by Jane Feather
“In your company, Mistress Rosamund, I can think of nothing pleasanter.” He bowed, smiling.
He had a good smile, Rosamund noticed. His teeth were strong and even, and the little crinkly lines at the corners of his eyes brought humor to his generally grave, rather sad countenance. “You flatter me, sir.” She moved ahead of him into the garden. It was another knot garden, smaller than the one at Chartley, but exquisitely laid out, a statue of Cupid with bow flexed on a plinth in the center.
“Have you been to Sir Francis’s country house at Barn Elms?” Roger inquired, walking beside her along the narrow walkway that led to the statue.
“No, I didn’t realize he had such a thing.” Rosamund paused by the statue. She felt awkward, trying to avert something, but she wasn’t sure what. She couldn’t refuse an offer that she hadn’t as yet received, and why would he make her one anyway? He would have his pick of available women eager to be Lady Askew. He was rich, personable, of good family and standing. He could not possibly be interested in a dowerless spoiled virgin.
She tried to find a neutral topic. “Are you returning to the Low Countries soon, Sir Roger?”
“No, I don’t think so. I have matters to attend to here. The house I am building in London, my estates in Shropshire. They have been without a master for two years and are in need of a firm hand on the reins. My agents have not been as attentive as I could wish.”
He sighed and looked suddenly careworn, before turning to her again. “When do you return to Scadbury?”
“Soon. I await my brother’s escort.” She began to walk around the statue. He didn’t follow her, merely stood watching.
“I am in need of a wife,” he said abruptly.
Rosamund stopped walking, said casually, “I daresay you miss your late wife.”
After a minute he said, “Yes, I do.” His voice was flat. “We should go back into the house.” He walked ahead of her to the open parlor door.
Rosamund didn’t know whether she had disappointed him or angered him. But he hadn’t asked the question direct, so she couldn’t be held responsible for not giving him a direct answer. He must have been given encouragement by her brother and the Walsinghams. Why would they imagine she would turn down such a splendid offer when she was in no position to turn down even a mediocre one? Sir Roger had probably assumed that she would give him a dutiful response. It wasn’t that she found anything distasteful about him. He was a little old, but young women married men old enough to be their grandfathers if it suited their families. And he was handsome in a dignified, calm way.
But what would it be like to couple with him? Would there be passion? He didn’t seem capable of passion. She thought of those hasty, scrambling, passion-filled moments with Will and a surge of energy jolted her belly.
Ursula called her from the open door and she pulled herself together, walking back up to the house.
Chapter Twenty-seven
SIR AMYAS PAULET stepped onto the pier at the water steps of Hampton Court Palace. The queen’s barge was moored along the bank, the royal standard flying in the crisp breeze. A redbrick path wound its way through massive oak and beech trees up from the river to the sprawling palace.
Paulet took the path, deer from the palace herds scattering in front of him. He was not looking forward to the coming audience but it had to be faced. The queen must be made to understand certain realities. He walked through a massive arch into the outer court. People scurried hither and thither, messengers, servants, palace guards. No one took any notice of the somberly clad Sir Amyas. He went through another arch and into the inner court. The clock high on the wall showed ten in the morning. He had been summoned for half past the hour and increased his pace, taking the wide flight of stone stairs that led up into the palace.
Hampton Court was familiar ground and he walked briskly past lines of petitioners outside the various antechambers of members of the queen’s council, all of whom had favors in their pockets to grant to the lucky few, or to those who could offer sufficient incentive.
Heralds bawled names as they walked the window-lined corridors, summoning courtiers and servants. At the end of the corridor Paulet turned left and entered a vast antechamber where courtiers milled in chattering groups. He walked to the double doors at the far end and spoke to the chamberlain, who instantly opened the door and stepped aside.
A second antechamber stretched ahead, and Paulet, reflecting that a man could walk twenty miles in a day going about his business in this place, crossed the chamber and spoke again to the chamberlain at the door, who this time went in on his own.
Lady Shrewsbury came back with him. “Her majesty will see you in her privy chamber, Sir Amyas.” She escorted him to the door to the chamber and left him to enter unannounced.
Elizabeth sat at her desk with a pile of documents. She had been at work since five that morning, and her eyes were tired from so much close reading. “Sir Amyas, I bid you welcome.”
“Madam.” He knelt, hat clasped to his chest.
“Rise . . . rise.” She waved a hand impatiently and rose to her own feet as he stood up. “How is it with my cousin?”
“The Queen of Scots is in indifferent health, madam, but she will admit to no knowledge of the conspiracy. She denies any correspondence with Babington. Even when presented with her secretary’s affidavit that her letter to Babington is genuine, she insists that it is not authentic. She holds fast to the story that she is innocent of any evil thoughts towards your majesty.”
Paulet paused for breath, before continuing strongly, “But her present imprisonment cannot continue. I cannot be responsible for her, madam, if she remains at Chartley. It is too open, too easily accessed. It is no real prison, a gentleman’s residence, merely. If I am to remain her guardian, she must be removed to a place of strict confinement.”
Elizabeth paced the long wall of windows looking over the parkland to the river without saying anything for close to five minutes. Paulet waited in observant silence.
Finally Elizabeth paused and stood with her back to her visitor. “I am beset on all sides in this matter. My council wish me to have my cousin tried for treason, the Parliament asks for it. Even the people demand it. But she is still a cousin of my blood, a queen regnant, and the political consequences will be incalculable.”
She stared out at the river, before saying in a low voice that was nonetheless clear as a bell, “If she were removed, an accident of some kind, it would relieve queen and country of an intractable problem. Such an accident could be contrived, Sir Amyas, could it not? It would be the greatest favor a man could do his sovereign and his country.”
Paulet could not for a moment believe he had heard aright. The queen was asking him to arrange the murder of Mary Stuart. “Madam, I am a man of God. I could not thus endanger my immortal soul.” He spoke with stiff dignity. “I would give anything but that to assist my sovereign lady, but I cannot.”
Elizabeth sighed. “Very well, Sir Amyas. Let it be as if this conversation never took place.”
“Gladly, madam.” He waited for a few moments, then said firmly, “Some thought must be given to a more secure prison, madam. Chartley cannot be adequately defended if the northern Catholics join with the Scots Catholics and bring an attack force down upon us. As I cannot guarantee to ensure her continued imprisonment if she is not moved from Chartley, I will be obliged to resign my post.”
“You are uncommonly bold this morning, Amyas.” Elizabeth turned away from the window, her well-plucked eyebrows arched. “First you refuse your queen’s request, and then you issue ultimatums.”
“Throw me in the Tower if you wish, madam. But I speak only the truth.”
She laughed without mirth. “Yes, you are a man given to straight talk, and it makes you a reliable and honest servant. I will give the matter some thought.”
“I have made a list of possible prisons, madam. I know you have rejected the Tower, but one of these may serve. They are all easily defended.” He drew a folded sh
eet from his doublet and laid it on her desk.
“I will consider it.” Her nod was dismissal, and he bowed and backed out of the royal presence.
Elizabeth sat down at the desk and opened the sheet. She would have to accede to Paulet’s demand. Despite the successful end to the conspiracy, the country remained anxious and insecure, filled with unrest, and unrest bred rebellion. Mary’s escape would be disastrous, even if it didn’t involve the assassination of Elizabeth herself. If Chartley was as vulnerable as Amyas said, then a raid from Scotland or from any of the strongly Catholic families in the north could achieve Mary’s release.
Her finger ran down the list and stopped in the middle. Fotheringay. A royal castle in the remote wilds of Northamptonshire. She had visited it only once and remembered it as a lonely place, standing on a hill overlooking the river Nene, with expansive views from the ramparts across the countryside. No one could approach without being seen. Moated, turreted, it was easily defended. She reached for the bell and rang it vigorously.
A chamberlain answered it before she had replaced the bell. “Majesty?”
“Summon my council.”
“Yes, your majesty.”
Well, that would please Walsingham and Burghley, Elizabeth thought. She would be spared their hectoring speeches and reproachful glances for a while at least. But this one concession would not close the matter, she knew. They would press now for a trial. She didn’t know how long she could hold out against a united front.
Mary Stuart huddled into a furred robe in her barren apartments at Chartley, stripped now of every possible creature comfort. The fire smoldered on damp coal and threw off almost no heat. The carpets had been removed and the floor was damp underfoot. It was late September but the weather was dismal, cold and gray. Wind whistled through every crack in the ill-fitting walls and set the candles guttering. Her ladies, pinched with cold, rubbed chilblained fingers and struggled to ply their needles.
Mary’s little Skye terrier crept close to her skirts, and she reached down to pat his rough head. His ears pricked suddenly and he stood, facing the door. Mary could hear nothing, but she guessed that the little dog had heard or sensed someone approaching across the yard from the house. The bang of the outer door confirmed her guess.
Sir Amyas came in, with two guards at his back. He spoke without greeting or bow, his voice peremptory. “Madam, you are to prepare for a journey. Your ladies should pack your personal possessions at once. You will be moved in one hour.”
“May I ask where we are to go?” Mary inquired with the customary composure that infuriated Paulet.
“Your destination is not to be revealed.”
“May we know at least the length of our journey?”
“Those details are not to be revealed. You have one hour for your preparations, madam.” Paulet left, the guards at his heels.
Mary stared into the sullenly burning fire. It seemed difficult to imagine conditions worse than those she endured at present, but she was under no illusions. She was not being moved for her own comfort. “Charlotte, you had better prepare.”
“Yes, madam.” Charlotte went into the inner bedchamber, the other ladies accompanying her.
An hour later to the minute Paulet returned with his guards. “The carriages await, madam.” He gestured to the guards to pick up the leather trunks that contained what remained of Mary Stuart’s personal possessions. “If you would come with me.”
Two carriages stood in the yard, and Mary, carrying her little terrier, entered the first one with her ladies. The maids and the luggage rode in the second. Mary leaned her head wearily against the leather squabs, her fingers moving over her rosary beads. She was certain, for whatever reason, that this would be the last of the many moves that had punctuated her long imprisonment, and the longing filled her that it would all soon be over. She was ready to die, if die she must, a martyr to her faith.
It was nightfall when, after six hours of jolting over uneven roads, the carriages clattered over the drawbridge and into the medieval fortress of Fotheringay Castle. Mary and her ladies alighted stiffly in an inner courtyard and Mary shuddered, murmuring a prayer, as she looked around at the high stone walls, the ramparts above. The stone was green with age and damp, and the cracks in the cobbles beneath her feet were clogged with weeds. It was a miserable place, and impregnable. There would be no gallant rescue from these walls.
“Madam, if you will follow me.” Paulet gestured to a narrow archway into the edifice, and Mary, still carrying her dog, followed him into a gloomy passage that opened into a great hall, hung with royal coats of arms. Guards stood at attention around the walls, and the stone-flagged floor threw up the cold as she walked the length of the hall to a staircase rising from the far end. Paulet led the way up the stairs and through a set of double doors.
Mary was pleasantly surprised. She had expected an icy prison cell, but this apartment was large, with a good fire burning, rugs on the flagged floor, and wax candles. But there were no windows. No natural light at all.
“What is this place, Sir Amyas?”
“Fotheringay Castle, where I trust you will be comfortable, madam.” Paulet opened a door in the far wall to reveal another inner apartment, a bedchamber, where another fire burned merrily and the bed was shielded from draft with thick tapestry curtains. Servants were bringing in the possessions from the carriage while Charlotte directed their placement.
“Am I never to see the light of day, Sir Amyas?” Mary inquired, setting her dog on the floor.
“Once a day you will be permitted to walk for an hour alone with your ladies in the inner court.” Paulet waited for the servants to finish their unloading and then went to the door in their wake. “I will leave you now, madam. We will talk again in the morning.” The key turned in the lock.
“It is more comfortable than Chartley, madam.” Charlotte hugged her arms as she emerged from the bedchamber and looked around.
“Yes, it would seem my jailers have lost interest in making me suffer unduly,” Mary observed. “A consideration, Charlotte, that I fear bodes ill.” She gestured to a table where a flagon of wine stood with a platter of cold meat and a loaf of bread. “There seems to be our supper, ladies.” Drawing her cloak tightly around her, she took a seat beside the fire, leaning forward to warm her hands.
“Will you take wine, madam?”
“Thank you, Charlotte.” She took the cup and sipped, feeling warmth slowly seep into her chilled body. After a few minutes she rose and went into the bedchamber, where her prie-dieu had been placed beneath the cross that Charlotte had hung on the wall above. She knelt, her lips moving in soundless prayer.
A few days later Sir Francis returned to Seething Lane after a meeting with the queen and the privy council. He acknowledged his wife with a distracted word of greeting as he took his seat at the dinner table and nodded briefly at Rosamund’s polite curtsy. He said little throughout the meal, and the two women knew better than to engage in small talk when the master of the house was clearly preoccupied.
When he’d finished eating, Francis rose from the table. “Rosamund, would you attend me in my office when you’re quite finished?” He didn’t wait for an assent that was not asked for and left the dining room.
Ursula glanced quickly at Rosamund, then spooned syllabub onto her plate and began to talk about some trivial domestic matter. Rosamund, puzzled and apprehensive, toyed with her pudding and, after ten minutes, excused herself and went to Sir Francis.
He was as usual deeply immersed in papers when she entered his office. “I have work for you, Rosamund. Sit down.” He waved her to a chair.
She sat, folding her hands in her lap, and waited.
“The queen has informed her council this afternoon that Mary Stuart is to be tried for treason at her prison, which is now Fotheringay Castle in Northamptonshire. You will return to Mary in your former capacity and report to me everything that is said, every thought the Scots queen expresses in the privacy of her chambers, during
the trial. She will deny her guilt at the trial, I would hear what she says of it in private.”
This was even worse than her previous betrayal of Mary. This time the Scots queen’s life was at stake. Rosamund stared down at her linked fingers in her lap. A refusal was inconceivable.
“How am I to explain myself to Mary, sir? It’s been many weeks since I was removed from her side.”
“I would suggest that you use your religious convictions. You may feel free to imply unpleasant coercion during your imprisonment in London, it will be expected that you suffered to some degree. If you say you withstood that coercion as best you could, and in the end you were sent back to share Mary’s imprisonment again, I think she will probably be persuaded.”
Rosamund thought so too. Mary was, in so many ways, easily deceived. “How am I to deliver these reports?” Her voice was dull and expressionless.
“Sir Amyas will arrange for that. It will be easier than at Chartley. At Fotheringay Mary is served by Sir Amyas’s own servants, her food delivered from the castle kitchens. What little independence her household enjoyed at Chartley is no longer hers. You will have plentiful opportunities to pass messages to the servants.”
Rosamund said nothing. She could only agree, so what was there to say?
“I take it you do not like this work?” Sir Francis linked his hands on the desk in front of him. “I will remind you that it is in the queen’s service. You do this for your queen and the safety of the realm. You should have no other considerations. You are part of my service, Rosamund, and you must perform as all my people do.”
She hadn’t heard the flint in Master Secretary’s voice for quite a while, but she knew better than to confront it. “When do I go, sir?”
“In the morning, just after dawn. You will be escorted by my own men. It must appear as if you are returned to Mary a prisoner under guard.”