by Jane Feather
Rosamund took her writing tablet and, taking extra care over her penmanship, wrote her request to Sir Francis. She sanded the sheet, folded it, and sealed it with wax before writing the direction on the front. “I’ll go and find someone to take this.” She hurried from the dorter and down the stairs. The prospect of such an excursion was heady after almost two weeks of a confinement that even the afternoons at liberty couldn’t properly relieve.
She found a herald standing at a door leading to a series of antechambers. The heralds were splendidly dressed in the royal livery of crimson and silver and strode through the palace with such purpose and clear importance that she made her request somewhat tentatively, wondering if a courtier as lowly as herself would qualify for such august services. The man took the message without a flicker of objection, however, bowed, and marched away.
Rosamund was hesitating as to what to do next. Her mending awaited her in the dorter but it was not an enticing prospect. She was still debating when she heard a familiar trill of laughter and spun around just as Lady Leinster with a small group of men and women turned the corner.
Agathe saw her and waved. “Rosamund, a fortunate meeting, we’re going to the archery butts for a competition. Do join us if you’re at liberty.”
Rosamund was quite a skilled archer. Thomas had taught her several years previously when he’d been in a particularly accommodating frame of mind. “I have no bow,” she demurred.
“You won’t need one. There are bows and arrows aplenty at the butts.” Agathe linked her arm companionably in Rosamund’s. “You look in dire need of diversion.”
Rosamund acceded with enthusiasm and allowed herself to be borne on the tide of this merry group who seemed to have not a care in the world. She found it surprisingly easy to slip into the same carefree frame of mind and relished the sense of inclusion. These people treated her as an equal, the rigid hierarchy of the queen’s personal attendants didn’t apply, and she could only be grateful to Agathe for her generous friendship that made her immediately welcome.
“There’s to be a hunting party tomorrow, I understand,” she observed to Agathe as they stepped out into the afternoon sunshine.
“Yes, indeed, and they are always excessively amusing.”
“Except when the beaters fail to find a hart for the queen and she gets a little out of sorts,” declared one of the gentlemen. “Let’s hope they do their job well on the morrow.”
They made their way to the archery butts situated just beyond the royal mews. A group of courtiers were already there, shooting their arrows with a concentrated precision that indicated they were not merely indulging in leisurely sport. The Chevalier de Vaugiras was one of them, and Rosamund paused to watch him. He had discarded his black velvet doublet and it lay carelessly over a tree stump a few feet from him. As he pulled the bow back, the muscles on his back were clearly delineated beneath the fine lawn of his white shirt.
She became aware of Agathe, who seemed to be watching her closely, as if aware of Rosamund’s particular interest in the chevalier. She turned away with a slightly self-conscious laugh and Agathe gave her a knowing smile. “He is a very fine figure of man, the chevalier. Is he not?”
“Yes, I suppose he is.” Rosamund tried to sound carelessly indifferent but was rather afraid she had not fooled the worldly Lady Leinster. “He’s a skilled archer at any rate.”
“There is little at which Arnaud does not excel,” Agathe said, and Rosamund thought she could detect just a hint of cynicism in the observation.
“Come, ladies, we are set to begin.” The summons came from one of their companions, and Rosamund followed Agathe over to a more distant target where their own group was congregating. She took the bow handed to her and drew it experimentally. It was a light lady’s bow and she could draw it with ease. She took an arrow from the quiver and notched it, trying for a practice shot. The arrow flew straight to the target, but buried itself in an outer ring.
“Bravo, Mistress Rosamund.”
She spun around to see the chevalier applauding her a few feet away. “You are overly kind, Chevalier. I missed the center by a furlong.”
“You exaggerate. But there is a certain trick to holding the bow. Let me show you.” He stepped up behind her as she took another arrow and notched it. The heat of his body against her back, his breath on her neck, the brush of his arms against her breasts as he reached around her to reposition her hands on the bow, almost overwhelmed her. She wondered if anyone noticed the extraordinary proximity of their bodies, or if they did, did they think it indelicate, scandalous even?
But no one seemed to be paying any attention. They were all shooting their own arrows, applauding a good shot, laughing goodnaturedly at a poor one. She could only conclude that the intimacy of this lesson from the chevalier was not sufficiently unusual to cause comment.
Flustered, she let her arrow fly too soon, and to her chagrin it dropped to the ground short of the target. “I think I do better on my own, sir,” she said, feeling heat invading her cheeks. She stepped away from him and went to retrieve the arrow.
He laughed. “Nonsense, you were a little premature, that was all. Come, let me show you again.” Once again he took up a position behind her, and she felt her nipples rise against her bodice at the press of his arms against her breasts.
Belatedly she realized that this was not a lesson in archery but in yet another aspect of dalliance. When she felt his mouth lightly brush the nape of her neck, she inhaled sharply, her pulse jumping in her throat.
He laughed softly, feeling her response. “Be still, ma chère. Stealing caresses under the eyes of the world is one of the greatest pleasures in these games, as I trust you are discovering.”
There was pleasure, Rosamund would freely admit. An excitement, a thrill of danger.
“Arnaud, for shame.” Agathe came over to them, her voice soft, but lightly amused. Her eyes however were sharply watchful. “Rosamund is still unaccustomed to our ways, you will frighten her playing your wicked games.” She spoke only a little above a whisper. “Rosamund, my dear, take no notice of Arnaud. He loves to play games of seduction. I told you there is no sport in which he does not excel, but I am always telling him he should pick partners who are up to his weight.”
Rosamund once again had that annoying feeling of being patronized. She didn’t need Agathe’s protection. She loosed her arrow before she spoke and this time had the satisfaction of seeing it hit almost in the center. She turned to her companions and intercepted a glance between them that startled her. It was a glance full of meaning, of a shared understanding. For the first time she wondered if the easy friendship they seemed to have was something more than that . . . a liaison? But why, if that was so, would Arnaud flirt with her in front of his mistress? These games were too deep for her, she decided. At least while she was still so new at the play.
The chevalier retrieved the arrow for her. “Much better, Mistress Rosamund. Shall we try this again and see if you can hit the bull’s-eye?”
She flashed him a smile, a purely flirtatious smile. “I think the tutoring is over for today, Chevalier.” She curtsied and walked away, feeling the eyes of both the chevalier and Agathe upon her back.
Will stirred restlessly on his stool in the private parlor of the Plough, just outside Temple Bar. Anthony Babington beside him drummed his fingers impatiently on the deal table. Three other men were in the room, all showing signs of anxiety. They were awaiting one man, Father John Ballard. A known Catholic missionary, an outlaw who roamed the country offering succor to the religiously oppressed while searching tirelessly for converts, he had a price on his head and those who associated with him were as liable for arrest as he.
Will emulated his companions’ feverish impatience, his voice rising with the rising levels of nervous excitement in the room. He drank deep, as did they all. He had received the message from Babington that tonight they would hold the meeting at the Plough, in Temple Bar, and he had faced the prospect with genuine anx
iety. It was his first true mission for Master Secretary. Before, he had been instructed merely to gain Anthony Babington’s confidence; now, having achieved that goal, he was to penetrate the cabal of conspirators led by Father John Ballard. If they suspected for one instant, they would kill him on the spot. He was under no illusions that while Babington could be blindly foolish in his idealism, Father Ballard was an old soldier in this enterprise. He’d suffered arrest, imprisonment, escaped capture and death by a hair on numerous occasions, and he would be hard to fool. He could probably detect a mole in the room just by smelling the man’s sweat.
Walsingham’s agents were planted throughout the little circle of Catholic devotees of Scots Mary, listening, watching, reporting. When necessary, on their master’s instructions they were to actively encourage the plans and the tentative plots suggested by the conspirators, whose zealotry was hampered by inexperience. Will was to do that tonight if he sensed a moment’s hesitation.
The pitcher of wine circulated around the deal table where supper was to be served. As far as the innkeeper was concerned, the evening was a farewell dinner for a certain Captain Fortescue, who was leaving England’s shores for France on army business. Captain Fortescue was Father John Ballard’s alias while he was on English soil.
A heavy tread heralded the arrival of the evening’s chief guest. Father Ballard entered, dressed in soldierly garb, a scarlet-lined cloak swinging from his shoulders. A stocky man came in on his heels. Barnard Maude was also in Walsingham’s pay. A much more experienced agent than Will, he had the more delicate task of supporting the conspiracy’s mastermind. He didn’t exchange so much as a glance with Will, who took his cue and showed only the blank expression of an indifferent stranger.
Will leaned sideways to refill Babington’s wine cup. “Drink, my friend.”
“Aye,” Anthony declared. “A toast to our good captain, and our Holy Father’s blessing on his task. May God go with you, Father Ballard.” He raised his cup and the others followed suit.
“My thanks, gentlemen.” Ballard cast aside his cloak and sat at the table. “I have already had correspondence with Morgan and Charles Paget in Paris and will meet with them in person. Don Bernardino de Mendoza, the Spanish ambassador, has also granted me a meeting. If I can persuade the French and Spanish to combine forces for the invasion, they will be unbeatable.”
“An invasion will secure the deposal of Queen Elizabeth?” Will asked casually. “Where should she be housed when this is done?”
“That will be for Queen Mary to decide,” Ballard stated, adding carefully, “Should she decide that deposal is the right disposition to be made of this false queen.”
Will kept his eyes on the table, a cold chill prickling his skin. Was Ballard suggesting some other way of disposing of the present queen? Was he hinting at assassination? That would be the darkest treason and Walsingham would rub his hands with satisfaction if it could be proved. They would all end at Tyburn Tree, watching as their entrails were yanked from their bellies, watching them shrivel and burn in the fire before their eyes, before death brought merciful release. Will controlled an instinctive shudder and drank deep from his cup.
“The people are happy with Elizabeth,” Babington pointed out rather hesitantly. “Indeed they love her. It will not be easy to depose her without the people’s support, and I believe that will be well nigh impossible to gain.”
Ballard waved this away with a dismissive gesture. “Have no fear, that will be taken care of. The queen’s life will not stand in the way. She will be removed before the invasion and there will be an empty throne for Queen Mary to take as her due by birthright.”
Will stored the words verbatim in his memory and resisted glancing at Maude across the table. The queen’s life will not stand in the way. If it was assassination that they planned, then the Bond of Association would condemn Mary for treason in the company of these conspirators, as beneficiary of their plotting even if she had no knowledge of it. Would Walsingham press the queen to take that action?
The weight of responsibility for such an outcome seemed abruptly too heavy, and he decided he needed to pass his information on to Walsingham and relieve himself of the burden. He was an insignificant cog in Walsingham’s plots and had no desire to be any more important. He would leave that to Barnard Maude, who was ever hanging on Ballard’s coattails. Maude would stay to the end and report anything else of significance.
Will pushed back his chair. “I must ask you to forgive me, gentlemen, but I have business in the palace.”
“You will not stay to sup?” Babington laid a hand on Will’s sleeve. “I have gone to some trouble to order delicacies for our dinner. Larks’ tongues in a pie, a brace of roasted geese, a fish soup whose like you will never before have tasted. The cook here is a master of his art.”
Babington was rich. His fellow conspirators were for the most part impoverished Catholic recusants whose estates had been confiscated by the crown. They lived on what they could beg or borrow from sympathizers. Babington’s purse was always open and ever ready to fund such journeys as the one Ballard was now preparing for.
“Alas, my friend, I cannot.” Will slung his cloak around his shoulders. “This business is urgent.” He stretched out his hand to Ballard across the table. “God’s speed, Father Ballard, and may the Holy Mother ensure you a fair wind and good counsel in Paris.”
Ballard shook his hand, and with a brief bow to the assembled company Will escaped into the relative freshness of the evening air.
The Inns of Court lay alongside the river, and black-robed lawyers hurried across the courtyards that connected them. As Will turned away from Temple Bar to walk along the river, he sensed a man in the shadows behind him. Footpads, murderers, the city was rife with them, and they came out at night. His hand went to his sword and he kept his step even, inching the weapon out of its scabbard. The footsteps kept pace with him. Just ahead, a patch of moonlight fell on the path where there was no tree cover. He waited until the light fell on his face, then spun around, drawing his sword in the same instant. He lunged towards the figure still cloaked in shadow. It jumped back.
“Creighton.” The voice was familiar, and just in time Will snatched back his sword point.
He stopped, breathing fast, and said angrily, “Gifford. For God’s sake, man, why wouldn’t you declare yourself? I nearly ran you through.” Gilbert Gifford was another Walsingham man, and for some reason Will disliked and distrusted him.
Gifford gave a short laugh. “I wished to see how fast you could draw, Creighton. It’s always as well to know the metal of one’s friends as well as of one’s enemies.”
Will controlled his anger at all the assumptions lying behind this statement. Slowly, reluctantly almost, he sheathed his sword. “You were not at Ballard’s supper party.”
“No, I was at Barnard’s Inn working on the young lawyer, John Savage.” Gifford smiled a chilly smile. “The young fool needed a spur. What was said at the Plough?”
“Talk of removing the queen before the invasion, so that Mary will mount the steps to an empty throne.” Will increased his speed and Gifford kept pace. “I fear I know what they mean.”
Gifford gave a short laugh. “Maybe you do. But you’re wise to keep the words from your tongue. Ballard and his league have their weapon, though. Young Savage has sworn an oath on the Virgin Mary to remove the queen, but he was in danger of breaking his oath. I have been with him, at pains to give him courage to honor his vow. Master Marlowe is drinking with him now, offering his own form of liquid encouragement.”
Will felt queasy. This was not just watching, eavesdropping, hoping to catch the conspirators red-handed, this was the deliberate fomenting of treason to lay and spring a trap. “I like it not.”
Gifford shrugged. “Like it or not, my friend, ’tis Walsingham’s way and he will as always have his way. How far do you walk? I’ll keep you company as far as Aldwych.”
Will would have preferred to do without the company, bu
t Gifford proved an amiable enough companion, offering little in the way of conversation. Beyond asking Will to tell him who else was at the meeting, he walked in silence, seemingly deep in his own meditations. At Aldwych they parted company and Will made his way to Seething Lane.
He found Sir Francis still at work in his candlelit study. He greeted Will with a weary nod and waved him to a chair. “So, you have been at the Plough. What transpired?”
Will gave an accurate account of the conversation, and the secretary nodded from time to time, making notes as Will talked. “It is as I thought,” he said when Will had ended his recital. He sounded satisfied. “You did well. Phelippes is on his way to Chartley, where Mary is held, so you must collect your payment from Arthur Gregory. He is at work in Phelippes’s place.”
Will hesitated, getting slowly to his feet. “Will you use the Bond of Association, then, to deal with Scots Mary?”
Walsingham frowned, seeming to hesitate before replying. Finally he said, “I doubt the queen can be persuaded to act in that way. Mary must incriminate herself. And she will do so, we shall make sure of that.”
Will felt a cold chill at the plain statement of fact. Sometimes with Walsingham he felt he was in the presence of Mephistopheles. Such sinister power lurked in the shadows around the queen’s secretary. He bowed himself from the study and went to claim his payment.
Chapter Fourteen
ROSAMUND AWOKE TO the hum of voices in the dorter as her fellows prepared themselves for the day. It was unlike her to be the last abed these mornings, but she had slept particularly deeply, plagued with strange and unsettling dreams. She felt sluggish as she came fully awake.
“Oh, hurry, Rosamund.” Joan was struggling with her stockings. “ ’Tis the hunt today. Have you forgotten? We must break our fast early. The queen likes to start out by eight o’clock and ’tis already past six.”
Rosamund yawned and got to her feet. There had been no word from Sir Francis about her horse. “What happens if I don’t have a horse?”