but her mind awhirl with all that Mary had told her, all that Mary had suffered. To find her husband’s mangled body in the snow . . . the horror of it. To be raped . . . the degradation! To be made pregnant and then bear dead infant twins . . . how pitiful. To be kept apart from the baby son she loved . . . how did any woman bear that sorrow? Justine thought of Will, of the happy future she hoped to share with him, and of one day having his child. It made her feel all the sorrier for Mary.

  Of course, there had to be another side to Mary’s story, Justine knew that. The Earl of Moray would no doubt air it at the inquiry, and Elizabeth’s commissioners would listen gravely and come to a conclusion. But they were men, their world a regimented place of facts and politics, and none of them would ever see what Justine had seen tonight. The private, woman’s hell that Mary had been dragged through by forces more powerful than she was.

  Justine stared out the window at the stars, and under their cold glitter a thought stole over her that shook her. Her own private hell—the chasm that threatened to open between her and Will—was one she had had no part in making. It was a legacy of the feud between the Thornleighs and Grenvilles. Like Mary, she was in chains forged by forces beyond her.

  She and Mary, she realized, had much in common.

  Again, she felt a pinch of guilt. Was the sympathy she felt for Mary a disloyalty to Elizabeth? No, she told herself, feeling quite clear-eyed. She was sworn to do her duty—she wanted to do her duty—and nothing would change that.

  Yet, which of these queens had the more urgent cause? Elizabeth, who had good reason to fear the men who wanted Mary in her place? Or Mary, who had been so cruelly wronged?