by Jane Feather
The unexpected arrival of Sir Amyas in the court sent a deeper chill through the prisoners. Nothing good could ever come from a visit from Paulet, and he had not made an appearance for two weeks. Mary paused in her prayers and waited for him to reach her. Her ladies gathered around her.
Paulet looked if possible even more stern and austere than usual in his severe black garments, relieved only by a modest white ruff. He held himself rigid as he declared, “Madam, it is my duty to inform you that the Star Chamber has found you guilty of treason. I am charged to say that if you confess your treason before sentencing, her majesty may see fit to commute a sentence of death to one of continued imprisonment.”
“Sir Amyas, you may tell my dear queen-sister that since I have nothing to confess, I cannot in all conscience do so.” Mary’s smile was almost pitying. “Now, if you please, I believe my time for exercise is not yet over.” She resumed her walking, her lips moving soundlessly in prayer as her gloved fingers moved over her rosary.
Paulet had no choice but to accept his dismissal. He turned on his heel and departed.
Rosamund felt a surge of savage satisfaction. He just didn’t know how to react to his prisoner, and Mary knew exactly how to discompose her guardian. Small satisfaction in the circumstances, but to be treasured nevertheless.
The days inched by. October became November without any further proclamations from London. Mary had been allowed her personal confessor throughout her long imprisonment and began now to talk of celebrating a Christmas mass in the castle chapel. As the days passed without further dread proclamations, a sense of purpose, of possibility, crept back into the lives of the imprisoned women.
Sir Francis read Rosamund’s journals and studied her sketches as they arrived on his desk. He sensed Rosamund’s admiration for Mary, indeed it came through as clearly as Sir Amyas’s unadorned statements that Mary appeared to have no fear of judgment, no apprehension of death. Sir Amyas had decided that the Queen of Scots’ fearless composure arose because she believed that her cousin would not dare to order her execution. Rosamund, on the other hand, believed that Mary was ready to die, was indeed eager for a martyr’s death. And Sir Francis concluded that Rosamund had the right of it.
On a cold, clear December morning, Sir Amyas arrived in Mary’s apartments with a paper. “Madam, this has not yet been published, but it has been ratified by Parliament and you can expect its publication within days.” He presented the paper to her.
Mary read it without expression, then said calmly, “So be it.” She handed it back to her guardian, who took it without a word and departed.
“What is it, madam?” Charlotte asked anxiously.
“Parliament is to publish a sentence of death. Come now, ladies, let us see if we can finish this tapestry. I dislike leaving things undone.” She drew her chair closer to the frame where the vast tapestry was stretched. She and her ladies had been working on it for months and only a corner remained unfinished.
Christmas came and went. Sentence was proclaimed and the country rejoiced. London was illuminated with myriad lamps in celebration, but Elizabeth could still not bring herself to sign the death warrant. Finally, pushed to it by rumors of a plot to assassinate her emanating from the French embassy and a second rumor that flew through the country like wildfire that the Spaniards had landed on the coast, she signed, but then would not part with the warrant, until her councilors took matters into their own hands.
* * *
It was the night of February 7 when Mary received her visitors. She embraced her old friend Shrewsbury. “Ah, it is so good to see you again, my friend. What brings you to this wretched place?”
Shrewsbury, tears running down his face, knelt before her. “Madam, you must prepare to die in the Great Hall at eight o’clock tomorrow morning.”
“Don’t weep, my friend.” Mary took his hand, drawing him to his feet. “Indeed, I am so wearied I will be pleased to lay down the burdens of this earthly travail. I go to my death joyfully. You must not weep for me.”
Rosamund turned aside, her own tears flowing freely.
Chapter Twenty-nine
TWO DAYS PASSED after Mary’s death with no word from the outside. Within, the castle was held in a vise of silence, everyone carrying within himself the horrendous memories of her death. No one spoke of the queen’s last moments, of the bloody ax, the indrawn gasp of horror from the spectators as the ax had missed its target on the first swing, the dreadful silence broken by the thud of the severed head falling to the straw.
The queen’s body remained embalmed in a secluded chamber of the castle, awaiting disposition. Her women were no longer confined behind a locked door and were free to roam the castle, although not to go beyond its walls. Rosamund took to walking the ramparts with Mary’s little dog trotting beside her. Indoors, he whined constantly, inconsolable at the disappearance of his beloved mistress, but outside, particularly in the freshness of the windy open air on the ramparts, he quietened.
On the second day, Rosamund was making her second circuit when she saw a sizable group of horsemen approaching across the river Nene, their breastplates gleaming in the thin rays of the chilly midmorning sun. She leaned on the ramparts, watching as they forded the river and cantered towards the castle. As they drew closer, she saw that three men rode in front of the phalanx of soldiers. She recognized her brother in the front line.
Her heart jumped, her breath stopped. Will Creighton rode beside him. She wanted to shout her delight to the clouds above, to hurl herself down the winding stone stairs to the court below, to run to him the moment they entered through the portcullis. The Rosamund of last year would probably have done just that. But Rosamund was no longer the giddy young woman who had cavorted with Will in a hayloft and against a buttery wall. She had witnessed death, too much of it. She accepted responsibility for some part in those deaths. She was no longer an innocent with an untrammeled future ahead of her.
She drew several steadying breaths and watched the party as they approached the drawbridge. The odious Ingram Frizer trotted a few paces behind her brother.
Will would know she was here, so he would not be surprised into indiscretion. Thank God she had seen them in sufficient time to master her own reaction. As far as Thomas was concerned, she and Will were mere casual acquaintances, who had met once at the theatre and would occasionally have bumped into each other at court.
Slowly Rosamund started to walk again, the dog prancing at her heels. Her head began to clear, her composure to return in full. She looked over the ramparts again. The party of horsemen were coming up the hill to the drawbridge. She gathered up the dog and climbed down the winding stone stairs that led all the way down to the outer bailey.
Sir Amyas was greeting her brother as she appeared around the final curve in the stairs. Thomas was alone in the courtyard, no sign of the others of his party, and for a moment Rosamund wondered if she had imagined Will, and the soldiers and Frizer.
Her brother, who had already dismounted, saw her immediately and strode over to her. “Well, little sister, you have done your work well. Master Secretary is well pleased, you should know.” He kissed her heartily. “But why this air of melancholy? This woebegone look.” He gestured to her black gown, the black ribbon in her hair. “We are come to take you home. Anyone would think you weren’t pleased to see me.”
“I am pleased to see you, Brother,” she said with quiet restraint. “But it is a melancholy time.”
“Not so. ’Tis a time for jubilation. A most dangerous threat to our realm has been removed.”
“It is true that my lady is at rest with her God. It was something she wished for most devoutly. I believe her death came as a relief in the end.”
Thomas frowned at her, then with a brisk gesture he dismissed the whole business. Rosamund began to wonder how she could ever have thought of her brother as such a god, such a golden creature. She loved him, but now she seemed to see him with different eyes. She could never forget that Thomas had not fl
inched at the sights of St. Giles Fields. It was strange that a man who so loved poetry, plays, beauty in all its forms, could embrace the crude and the cruel with equal enthusiasm. Did he truly think she had felt nothing for Mary? That the events of the last days had left her untouched?
“Where did that come from?” Thomas pointed at the terrier, who was watching him with bright eyes from the safety of Rosamund’s arms.
“A dead queen,” she said flatly. Sir Amyas drew in a sharp breath, but Thomas merely laughed.
“Poor pampered tyke. He won’t stand a chance with the hounds at Scadbury.”
“He won’t be expected to try, Brother.”
Sir Amyas coughed and said, “Pray come into the castle, Master Walsingham. You must be in need of refreshment after your journey.” He turned to Rosamund. “Do you accompany us, Mistress Walsingham?”
His manner had changed dramatically too. Rosamund was no longer a prisoner, even a pretend one, and thus no longer subject to his jurisdiction. She was now her brother’s charge.
“Thank you,” she murmured, following the men into the castle’s lamplit Great Hall. It had a vastly different aspect now from that bitter morning of execution. The platform was gone, the bloodied ax was gone, the block was gone. Only the headless corpse abovestairs remained as mute witness to that morning. Half a tree trunk burned in the vast hearth, and the long board was spread with platters of cold meats and baskets of bread. Flagons of wine and ale stood sentinel at either end.
“Where is the rest of your party, Thomas? I saw half an army accompanying you up the hill.”
Thomas shook his head, taking a chicken leg from a platter. “Not so many . . . they are settling into the barracks here. My young friend Creighton has gone with Frizer into the town. Our cousin entrusted him with some messages for someone in the vicinity. I know no more than that.” He shrugged. “I doubt he will be overlong.”
“When do we leave here?” With a faint smile of thanks she accepted the cup of wine offered by Sir Amyas.
Thomas took a bite of chicken and said through his mouthful, “The day after tomorrow. The horses must rest. We are escorting the Lady Mary’s attendants to London. They will travel in litters, so it will be a tedious journey.”
“I would ride,” she said swiftly. “If a horse can be found for me.”
“I daresay that can be achieved, Mistress Walsingham,” Sir Amyas said. “There are several spare horses in the stables here.”
Booted feet sounded in the antechamber and Rosamund’s pulse beat fast in her throat. Will came in, pulling off his gauntlets, tucking them into his belt. His eyes went immediately to Rosamund, who instantly bent to put down the dog, who raced to the skirting, sniffing at the telltale scent of mice.
Rosamund straightened, tucking a loose strand of russet hair whipped loose by the wind outside on the ramparts back into the netted snood. If her cheeks were at all pink, it would be explained by bending down to release the terrier.
“Master Creighton, you are well come. I thought you too occupied at court to venture this far from the delights of London.” Her voice was light, pleasantly bantering, and she congratulated herself on striking just the right note. Courtiers spoke thus in the corridors of Whitehall Palace. Thomas would think nothing of it.
Will chuckled and tossed his hat onto the long bench at the side of the hall. “If I’d known what a long, cold ride it would be, I’d have willingly stayed among the fleshpots, Mistress Walsingham. Unfortunately, my presence on the journey was required by one who may not be gainsaid.” He pulled a comical face at that and poured himself a foaming tankard of ale.
“It is true that when Master Secretary makes a request, it is advisable to accede,” Thomas agreed. “But you have been gone barely half an hour, Will. Did you deliver your messages so quickly?”
Will shook his head, his eyes once more darting to Rosamund, before turning back to her brother. “Master Ingram took the task upon himself. It was hardly work for two men, so I came hotfoot in search of fire, drink, and meat.”
“Then you will find all three here, sir,” Rosamund said. She knew that Will had come back so quickly because he could not put off this meeting for one more minute, and it was torment to be in the same room with him, to talk in this inconsequential fashion, to behave as if he meant no more to her than the casual acquaintance Thomas believed him to be.
She watched him covertly as he took up a place by the fire, one boot resting on the massive andirons. He chewed on a mutton chop and his eyes met hers. One eyelid dropped in a quick conspiratorial wink before he turned and threw the chop bone into the fire.
“I must return to the queen’s ladies,” she said quickly. “They must be told of our departure without delay. There is much to do before we leave.”
“You would do well not to refer to the traitor Mary with such a title,” Thomas said sharply, glancing at Paulet, whose expression was deeply disapproving.
“As you say, Brother.” Her curtsy was ironic if her brother chose to see it, and she went up the great staircase, calling for the terrier, who ceased his mouse hunt and scampered up the stairs after her.
She joined the rest of Mary’s attendants in their chamber, explaining that their time at Fotheringay was come to an end and they were to go to London.
“And what awaits us there?” Charlotte asked with a heavy sigh. “The Tower, or some other drear prison?”
“I don’t know,” Rosamund confessed. Her position now felt if possible even more invidious than before. These women would see that she was returned to her brother’s charge, and they would inevitably wonder why she seemed in favor when so much had been made of her rejection by her family. But in the end it mattered little what they thought, guessed, believed. They would go their ways and she would go hers.
She went into the bedchamber to pack her few belongings, her thoughts fully occupied with planning a way to be alone with Will, even for a few minutes, before they began the journey.
Will, who had been given a small, sparsely furnished chamber under the eaves, was similarly occupied as he lay upon the lumpy pallet, looking up at the beams in the sloping ceiling. He had spent every available minute of the journey from London worrying that his sudden arrival would unnerve Rosamund and she would give them both away. He need not have worried, he now realized. She had behaved with the cool composure of an experienced conspirator. But what now? How in this grim, closely watched castle could they contrive a meeting?
His door opened with a creak that seemed as loud as a thunderclap, and he sat up so suddenly he crashed his head against the low beam above.
“Shhh.” Rosamund slid into the chamber, a finger on her lips. She closed the door at her back and stood looking at him as he rubbed his head and gazed at her in amazement.
“I . . . I was thinking of you, and suddenly there you are,” he whispered. “A spirit conjured out of my thoughts.”
Her eyes danced as she tiptoed to the pallet. “I didn’t dare ask where you were housed, but I asked my brother where he’s sleeping, which seemed a perfectly reasonable inquiry. He told me he had a chamber to himself, next to Paulet, so I guessed if you were to be given privacy, they would have given you one of the small chambers up here. If I was discovered and questioned, I would say I am in search of Mary’s dog. No one would question that, the poor creature still mourns his mistress.”
Will reached for her hands and pulled her down beside him. He cupped her face and kissed her. “I was so sorry about that night at Chartley . . . I had no choice, and I could not get a message to you.”
“No, I know. I realized what had happened.” She smiled, brushed his mouth with her own. “I do not hold it against you, Will.”
He lay back, moving her on top of him so that she lay along his length. “Dare we?” His blue eyes had that sapphire glow to them again.
Rosamund glanced over her shoulder to the door. “No one is looking for me. Everything is so confused since . . . since . . . that no one really knows who’s whe
re and where anyone is supposed to be. If there’s a question, I am still looking for the dog.”
She kissed him.
An hour later she crept from the attic chamber and ran soundlessly to the main floor below. Soldiers were everywhere, mingling with the sheriff’s men, who were guarding the corpse. People bustled as if some great city were about to be evacuated. The lords and dignitaries who had presided over Mary’s death had all departed Fotheringay immediately after the execution; only Sir Amyas and his household had remained with Mary’s attendants. Now they too were to depart. No one remarked on Mistress Walsingham’s presence in the corridor, she blended seamlessly into the confused bustle.
The terrier was asleep in front of the fire in the chamber she shared with Dorothy, who was saying her rosary on the prie-dieu in the corner. She didn’t look up as Rosamund entered. The peace was disturbed by the clanging of a great gong resounding throughout the castle, and Dorothy jumped up from her knees with a gasp of fright.
“What is it? Is the castle under attack?”
Rosamund didn’t answer. She ran from the bedchamber, through the main chamber, and out into the corridor. Her brother was striding down the corridor towards her. “You do not look ready for dinner, Sister,” he chided, running his eyes over her. “Do you not hear the summons?”
“That is the summons for dinner?” She looked at him in astonishment. “Sweet heaven, Thomas, in the last weeks we have been summoned to a trial and to an execution in this place, and now someone chooses such a peremptory summons to the dinner table? It beggars belief.”
“There is no longer any need for a diversion from customary practice, Mistress Walsingham.” Sir Amyas spoke behind her and she turned to see the queen’s erstwhile jailer, dressed in black as usual, but a particularly luxuriant black velvet, and a fine collar of cobweb lace, similar to her brother’s.