All the Queen's Players
Page 37
Rosamund stood up. “I will go and make my preparations, sir.”
“Before you go, there is one other matter.” He gestured that she should sit down again. Rosamund did so.
He regarded her in silence for an unnerving moment, his eyebrows pulled together in a fierce frown. “How familiar have you been with the Chevalier de Vaugiras?”
The abrupt question, fired at her with the speed of an arrow from a bow, took her aback. The color came and went in her cheeks as she stared at him, unable to think of what answer she should make.
“I see. Your face gives you away. Was the chevalier responsible for debauching you?”
Numbly she shook her head. “No, sir.”
He looked at her closely. “Don’t lie to me, Rosamund. It is never wise to lie to me.”
She shook her head again. “No, sir. He was not.”
Another long silence, then he said, “Very well. But you should know that I do not believe for one minute your tale of an itinerant jongleur. However, I will not press you for the name of the man, unless it suits my purposes to know it. But I will ask you about this.” He slid a paper out from beneath the pile on his desk and pushed it across to her.
She leaned forward and took it, gazing at it in surprise. It was a rendering of Arnaud and Agathe together. She couldn’t remember drawing it, which meant it had been an idle sketch, probably just filling an idle moment, yet it was full of information. They were talking, laughing, their heads so close together, their bodies almost blending. The intimacy came off the page with such power she couldn’t understand how she had never noticed it before.
“I knew they were old friends . . . but they are lovers,” she murmured, half to herself.
“Yes, that is the conclusion I came to.” He held out his hand for the drawing. “I have it on good authority that the chevalier has a quarrel with your brother, indeed with the Walsingham family. Did you ever sense a threat in his attentions?”
She gazed at the drawing for a moment longer before handing it back to Walsingham. “Not exactly, sir,” she said slowly. “There was a little dalliance, but nothing out of the ordinary.” Or had it been? Did ordinary courtly dalliance always involve those secret kisses, the electrifying physical closeness? Or had that simply been a prelude?
“Not exactly?”
Agathe said such games were perfectly acceptable. But she had never seen Agathe play them. Not even with Arnaud, not openly. Then something came to her, something she had heard Agathe say on that dreadful day of discovery, when they had walked beneath the window of her prison. I did what you asked. I encouraged her. And there was something else. She frowned trying to remember the snippet. Agathe had said, It is not my fault if she used the lessons on someone else.
“Well?” Sir Francis was watching her cogitations, his eyes sharp as knives. “What does not exactly mean, Rosamund?”
“It means, sir, that there could have been a threat, but I didn’t recognize it as such.” She met his gaze across the desk.
“Hmm. That’s honest, at least. You were certainly a naive unsophisticate, ready prey for such a predator as this one.” He flicked the picture of Arnaud with his thumb. “You may count yourself fortunate, Rosamund. I have learned that the chevalier’s wife died an unquiet death.”
Rosamund’s eyes widened. “How?”
“Her body was discovered in a cow byre. The condition of the body seemed to indicate some unusually rough treatment at some point. It was, however, agreed officially that the lady had died in childbed.” Sir Francis’s eyes showed no emotion, and his tone as he related this horror was as indifferent as if he were talking of finding a dead cat in an alley.
Rosamund didn’t trouble to ask how her cousin had discovered this information, any more than she considered it might not be true. “Does Thomas know any of this?”
“No. And you will not mention your acquaintance with de Vaugiras to your brother. I will take care of the chevalier myself. I do not want Thomas acting Sir Galahad as an excuse for settling an old quarrel. I have more important work for him at present. Is that understood?”
“Yes,” she said simply. She was stunned by this revelation. She had been a fool, so eager for acceptance that she had run blindly into the trap. It would never happen again, but that certainty didn’t sweeten the sour taste of manipulation. She would still, however, like to know what quarrel Thomas had with the chevalier. At some point she would get it out of him.
“Go now, and prepare for your journey.”
Rosamund accepted the brusque dismissal with a brief curtsy and made herself scarce.
It was a long, cold three-day ride into Northamptonshire, and Rosamund had plenty of time for reflection. Had the chevalier truly meant to hurt her? Had Agathe really, in full knowledge, set out to prepare her, present her on a silver platter to her own lover? It seemed fanciful . . . extraordinary. And yet Rosamund could not ignore the feeling that she had been duped. A feeling that, the more she went over the details of those occasions she had spent with Arnaud and Agathe, soon became a sick certainty.
Her cousin had said he would deal with the chevalier in his own way, and Rosamund knew she or even Thomas could do nothing to avenge themselves that would begin to compare with Sir Francis’s methods. So finally she let it slip from the forefront of her mind. The immediate future needed all her concentration.
They rested each night at the houses of Walsingham men, some of them humble, some of them wealthy. Rosamund was treated with respect, as if she was someone important, a sensation she found both novel and pleasant. On the afternoon of the fourth day, Fotheringay Castle appeared on the skyline, easily visible on its high hill. It was a forbidding structure, looking to Rosamund to be filled with the medieval shadows of a ferocious past.
As they rode in under the portcullis, she gave an involuntary shudder, before castigating herself for fanciful thoughts that would do her no good on this present mission. The inner courtyard was damp, gloomy with long shadows thrown from the high walls by the last faint rays of the sun.
Paulet came out to greet her as she dismounted. “We will talk for a few minutes before I take you to the Lady Mary.” He led her into the castle and into a round chamber that she thought must have been a guard chamber in the days when the castle was fortified. A fire burned brightly, however, and he gave her a mug of honey-sweet mead that warmed her travel-chilled bones.
“I understand Sir Francis wishes you to keep a daily journal, noting everything significant or otherwise. I imagine you will find it easy to disguise the act of writing under cover of your drawing, which will cause no remark. Every morning, while Mary and her ladies are at breakfast, maids enter the chambers to empty the chamber pots and make the beds. If you leave any communication you have under your pillow, it will be collected at that time.”
Rosamund sipped her mead. “Is the queen expecting me?”
“No. It was thought better to surprise her. She is less likely to think too much about it if she doesn’t have any warning. You will have the offensive, so to speak, and it will be up to you to persuade her of your loyalty.”
“I understand.” Rosamund set down her mug. “Will you take me to her now, Sir Amyas.”
“Certainly.” He escorted her across the great hall, up the stairs, and to the door to Mary’s chambers. He knocked sharply and unlocked the door without waiting for permission to enter. “Madam, I bring you a familiar face. Mistress Fitzgerald has been released from prison and has begged to rejoin you. Her majesty was pleased to accede to her request, in the hopes that her presence will add to your comfort.” He stepped back into the corridor and Rosamund walked into the apartment.
Mary was sitting by the fire, her little dog nestled at her feet. Charlotte set down the Bible from which she had been reading aloud, and every eye turned to Rosamund.
Rosamund stepped forward and curtsied deeply to the queen. “Madam, I am come back to you if you will have me.”
“How did they treat you, Rosamund?”
Mary leaned forward, taking Rosamund’s hands, drawing her to her feet. “My poor child, of course I forgive you. No one can withstand that kind of pressure, and I would not expect it. My own secretary could not withstand them.” She sighed. De Nau’s affidavits had damned her almost as convincingly as her letter to Anthony Babington. “Nothing you said would have made any difference, Rosamund. Come now, Charlotte will show you our fine apartments.”
She laughed, a brave attempt at gaiety. “So warm and comfortable we are, you would not believe.”
Mary was as composed as ever, Rosamund thought. But the toll taken on her physical strength was shocking. She was thinner than ever, her eyes dark hollows in her sunken cheeks, her shoulders, once so straight, stooped now like those of a very old woman. Yet she could still try to laugh at her situation, to comment on its improvements, when she must know she was facing imminent death. Once again, Rosamund marveled at the queen’s powers of endurance, at her unbreakable spirit.
“Come, Rosamund.” Charlotte stood up. “You will share a bed with Dorothy.” She led her into a large bedchamber off the main room. “This is connected to my lady’s bedchamber through that door. One of us sits up with her all night. She is a prey to insomnia and nightmares, and she likes to be read to or prayed with. It will relieve us all to have another one to share the task. That is Dorothy’s bed.” Charlotte indicated a large feather bed. “When it is your turn, you will sit up with the queen.”
“Of course. It will be an honor.” Only the queen had had a feather bed at Chartley, her ladies had had to make do with horsehair and straw. It seemed a strange paradox that in this grim fortress Mary’s comfort should be so assiduously attended to.
Rosamund had been told that Mary knew nothing of her impending trial and would not know until the commissioners arrived. It was not going to be an easy secret to keep, but in light of all the others that burdened her, maybe it wouldn’t be so hard after all.
Chapter Twenty-eight
“MADAM, IT IS my task to inform you that your trial will commence at eight o’clock tomorrow morning in the Great Hall. Your presence is required by the commissioners to answer the charges brought against you.”
Mary didn’t look up from her prayer book for several minutes, leaving Sir Amyas standing at the door. She had expected this from the moment of her removal to Fotheringay, even though she had denied herself the knowledge. At last she looked up and across at him. “I will defend myself of all charges, sir. Am I to be permitted counsel to speak in my defense?”
“No, madam. In treason trials no defense counsel is permitted.”
“Then I must conduct my own defense.” Mary was calm, composed, almost serene. She rose and went into her bedchamber, closing the door behind her. She knelt at the prie-dieu, praying to her God who would be her strength. If they would martyr her, it would be God’s will. But they would hear no admission of guilt from her lips.
Rosamund, despite her relief that that burdensome secret was no longer hers to carry, knew that her real work was to begin now. Her mind was busy in search of a way to appear to do the work expected of her, while somehow circumventing it. They would execute Mary Stuart for treason, whether Rosamund’s testimony added to her guilt or not. So, somehow she must find a way to relieve her conscience of a spy’s burden while satisfying Master Secretary.
She wrote her journal for Sir Francis that night as she sat up beside the sleeping queen in the softly firelit bedchamber. Nothing she had to say of today’s events would incriminate the Scots queen, so she could be open and honest, and save deception for when it was needed. She described Mary’s calm demeanor as she had listened to Sir Amyas, and how she had prayed. How she had passed the rest of the evening in talk, prayer, and backgammon, and how she was now sleeping peacefully, seemingly untroubled by the prospect of her trial in the morning. When Rosamund had finished, she went into the bedchamber and slipped the sheet under her pillow, before returning to Mary’s bedside.
The queen continued to sleep and Rosamund sat drowsily by the fire, her mind returning as it so often did these days to the chevalier and Agathe. She cringed when she thought of how easily she had been led. Would Arnaud have hurt her as an act of revenge against Thomas? On the one hand it seemed fanciful; on another, when she conjured his image, the flicker of his mouth, the strange light in his eyes, utterly believable. It was much pleasanter to think of Will, and there she allowed her mind and imagination free rein. She would see him again, it was impossible that she wouldn’t. He would be working somewhere within her cousin’s net, it would be easy for him to discover where she was, what she was doing, and he would seek her out when this nightmare was finished.
The queen awoke with a start and a cry of “Grâce de Dieu.”
Rosamund jumped up and went to the bed. “Can I get you anything, madam?”
Mary struggled up against the pillows. “A little wine, Rosamund, please, and bring me my Psalter.”
Rosamund did both and returned to her low stool by the fire, while Mary read silently for an hour, before letting her head fall back on the pillows and sleeping again, the Psalter lying open on the covers. Rosamund picked it up and put it on the table beside the bed. Her own eyes were drooping and she let herself drift in the warmth of the quiet room.
Mary awoke before dawn and Rosamund started awake at the sound of her name. “Oh, forgive me, madam, I must have slept a little.”
Mary smiled. “And so you should, my dear. I feel guilty keeping my ladies awake all night, but indeed your presence is a comfort. Without it, I doubt I would sleep.”
“Will I fetch your night-robe, madam?” Rosamund went to the armoire for the furred robe, bringing it to the bed.
Mary slipped to the floor in her thin linen shift and hastily wrapped herself in the warm robe. She went to her prie-dieu for her morning prayers and Rosamund went into the main apartment to summon a servant to bring water, and breakfast.
Just before eight o’clock, Sir Amyas came to escort Mary to the Great Hall. She was dressed as always in black, with a small silver lace ruff at her throat. A black French hood concealed her hair, and her rosary hung at her waist.
“I am ready, Sir Amyas. My ladies are permitted to accompany me, I trust?”
“Yes, madam. They will attend you.”
And so the little party proceeded down the corridor, down the stairs, and into the Great Hall, where on the dais at the far end the commissioners were ranged in two rows. A seat for Mary was set in front of them, a bench for her ladies to one side.
“Mary Stuart, you are brought before this court to answer charges of treason. How answer you?”
Mary rose to her feet. “My lords, I have suffered eighteen years of unjust imprisonment, and as a sovereign anointed prince and thus not subject to common law, I do not acknowledge the jurisdiction of this court.” She sat down.
“Madam, your guilt is already well established. We have signed affidavits from your secretary, Monsieur Claude de Nau, we have the signed confessions of those with whom you planned the assassination of our most sovereign majesty, and we have a letter written in your own hand to the conspirator Anthony Babington, giving your consent and encouragement for the assassination of Queen Elizabeth. What say you?”
Mary stood still and straight, facing her accusers. She spoke quietly. “Sirs, I would never make shipwreck of my soul by compassing the death of my dearest sister. I deny all knowledge of any conspiracy, I have had no correspondence with one Anthony Babington, and I question the truth of confessions wrung from those on the rack.”
Rosamund, sketching the scene for Sir Francis, was fi
lled with admiration. Mary was every inch a queen as she faced her accusers. She must know that nothing she could say would alter the judgment, or the inevitable sentence, but she seemed so confident in the rightness of her cause. It was hard to imagine how much courage it took to maintain such composure and confidence, surrounded as she was by her enemies. Yet Mary seemed almost transfigured, as if lit from within by some spiritual light that gave her strength. It was hard to capture that on paper, but she tried. It seemed somehow important that Sir Francis should see Mary’s inner strength, her calm dignity in the face of everything they did to break her.
The court ended its day without pronouncing judgment, and Mary and her ladies were escorted back to their apartments. Mary went immediately to her prie-dieu.
The next morning they were preparing to return to the Great Hall, when a servant brought Mary a message from Sir Amyas. Mary slit the wafer and opened the sheet. She read it, then handed it to Charlotte, who read aloud, “The commission has been prorogued by her majesty for ten days. They are returned to London.”
“What does that mean?” Rosamund asked, puzzled.
“I think it means that my dear sister is reluctant to have judgment pronounced on a queen regnant,” Mary said serenely. “It is a dangerous thing she contemplates, and my cousin Guise will not sit idly by, neither will my son. If France and Scotland rise up in arms against England in my defense, it will put my cousin in an invidious position.”
Rosamund made due note of Mary’s understanding of Elizabeth’s difficulties. So far Rosamund felt she had not been obliged to conceal anything from her journal. On the contrary, Mary’s behavior was so admirable, she wanted Sir Francis to realize it.
* * *
Mary was walking in the inner court, her furred cloak wrapped tightly around her against the October cold. The sky was leaden and made the cheerless court even more so. Rosamund walked briskly, swinging her arms. They would all prefer to be inside warm by the fire, but Mary insisted that they take the air for this one precious hour a day, and so they walked round and around the walls of the court, talking little. Mary prayed her rosary as she walked, her little dog trotting at her heels.