by Jane Feather
Walsingham sighed. “But my only fear is that her majesty will not . . .” He stood up abruptly, turning to his companion, his voice hard. “If the matter be well handled, it will break the neck of all dangerous practices during her majesty’s reign. Once Mary is removed, there will be no figurehead for Catholic conspiracies. But I fear that the queen will not act with the necessary decision. And all my efforts will be for naught.”
“You will use the Bond of Association to persuade her majesty?” Roger rose to his feet when it seemed that Francis was too restless to sit again.
“It exists for just that purpose. Burghley is as concerned as I that even when faced with irrefutable evidence of her cousin’s treachery, the queen will continue to insist she cannot spill the blood of a kinswoman.”
“Parliament may persuade her if Mary’s guilt by association can be proved beyond a doubt.”
“That may be so.” Walsingham sighed again. “Ah, well, all is speculation until the Scots queen commits herself to an act of treachery. She will do so soon, I am convinced. Rosamund’s reports are encouraging. They tell of Mary’s despair that alternates with bouts of excitement and hope. According to Rosamund, Mary sets great store by the king of Scotland’s filial loyalty. She believes that in the right circumstances he will bring an army across the border to support an English rebellion in her favor.”
“And will he?” Roger bent and picked up a stone on the riverbank, sending it skimming across the undulating waters of the Thames.
“James is too careful of his throne and his own preservation to risk them in his mother’s cause. Mary deludes herself in this as she has done throughout her life. She is no accurate reader of men,” Walsingham observed drily.
Roger picked up another stone and sent it skimming. “Your cousin does her work well, I gather? Your confidence in her was justified?”
“Aye. She’s not short on wit.” Francis looked at him with a gleam of speculation. “Does your interest there remain steadfast, despite her . . .” He gestured with an open palm.
“Misstep?” Roger raised an eyebrow. “That is what you meant to say, I take it.”
“Misstep, indiscretion . . .” Walsingham shrugged. “Call it what you will. She’s young and has some of her brother’s recklessness. But I do not see any harm in her . . . any deep-seated badness. Ursula would not have taken her to her heart so completely had there been.”
Roger nodded, considering this. “Your lady wife has always been a sound judge of character, Francis. I see no reason to go back on our agreement.” Roger smiled. “In all truth, I have never had much time for the saintly. It can be most dreadfully dull. A certain spirit on the other hand can be delightfully enlivening.”
Francis looked relieved. “Ursula will be glad to hear you are still of the same mind, Roger. She is anxious that Rosamund should be comfortably and happily settled once her period of penance is over.”
“Then we must hope that the young lady herself is of the same mind.” With a wry smile, Roger followed Francis back up to the house. As they reached the terrace, Roger said thoughtfully, “Perhaps I should tend to my own garden, water the seeds myself. What think you, Francis?”
“Go to Chartley?” Francis raised an eyebrow in surprise.
“Why not? Perhaps you have some errand I can perform?”
“Oh, that, certainly, my friend. There are always errands. But let us ask Ursula. She will certainly have some trinkets or trifles that you could carry to Rosamund.”
“A man bearing gifts is always well received,” Roger murmured with another wry smile.
Chapter Twenty-three
WILL CREIGHTON TURNED his weary horse over to an ostler in the stable yard of the Devereux Arms in the village of Chartley and went into the taproom. He called for a tankard of ale and took it out to the ale bench to sit in the sun. Chartley Hall was visible across the village green, surrounded by its moat. Will had letters from Walsingham for Master Phelippes and for Sir Amyas Paulet, but he was in no hurry to deliver them. They would keep for an hour or so while he enjoyed the sunshine and rested his travel-weary bones. He had been instructed to make all speed on this courier’s task and had ridden for two days from sunup to sundown.
The job of messenger, despite the arduous hard riding, had come as a welcome respite from his cultivation of Anthony Babington and the daily round at court, which was now ensconced at Greenwich for the rest of the summer. Hardly an hour passed without Will wondering where Rosamund was, and what she was doing. Once or twice he had been tempted to ask Thomas Walsingham for news of his sister, but had bitten his tongue in time. Such an inquiry would only raise questions.
He drank his ale and called for another pot. He could only assume that Rosamund had been sent back to Scadbury in disgrace, and he had struggled with the urge to ride over there, just on the off chance he might catch sight of her. He told himself he just needed to know that she was well, but he knew in his heart that his real need was much less selfless. That last passionate kiss in the privy garden the morning their own little world had fallen apart haunted his nights. He wanted her, almost to the point of obsession. And he knew that if he saw her, if they met again, he would not be able to resist this need.
When he got back to London, he would go in search of her. The scandal had died down now and was rarely mentioned; it would surely be safe enough, and if Rosamund no longer felt the same passionate desire for him, then maybe it would help put his own obsession to rest.
He finished his second ale pot, tossed a coin onto the ale bench, and strode off in the direction of Chartley Hall. He crossed the moat on the little stone bridge and made his way up the carriageway to the house.
“Creighton? What brings you here?”
Will turned at the voice. Master Phelippes stepped out from a shrubbery running alongside the driveway. He had a faraway look in his eye, as if his mind was elsewhere, and blinked myopically in the bright sunlight.
“I have letters for you and for Sir Amyas from Seething Lane.” Will continued walking towards the house, Phelippes keeping pace. “And I am instructed to carry your correspondence back to Sir Francis.”
“I have some intercepts, but as yet not the one we await most eagerly.” Phelippes shook his head. “But it can only be a matter of time. The Scots queen cannot ignore Babington’s letter. She must answer it. Tomorrow is Friday and we shall see if the beer-keg exchange bears fruit. You must stay until Saturday, Master Creighton, just in case we finally have what we need.”
Will nodded. He had been at the meeting with Father Ballard, John Savage, and Anthony Babington when Ballard had brought the news from France that both France and Spain were preparing an invasion force to deliver the Scots queen from imprisonment. It was all the encouragement Babington and his cohorts needed to put the conspiracy in motion. Once freed, Mary would ascend Elizabeth’s throne and return the country to Catholic hegemony.
Will had listened queasily as Thomas Walsingham and Robin Poley had encouraged Babington to write to Mary, asking for her support of the plan. They had done everything short of writing the letter for him. Will had held his tongue, trying to assuage his conscience with the reflection that Babington was a fool to be so easily led into self-betrayal. But he couldn’t quite convince himself.
Sir Amyas Paulet greeted Will with an austere nod and took the packet of letters. “My housekeeper will find you a bed, Creighton. We will sup in an hour.”
Will bowed his acknowledgment. The role of courier was lowly, but he would be paid for it. “If you have no objection, sir, I would stroll around the grounds before supper. I have ridden long and hard for two days and would welcome the chance to stretch my legs.”
“By all means. Go where you please.” Paulet turned back to his study, Phelippes accompanying him.
Will returned outside and began to stroll around the house in the direction of the orchard. He heard women’s voices as he entered the orchard and hesitated, wondering whether he should leave. A small dog scampered ahead
of a party of women who appeared at the end of the alley of pear trees. His heart seemed to stop for an instant. He knew it had to be the Queen of Scots, although he had never before seen her. But no other woman so richly dressed and with a party of attendants would be walking in the orchard of Chartley Hall. And then he saw the young woman standing just behind the queen.
Rosamund Walsingham, with a rosary at her waist, was reading aloud from a Psalter.
Will ducked into the pear trees, trying to make sense of what he was seeing as the small group of women progressed along the tree-shaded alley. What was Rosamund doing in the Scots queen’s company? The dog caught his scent when they were a few yards away and made little runs at Will’s hiding place, yapping excitedly. Swiftly Will stepped out of concealment, then seemed to start with surprise at seeing them.
He bowed low, his hat at his breast. “Madam, forgive me for the intrusion. I didn’t realize you were walking here.”
Mary regarded him for a moment, then smiled. She was still as susceptible to handsome young men as she had ever been in her own stunningly beautiful youth. “There is no need for pardon, sir. The orchard does not belong to me, indeed I am only permitted to walk here for one brief half hour a day. You, however, are free to walk in it whenever you choose.”
“William Creighton, at your service, madam.” He bowed again, his eyes this time flickering to Rosamund, who was standing stock-still on the path, her Psalter ignored in her hand. Her face had paled but her composure seemed unruffled.
“Master Creighton, we are delighted to make your acquaintance. But pray don’t let us keep you from your walk. We are returning to the house for supper now.” Mary moved forwards, her ladies falling in behind her. Will bowed as they passed. Rosamund dropped her handkerchief on the path as she continued in Mary’s wake, and Will hastened to pick it up.
“I believe you dropped this, mistress.” He gave it to her.
“Oh, my thanks.” She took it, her fingers brushing his. Under her breath she murmured, “The buttery after supper.” Then she hurried after the women.
Will was at sea, his mind tumbling in a confused jumble of questions and emotions. The sight of Rosamund had affected him as he had known it would. Sensual memories of their times together flooded him, and the remembered scent of her filled his nostrils, the remembered feel of her skin made his hands tingle. All the problems inherent in this desperate attraction ceased to exist in the knowledge that she was so close, in the thought that they could be together again.
Alone in the orchard, he indulged both memory and anticipation in such a glorious swirl of lust and desire that he suddenly realized that in his present state he could not decently show himself at the supper table. The realization made him laugh out loud and he set off at a brisk walk to cool himself down.
Rosamund tried not to appear too preoccupied during supper. Mary’s secretary, Claude de Nau, was paying one of his frequent visits to Chartley and joined them for the frugal meal. Rosamund knew she should be listening to as much as she could hear of their discussion, but her mind was filled with thoughts of Will, with memories and the glorious thrill of anticipation. She wanted to feel his body against hers, to run her fingers through those carefully disheveled curls, to feel his mouth on hers. She had paid the price for pleasure already, so what was to stop her now?
With an effort she forced herself to concentrate on the conversation. Monsieur de Nau was in the Scots queen’s confidence and worked tirelessly in her cause. He had perused Babington’s letter many times over before supper, and now he and Mary talked in low voices at one end of the table, while her ladies spooned watery soup and fried beans and murmured among themselves at the other. The two spoke in such low voices that Rosamund could make out little of what was said, but it seemed obvious that they were discussing what response to make to Babington’s letter. A response that must presumably be ready to go out with the beer-keg post on the morrow.
She gave up trying to hear and let her mind roam free again. After the first delicious shock at seeing Will, she felt no real surprise at his presence at Chartley. She knew he was working for her cousin, and it seemed somehow inevitable that he, like so many others, would find himself here, where all Master Secretary’s efforts were presently concentrated. She smiled to herself as her blood began to dance.
At supper’s end Mary conducted evening prayers, then she and her secretary retired to the queen’s inner bedchamber to continue their discussion.
It was too early to slip away to the buttery, and Rosamund tried to distract herself by taking up her pen and beginning a sketch of one of the brewer’s cart horses from memory while Mary’s ladies talked softly as they sewed, and Charlotte read passages from the New Testament.
She couldn’t concentrate, for once couldn’t lose herself in the drawing, and after fifteen minutes Rosamund put down her pen and rose quietly. It would be easier to await Will in the buttery than sit here trying to contain her impatience. She slipped from the room, hoping that if her absence was remarked, it would be assumed she was paying a visit to the privy, abutting the kitchen wall.
No one said anything as she left. The kitchen was deserted, the supper dishes cleared away, and the maids retired. She took up an ale jug as excuse for a trip to the buttery and slipped out into the yard. It was cool and dark in the buttery, fragrant with the aromas from the churns of butter, the great wheels of cheese, and the jugs of buttermilk and cream. The beer kegs stood as usual against the wall, and she went to fill her jug at the one marked with the cross.
“Rosamund?”
She whirled, spilling ale as she jerked the jug from the keg. “Will . . . oh, Will . . . couldn’t you have coughed or something?” She laughed with the sheer joy of seeing him.
“I didn’t mean to startle you.” He crossed the stone-flagged floor in two strides and took her into his arms. He crushed her against him, burying his face in her hair. “Oh, God, Rosamund. I have missed you so.” He groaned and held her even tighter as she put her arms around him, pressing herself against him as if she would become a part of him.
“I didn’t realize how much I missed you until I saw you,” she said against his mouth the instant before words were no longer possible. They kissed greedily, and it was almost as if somehow they would suck the lifeblood from each other, take the other into themselves.
They clung together, molded to each other, in the cool dimness, and when he bore her backwards against the cold wall, Rosamund braced herself, spreading her legs as he rummaged beneath her skirts, finding her core, fingering, delving, hearing her moan against his mouth. He fumbled with the laces of his britches and drove into her, and she cried out against his mouth, moving her hips to match his rhythm. And when it was over, she hung around his neck like a broken spar in a storm, until the wave receded.
Will leaned heavily against the wall, crushing her between his body and the cold stone until she pushed feebly at his chest and with a muttered apology he straightened, holding her waist between his hands as he gazed into her eyes. “Oh, my sweet Rosamund. What witchcraft do you make?”
“None,” she said, leaning back against his hands. She reached up and touched a finger to his lips. “And do not speak of witchcraft. ’Tis a powerful evil that invokes.”
“Aye, and we have no need of that, do we?” His smile was rueful as he traced the shape of her mouth with a fingertip. “You are so lovely.” He lingered over the words, making of them a caress.
Rosamund smiled. “That makes two of us then.” The cool air in the buttery was cold on her heated skin, and she realized her skirts were still hiked up around her waist, held there by his body. She must look the complete wanton. The reflection made her laugh again. She stepped away, and her skirts fell back into place. Will with a chuckle of his own as if he’d had the same thought swiftly laced his britches again.
“How long will you stay?” She combed her tangled hair with her fingers.
“I must leave on Saturday. I am just a courier, sweet, a mere messa
ge boy.”
“Then we have tomorrow.”
“Yes. We will have tomorrow.” He raised a quizzical eyebrow. “What are you doing here?”
“Spying on the Scots queen,” she said bluntly. “We are all actors, it seems, on my cousin’s stage. He makes the play, we perform. This is my penance for my . . . indiscretion, shall we call it?”
His expression became grave. “Why didn’t you tell Walsingham of my part in that indiscretion if that’s what you call it?”
She shook her head. “I was the one who was caught. What good would it have done either of us for you to suffer too?”
“That is so rational, Rosamund, but it makes me feel somehow unworthy . . . as if I have done something cowardly.” He laid his hands on her shoulders, his eyes filled with remorse.
She shook her head again vigorously. “No . . . not so. You must never think that. I made the decision for both of us, because it was mine to make.”
He drew her against him again, and this time the kiss was soft and gentle. He moved his mouth from hers and brushed a kiss across her closed eyelids, then slowly, reluctantly raised his head and let his hands fall from her.
“Let us not tempt providence a second time, Rosamund. You must go back before you’re missed.”
She nodded. “I imagine they’re all abed, but you’re right.” She moved to the door, turned, and blew him a kiss, before slipping out into the darkened courtyard.
She fetched water from the rain barrel and washed herself in the kitchen, then crept to bed in the silent house. There was no candle beneath Mary’s door, so Monsieur de Nau had presumably left.