“How they study you, sir,” he said quietly as they walked. “I warrant they’ll be noting every twitch of your eyebrow, every frown, every sigh.” It made him smile. “Puts one in mind of Romans reading entrails.”
A cool glance from his uncle, and a gruff grunt.
He’s in no mood for jests, Will thought. It sobered him. Down to business, then. “You know Sir Ralph Sadler, of course,” he said, indicating one of the commissioners they were passing who stood conferring with his clerks. Sadler, sixty-one, was an old hand at Scottish politics. Lord Thornleigh nodded to him and Sadler gave a courtly bow of his head in return. Farther down the corridor a swarm of underlings buzzed like bees following another commissioner as he strolled into the inquiry chamber, the mustachioed Earl of Sussex, a highly influential man as Lord President of the North.
Will quietly told his uncle, pleased to be in the know, “His Grace the Duke usually arrives late.” The Duke of Norfolk, thirty-two and immensely wealthy, was the highest-ranking nobleman in England and presided over the inquiry as the foremost of Elizabeth’s three commissioners. Will could not suppress a chuckle, “Perhaps thanks to the night’s libations. He brought half his wine cellar with him.”
His uncle rounded on him with a scowl and halted. “This is no good. Where can we talk alone?”
Will was taken aback. Had some problem arisen at court? He indicated a spot under a staircase out of the flow of men. The moment they were alone his uncle said with severe, clipped anger, “Betrothed. In secret! What in God’s name were you thinking?”
The bubble of good cheer in Will burst. He saw in an instant how he had misjudged his uncle’s mood. “Sir, let me explain—”
“Oh, Justine explained. Love,” he said in a withering tone. “Damn it, is this your character? I expected better from you. A betrothal should be public, a family ceremony. You did wrong, Will.”
He smarted at the rebuke. “I believe it was right, sir.”
“It was plain skulduggery. And there was no need. I told Justine you had my blessing. Nothing was blocking your way.”
“With respect, sir, there was a need. I had told my mother my intention to marry Justine, and her reaction was . . . well, a violent hostility. It was unnerving, as though she’d gone slightly mad. She has taken a notion to hate Justine. I have no idea why.”
His uncle looked away with a groan. “This is what comes of secrecy.”
“Sir, she threatened to ask you to forbid our marriage. I wanted to assure Justine that nothing my mother might say or do would change anything, so I asked her to become betrothed. I take full responsibility, I persuaded her.” Wounded through he was at his uncle’s anger, he could not pretend to be contrite. “I did force the issue, but I’m not sorry that she and I exchanged vows. We love—”
“You love each other, I know. But that’s not enough. You’ve cast a blot on our whole family. Her majesty takes a personal interest in approving marriages within great houses, and she would heartily disapprove of what you’ve done. As do I. A mother’s bitter words are not reason enough for a man to act so dishonorably.”
It cut Will so deeply he stood mute.
His uncle let out a breath of angry impatience. “I gather you haven’t told Joan that you two are betrothed?”
“No. Given her hostility, I was afraid it might make her ill. And I thought if she had some time to—”
“Time. Bah, this is ill done. Ill done.” He glared at Will. “I can still forbid the marriage.”
It was a blow Will had not seen coming. A future without Justine was a future he did not want to imagine. “Don’t, sir. Please. Give me a chance to make good this blunder. To prove myself to you.”
“Oh, you shall. Believe me, you shall.” He shook his head, heaving a sigh, as though attempting to get past their wrangling. “The fact is, I have a job for you.”
Will grabbed the opportunity. “Gladly, sir. What is it?”
“Later. This is not the time or place to talk.” He looked out at the crowd. “We have business here. Come, let’s go in. I want you to tell me what’s happened so far. Everything.”
“Of course.” Will pulled himself together. This was a chance to make a good impression. He meant to use it.
They made their way into the inquiry chamber packed with men, the session not yet under way. The leaders of the various parties stood in animated talk with their respective supporters and clerks: the three English commissioners, the Scottish delegation of the confederate lords who had usurped Mary, and the commissioners she had sent. Will was aware of all eyes on his uncle as they headed toward the English commissioners’ table.
“So,” his uncle asked quietly, “is this exercise giving us any joy?”
“If the purpose is to find a modus vivendi between Her Majesty and the confederate lords, and between the Scottish queen and them—”
“And it is.”
“Then I’d say we have not found it yet.” He knew by now the many strands of religious factions, family betrayals, and vendettas that were the tangled web of Scottish political life. It made the central issue of the inquiry—Mary’s alleged complicity in her husband’s murder—far from clear.
His uncle nodded. “I’m not surprised. Bring me up to date.”
“Yes, sir. On the first day Mary’s commissioners were called, she having refused to attend in person. Lord Herries presented her case.”
“Point him out.”
“There, by the window.” He nodded toward the Scottish noble, a gray-haired soldierly man, one of the dwindling cadre of Scottish peers who had remained loyal to Mary. “He laid out what he called the crimes of the confederate lords. That they took up arms against their lawful sovereign and deposed her. That they incarcerated her at Loch Leven. That they violently forced her abdication—meaningless in law, of course, since it was coerced—and usurped her throne. That they took control of her infant son, James, and crowned him king to give their offenses a sheen of legitimacy while the Earl of Moray took de facto power as regent. That they besmirched her reputation with slanders. These crimes, Herries concluded, had compelled Mary to seek justice from her royal cousin, Elizabeth.”
“And Moray? Has he spoken?”
“Yes, yesterday he presented the confederate lords’ case. And a compelling one it was.” They both glanced across the room at the Earl of Moray, Mary’s half brother, who stood talking with his colleagues amid a cluster of lawyers. Moray was thirty-seven, tall, fit, and fair-haired as they said his father, King James, had been. He had a reputation as a fierce fighter in battle eight years ago against the French and, last year, against Mary. As leader of the lords who had usurped her, Moray now ruled Scotland, and he moved among his delegation with the aura of a sovereign, one with an iron resolve. Will had never seen a man so single-minded in his purpose, so bent on winning.
“His claim is that Mary, as queen, planned the murder of her husband, Lord Darnley, in collusion with the Earl of Bothwell, her lover, so that she would be free to marry Bothwell. Moray presented depositions from Bothwell’s servant William Powrie confessing that he laid gunpowder in the cellar of the provost’s lodging at Kirk o’ Field where Mary had brought Darnley for the purpose of having him killed. After the explosion, which threw Darnley clear into the garden, Mary did nothing to investigate the murder, and it was left to the lords to indict Bothwell. Moray says that Mary then colluded with Bothwell to stage her own abduction by him, a ruse which allowed her to be with him while avoiding the lords’ opprobrium of her. But when the lords threatened to take up arms against Bothwell for wresting control of their queen, she abandoned the charade of being Bothwell’s unwilling captive, and married him.”
“What’s your opinion on all this?”
The question caught Will off guard. “Opinion, sir?” He was trained to examine only facts.
“Is she guilty?”
“That has yet to be determined. And this is not a trial.”
“Don’t talk like a lawyer. Come, come, let’s h
ear your thoughts. It will help my report to Her Majesty.”
Given this license to speak, Will took it. “I’d say she has proved herself an inept ruler, one with catastrophically poor political judgment. I’ve talked to a lot of people here and everyone agrees that from the beginning of her reign she showed little interest in governing. She attended few meetings of her council, and when she did she spent the time sewing. She married Lord Darnley, her personal choice, in haste and against the advice of her council.” He felt a nervous stab, realizing how this mirrored his own hasty betrothal. His uncle, thankfully, did not seem to make the same connection, his eye on Moray across the room, so Will carried on steadily, “Once married, however, she and her husband fell into violent arguments and eventually were estranged. When crises befell her, she seemed prone to weeping and fainting, leaving control to some strong man. She enraged the lords by making Bothwell her chief adviser, cutting them out of all decision making—”
“But the murder, Will, the murder. Do you think she was behind it? Elizabeth will not let this case turn on the justification of rebellion against a sovereign. It has to be about Mary’s innocence or guilt. What have you learned?”
“No facts, sir, I’m sorry.” He saw his uncle’s disappointment, and knew that did his own cause no good. It made him bold to delve further into speculation. “But her actions do invite deep suspicion. Though estranged from Darnley, she suddenly told him she wanted a reconciliation and invited him to join her in traveling to Edinburgh. They stopped outside the city at the Old Provost’s house, at Kirk o’ Field, and around midnight she slipped out to visit friends. While she was gone the house exploded. She displayed shock, but the very next day, when she should have been in the seclusion of mourning, she put aside her mourning clothes to go and make merry at a retainer’s wedding. She gave Darnley a mere private burial, not the state ceremony his rank deserved, which fueled people’s suspicions. Despite widespread belief that the Earl of Bothwell was the chief murderer, she stood by him, defying public opinion. She seems to have submitted herself totally to him, and he, seizing the opportunity, gathered a great force around him. When the lords finally indicted him for the murder, Mary allowed him to bring four thousand armed men to Edinburgh to harass the witnesses and jurors, and after a trial that lasted just a few hours he was let go, a free man. She says he then abducted her, yet when she was at his castle of Dunbar, not one of her supporters made a move to rescue her, an indication of how generally it was felt that she had connived at her own abduction. Finally, she committed political suicide by marrying him. In allowing Bothwell to rule her, and therefore the country, the lords declared she was not fit to reign, and deposed her. By her own conduct, she lost her realm.”
Lord Thornleigh’s expression was grave. “Yet Moray does not look happy.” Will followed his uncle’s gaze. Moray was haranguing one of the lawyers clustered around him, poking the man’s chest with his finger to make a point. “Certainly, he has cause to be nervous,” Lord Thornleigh went on. “If Mary returns home in triumph, Moray will lose everything in Scotland. Even, perhaps, his head.”
Will conceded that Mary’s restoration to her throne seemed a possible outcome.
His uncle turned to him, keenly interested. “Think you so?”
“I do. Because of my lord of Norfolk.” They both looked at the duke, pale-eyed, slim, unsmiling, who was settling himself at the head of the table, arranging his gold velvet robes, preparing to open the session. Norfolk had not impressed Will. Though born into a family of great power, the Howards, he seemed vacillating and vain, an unstable combination. “He has a personal interest, sir, in not antagonizing Mary.”
“The succession?”
Will nodded. If Elizabeth should die childless, Mary would inherit the throne as her legitimate heir, and she would not forgive Norfolk for publicly branding her a murderer and an adulteress.
Lord Thornleigh said coolly, firmly, “Never mind Norfolk. He will not decide this. Elizabeth will.”
They ate supper that evening in the Duke of Norfolk’s private suite. Only the English contingent were present: Norfolk, the Earl of Sussex, Sir Ralph Sadler, Lord Thornleigh, Will representing Cecil, and the commissioners’ secretaries. The day’s session had been uneventful, with erratic depositions from a page at Holyrood Palace, an Edinburgh porter, the Earl of Bothwell’s cook, the Earl of Moray’s master of horse, and Mary’s childhood tutor. Much hearsay, few facts. Will had stayed at his uncle’s side through the session, explaining details, hoping his diligence would win back his uncle’s good regard.
The supper was very fine. As England’s sole duke, Norfolk’s rank was only slightly less exalted than a prince, and it seemed to Will that even in this temporary lodging the man held a court as if he were, indeed, royalty. He sat at the center of the table and throughout the meal people flitted around him—richly dressed kinsmen, armed retainers, fawning supporters—one delivering a note, one bending to place a word in his ear, one fetching him a fresh napkin, another a ewer of water to wash his hands between courses. Servants came and went with steaming dishes of poached bream with fennel, stewed rabbit with onions and sage, apricots in cinnamon syrup, and many decanters of claret and Burgundy. Beyond the mullioned window made fast against the chilly evening, a dog in the street barked and barked in hoarse monotony.
The commissioners’ mood was relaxed and fraternal, and now with the meal finished they sat at ease, chairs pushed back, Sussex prodding his gum with a silver toothpick, Norfolk treating a terrier at his knee to a scrap from his plate, Sadler and his secretary chuckling about a peer whose wife was famously unfaithful. A fire rippled in the hearth, one log sparking and spitting, too green. Will stood behind the table discussing a deposition with Norfolk’s secretary, but his eye was on Lord Thornleigh, who had got up and was moving toward the window. He gave Will a jerk of his chin to indicate he wanted a word with him alone. Will quickly excused himself and joined his uncle at the window.
“Keep on the good side of Norfolk and watch him,” his uncle said very quietly. “He feels underrated at court. A mighty peer feeling slighted is a headache that Elizabeth does not need.” They both looked at the duke, who was teasing his terrier with a rabbit bone dangled too high and laughing at the dog’s ineffective jumps. The trio of retainers standing behind him laughed, too. “Remember, with him, smooth words go far.”
Will felt of surge of pride at this confidence. “Good advice, sir. Thank you.”
His uncle said wryly, “Keep your flattery for Norfolk.”
Will had to smile. “Sir, about my vows with Justine, I promise you—”
“I know.” His tone softened. “Will, I’m not against this marriage. I told Justine I’m for it. As for Joan, I’ll talk to her. Maybe I can bring her round.”
Will’s hope shot up. “Thank you, sir. She’ll listen to you.”
His uncle’s look turned sober. “Now, I told you I had a job for you.”
Before Will could respond the door suddenly swung open. Everyone in the room looked in surprise as the Earl of Moray strode in.
“Sir?” said Norfolk, looking flustered.
Will was astonished. What did Moray mean by barging in like this?
“Your Grace.” Moray bowed to Norfolk. Behind him two of his fellow Scots trooped in, the Earl of Morton and Sir William Maitland. They both made respectful bows to Norfolk, Sussex, and Lord Thornleigh. They stayed behind Moray, the clear leader. “Pardon this interruption, Your Grace,” he said. “I would not so roughly intrude on your well-earned leisure if the matter were not of crucial importance. My poor apology cannot make amends, but I believe that what I bring you will.”
“Oh? What have you brought?”
Moray beckoned to Maitland, who came forward with a box about a foot long. He moved to set it down on the table before the four lords, but the surface was crowded with gravy-puddled serving platters, salvers with fish bones, a dish of almonds, and two tall candles. Morton came forward and pushed aside a platter and a
candle. Maitland set down the box. Under the candle flame its features glinted clearly. It was a small coffer of silver and gilt, and its dome and sides were embossed with the letter F set under a royal crown.
“A pretty casket, sir.” Norfolk sounded annoyed. “What does it do? Play a tune?”
“If it did, Your Grace, the tune would be French. This casket once belonged to King Francis. You see his crest, there, and there.” He pointed to the embossed crowns. “His wife brought it back to Scotland with her.” Now Will was interested. The late King Francis had been Mary’s first husband.
Sussex said gruffly, “Come, my lord, what cares His Grace for such trifles?”
“Hold on,” said Sadler. “Of what consequence is this object?”
“None, sir,” replied Moray. “It is a mere receptacle. For evidence.”
“Evidence?” Sadler leaned forward on his elbows, peering at the casket. “Of what?”
“Sin.”
Norfolk blinked at the word.
Lord Thornleigh said instantly, “Mary’s?”
“Yes, my lord.”
“Then let’s see.”
Moray placed his hand on the lid. “There was no key, so we had to force the lock.” He lifted the lid. Everyone leaned closer to see inside. Will saw papers. Folded, fine grained, a pale color like flesh.
“These, my lords, are letters. Eight of them. All written in her hand. All written to Bothwell. They tell of gross adultery and premeditated murder. Her sins, my lords. Her foul sins.” Moray lifted the casket and dumped out the papers. They slewed across the gravy-splotched cloth. The three astonished commissioners gaped at them, then at one another, then at Moray.
Lord Thornleigh was the first to move. He picked up a letter and unfolded it.
“Yes, my lord, do read,” Moray encouraged him. “All of you, read her own words and judge for yourselves.”
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