by Mary Daheim
Juggling goblets and a wine bottle, Dallas tried to interject herself between the two quarreling girls. “Children! Hush! You’re giving me a headache! Have some wine. And sweets. We’ve at least half a stone of marchpane on the sideboard.”
“I hate marchpane,” Rosmairi asserted. “Father is the only one in the family who likes it.”
“It is a great favorite of his,” Dallas allowed, all but forcing a goblet into each of her daughter’s hands. “Now please calm down. Neither of you has any right to chastise the other, since you both seem exceedingly dim when it comes to falling in love.”
Sorcha let her mother fill the wine goblet with a deep burgundy. “I fail to see where intellect plays any part in love. It seems to me it just happens.”
Dallas poured wine for Rosmairi, and then for herself. “Alas, there’s truth in what you say. But the trick to which we can put our brains is to blot out love when it’s impossible.”
“And how is that managed?” Rosmairi demanded, taking a sip from her goblet with an unusually reckless air.
Dallas looked blank. “It isn’t easy. Perhaps,” she said slowly, both hands wrapped around the stem of her goblet, “it’s the art of forgetting. With love that cannot be, memory—or the lack of it—is the greatest ally.” Her pleading brown eyes turned to Sorcha. “That’s why I don’t want you to go to Chartley. When you are with Gavin Napier, there will be no way you can forget. I’ve seen that man, Sorcha, and I know he will break your heart.”
Chapter 13
In the end Dallas gave in. She had no wish to force her daughter into remaining at court and facing either the Master or Moray. To further console herself, Dallas reasoned that Napier’s priestly vows would protect Sorcha from any harm to her virtue. Dallas, however, remained uneasy, though she realized that Sorcha had to learn about life on her own.
King Jamie was elated with Sorcha’s decision. A passport had been produced almost at once. So it was, that in the last week of June, Sorcha, Ailis, several retainers, and Gillis Mowbray left Edinburgh.
Gillis was small and dark, with a rabbitlike face that was pretty only when she smiled. Fortunately, she did so often, though usually in a tremulous, nervous manner. Sorcha tried to put Gillis at ease during the journey, but failed. For every note of optimism Sorcha struck, Gillis could conjure up two omens of doom. On the fifth and final day out, Sorcha attempted to enlist Ailis’s aid to lighten the pall of pessimism that hung over the little party. But the dour Ailis was almost as gloomy as Gillis, and Sorcha mentally referred to them as the Un-Lissome Lasses.
Sorcha was sorely in need of humor by the first day of July as they rode into Staffordshire under sunny skies. Her relief at leaving the court behind had sustained her through the first two days. Yet, as she drew closer to Chartley, Sorcha became apprehensive. Rob, no doubt, would be delighted to see her. But Gavin Napier, whom she had thought never to meet again, was a different matter. Sorcha desperately tried to armor herself against her chaotic emotions.
They reached Chartley late in the afternoon, a hot and tired group, expressing pleasure at the great house that stood on a hill overlooking a fertile green plain. The surrounding countryside was lush with the promise of summer. For the first time since crossing the border, Sorcha paused to appreciate the gentle, orderly beauty of England. All her life, that country had been the Enemy, the source of so many Scottish woes. She had imagined it as formidably foreign, even dangerous. But after they left the turbulent Borders where men had quarreled and pillaged and murdered for centuries, the land had taken on a less menacing aura. Now, at the entrance to Chartley, Sorcha took in the prosperous, beautiful earth that had nurtured Scotland’s ancient foe.
“Somehow I thought we’d be surrounded by dark woods and jagged hills,” Sorcha said, leaning in the saddle toward Ailis. “Chartley doesn’t look at all like a prison.”
“Maybe not,” replied Ailis, “but the number of guards indicates otherwise.” She gestured toward several soldiers who stood stiffly at the gates. They wore Tudor-green, and for the first time, Sorcha saw the badge of Queen Elizabeth.
A long discussion ensued between one of the guards and Gillis Mowbray’s serving man. The Scottish retainers could not be admitted to Chartley, even for rest and refreshment. Woefully, Gillis paid them off as they were directed to the nearest inn. In the morning, they would return to Scotland.
As the gates finally swung open, the three women were met by a somberly dressed man of middle years, with a trim mustache and beard setting off a tight, prim mouth. He bowed stiffly, the black feather on his bonnet dipping low. “I am Sir Amyas Paulet,” he intoned in a surprisingly deep voice. “I am told you have come to wait upon the Scottish king’s mother.” His gaze was imprecise, as if not focusing on the young women would make them cease to exist.
“If,” replied Sorcha, perspiring freely under her deep blue riding habit, “you speak of Queen Mary of Scotland, you’re correct, sir.”
Paulet’s colorless eyes flicked over Sorcha with distaste. “We have no queen in residence here, only a vexatious Papist woman who plots against the English throne.”
At one side, Gillis twittered anxiously, and on the other, Ailis’s mouth formed into a tight line that almost matched Paulet’s. Sorcha considered the grim reality of their situation—too much cheekiness might provoke Paulet to refuse them admission to Chartley. Fleetingly, she wondered where Rob and Father Napier were. If Paulet had been notified of her arrival, they probably knew, too.
“We are here to attend Mary Stuart,” Sorcha said in what she hoped was an amiable voice. “I am Sorcha Fraser, daughter of Iain Fraser of Beauly. This is Gillis Mowbray, whose sister, Barbara, has been in service here. And,” she added, motioning at the grim-faced Ailis, “this is my attendant, Ailis Frizell.”
“An attendant for an attendant?” Paulet’s face puckered with disapproval. “I was not told of a third person.”
“An oversight,” Sorcha commented blithely. “Ailis is extremely capable and can do the work of a half dozen other women.” It was true enough, and Sorcha hoped her appeal to Paulet’s reputed penchant for economy would sway him. Ailis, however, was glaring indignantly at Sorcha from under her thick brows. In the months that she had served Sorcha, Ailis had acted more as secretary and companion than as maid or servant.
“I don’t endorse having any of you join the household, if I may speak bluntly.” Paulet tried hard not to squint into the late afternoon sun, which made his face seem more pinched and priggish than ever. “But I have received orders, and in this instance, I’ll relent.” He gestured to the guards to let the women pass. “You will, of course, be searched.”
Sorcha turned in the saddle so quickly that her riding hat almost fell off. “Surely you jest, sir! We aren’t English citizens, but answer only to the Scottish crown!”
Paulet stood rigidly in place. “Please proceed inside.”
For the moment, that seemed like a reasonable suggestion. Sorcha was relieved to be out of the warm sun. As servants led their horses away, she walked briskly into the entrance hall, noting the fine workmanship and handsome appointments. The young Earl of Essex’s country home, she’d been told, and decided that he must have inherited great wealth.
“Is My Lord of Essex in residence?” Sorcha inquired with an air of dignity.
“He is in the Low Countries, in the service of Her Majesty the Queen.” Paulet scarcely moved his head but motioned to a trio of drab matrons who seemed to have materialized from nowhere. Though one was tall and gaunt, another short and birdlike, and the third of middle height and stocky, there was a sameness about them that made Sorcha think of crows sitting in a row on a stile. “These gentlewomen will take you to your chambers,” Paulet announced before making a stiff bow and withdrawing from the entrance hall.
With dogged step, the tall woman led them to a stairway that wound up to the next story. An airy, intimate gallery connected the two wings. The newcomers’ rooms were at the far end of the west wing. Once insi
de, the three matrons stood by the door, with arms folded across their bosoms.
Sorcha took off her riding hat and unpinned her hair before she spoke to the women. “We’ll have lamb, with some of those excellent fresh vegetables we saw growing nearby. Spring potatoes, with parsley, and bread. You generally drink beer, I’m told. We’ll have some of that. And trifle for dessert.” She turned her back as if to dismiss the matrons.
“Supper isn’t served for another three hours,” the stocky woman replied in a nasal, English accent. “Tonight, it’s sparrow pie. Now we must conduct our search.”
By the bed, Gillis’s eyes darted from Sorcha to the three women. She seemed on the verge of tears. Sorcha surveyed their adversaries and wondered if it came to physical force, who would win the day. She and her companions had youth on their side, but Gillis might simply go to pieces. As for Ailis, she was as trim and fit as Sorcha. Still, Sorcha questioned Ailis’s nerve.
That was a miscalculation. The stocky woman had advanced on Ailis, who held her ground and assumed a lethal expression. “If you touch me, I shall gouge out your eyes.” With astonishing quickness, Ailis put up her hands, contorted into claws. The woman stood stock-still, staring in disbelief. But there was no mistaking the chilling threat in Ailis’s words. She seemed rooted to the floor, like a primeval goddess sprung from a Highland bog.
“We are doing only what we’re told,” the tall matron said from her place by the door. “Sir Amyas’s orders must be obeyed.”
“I doubt that Sir Amyas wants a blind gentlewoman on his hands,” Sorcha asserted, moving casually to stand by Ailis. “At Inverness, we call Ailis ‘The Bat.’ ” Sorcha smiled sweetly. “That’s because she has made so many people sightless. But they should not have vexed her.”
Ailis hadn’t moved. She still crouched, her grasping hands a scant six inches from the stocky matron’s face. The tall, gaunt woman cleared her throat. “If any of us is harmed, you’ll all hang.”
“Perhaps.” Sorcha flipped the long black hair over her shoulders. “But you won’t be able to see it.”
A low, guttural growl erupted from Ailis’s throat. Gillis shrieked in terror, falling to her knees and cowering against the bed. Sorcha threw her a reproachful look. “Oh, Gillis, don’t fash yourself! The Bat has never disfigured or maimed anyone unless they annoyed her! Except for Margery MacKim, and that was a misunderstanding. A pity, too, since she was such a fine needleworker.”
Sorcha gave the three matrons an apologetic smile as Ailis snarled again. “I’m afraid she’s gone beyond my control. Forgive me if I look away. It’s quite a gruesome sight.”
The stocky woman sucked in a deep, rasping breath. Gillis whimpered by the bed. The tall, gaunt matron exchanged terrified glances with her birdlike companion. Sorcha had turned her back, barely able to stand still, but determined to display an air of calm. The tension in the room was oppressive.
A firm knock on the door snapped the spell. Gillis’s whimpering melted away, Ailis stood up straight, dropping her hands to her sides, and the three matrons all gasped in audible relief. The birdlike woman opened the door to admit Sir Amyas Paulet. He surveyed the entire group with cold, probing eyes. “Is the search completed?”
The hesitation on the matrons’ part was barely noticeable before the tall, gaunt matron replied, “Yes, Sir Amyas, it took just a few moments once our visitors realized how vital security is here at Chartley.”
“Excellent.” He nodded in a detached manner at Sorcha. “Very sensible.” His hand waved at the matrons. “Come. As always, there is much to be done.” The trio followed him out of the room, with not one backward glance.
As soon as the door closed behind them, Sorcha rushed to Ailis and hugged her. “God bless you, Ailis! You’re brilliant!” She felt the other girl stiffen slightly and then relax. Sorcha stepped back to scrutinize Ailis’s bland, oval face. “Tell me—would you have actually gouged the old hag?”
Ailis looked thoughtful. “I shouldn’t think so. I find violence most repellent.” She tapped a finger against her cheek. “Still, I was put out.”
Gillis had struggled to her feet. “Do you mean,” she gasped incredulously, “that Ailis isn’t … The Bat?”
Sorcha laughed and gave Gillis’s arm a little shake. “Oh, by the Mass, no! ’Twas all a ruse. And, as ruses go, quite a good one.” She smiled broadly at Ailis, whose mouth twitched in droll response. In that moment, Sorcha knew that the prickly, somber Ailis was more than a Fraser protégée—she was also a friend.
Rob joined them after supper. He was thinner, and his boyish aura had dimmed. But his spirits were good, his humor intact, and his delight in seeing Sorcha was evident. Since Gillis was unaware of his real purpose in joining Queen Mary’s household, Ailis tactfully led her out of their rooms after the first few minutes. Though Sorcha’s most burning question was the whereabouts of Gavin Napier, she refrained from asking straightaway. Instead, she queried Rob about the Queen and his duties in attending her.
“She is in better health than I’d expected,” Rob said, sitting cross-legged on a cushion opposite his sister. “Indeed, she has become quite merry in recent weeks. I spend some two hours a day reading French with her and helping with her correspondence, though Master Nau does most of that, as is his duty. Little freedom is allowed here, and no trappings of the Catholic faith are permitted.” He paused to drink from a tankard of beer. “It’s far worse than Scotland,” he added, lowering his voice. “Someone in the household was rumored to have attended Mass a while ago, and Paulet had him hanged in full view of the Queen.”
Sorcha shuddered. “God’s teeth, how horrible! You mean the Queen can’t receive the sacraments?”
Rob shook his head sadly. “Paulet is a Puritan, more vehemently opposed to Catholics than are other Protestants. I fear he takes great pleasure in tormenting Queen Mary over even the smallest matters. In all the years of her imprisonment, she has had no gaoler as severe as Sir Amyas.”
While Sorcha was genuinely dismayed at the Queen’s plight, she was still anxious to hear about Father Napier. And unwilling to ask outright. “What of you, Rob? Do you still wish to be a priest?”
Rob brushed at the stray lock of red hair. “Oh, aye, my desire to take Holy Orders has been strengthened since I’ve been here. The evil opposition fuels my resolve. There is persecution here in England ten times worse than in Scotland. The days of Edmund Campion—God rest his soul—have not fled.”
Sorcha crossed herself rather absentmindedly. “Campion … ah, the Jesuit martyr. Poor man.” She racked her brain to find a natural way of turning the conversation to Gavin Napier. “If … Napier can’t give the Queen the sacraments, what does he do?” she asked, hoping her voice contained no more than ordinary curiosity.
Apparently it did not, for Rob merely shook his head. “There’s little he can do, save pray with her and meditate. He reads with her, as I do, of course.” He gave his sister a rueful look. “You’ll find us dull company. I was astonished to learn you were coming with Gillis Mowbray.”
“King Jamie was set on my attending his royal mother.” Sorcha stood up and stretched, her muscles weary from long hours in the saddle. “When do I meet Her Grace?”
Rob fretted at his unruly lock of hair. “Tomorrow, perhaps. She was feeling unwell this afternoon. Though,” he added, setting his tankard aside and also getting to his feet, “I’ve been told by Secretary Nau that her spirits are much lighter these days because she has been able to renew her correspondence abroad since coming to Chartley.”
Sorcha turned skeptical. “And how is it that the strict Sir Amyas permits such freedom of the pen?”
Rob gave Sorcha a tight little smile. “Paulet doesn’t know. It’s a secret system devised by Nau and someone in the village. The brewer, I believe.”
“It sounds most strange,” Sorcha said with a deepening frown. “To whom does Her Majesty write?”
“I’m not sure.” Rob adjusted his somber doublet. Everyone at Chartley seemed to
be attired in severe, even drab, clothing, no doubt in deference to Sir Amyas Paulet. “I’ve not been asked to write anything but the most official sort of letters. Eventually I may, when I win her trust.”
Sorcha began to pace, vexed at the sense of restlessness that was creeping over her. She had been at Chartley but a few hours. There was great pleasure at seeing Rob again, and shortly she would meet the tragic, charismatic woman who had once been Queen of Scotland, yet Sorcha was still discontent. She paused by the casement, pushing it wide open to feel a warm summer breeze touch her cheek.
A single rap on the door made Sorcha jump and Rob turn questioningly. Gavin Napier’s muffled voice sounded on the other side of the heavy oak, deep but scarcely audible. Sorcha started for the door, hesitated, and watched Rob glance quizzically at her before he got up to admit their visitor.
Gavin Napier was dressed as somberly as the rest of the household, in black doublet, hose, and boots, relieved only by a thin silver chain draped across his chest. He could not have looked more austere had he been attired in clerical vestments. Greeting Sorcha with a curt bow, he rested his dark eyes somewhere beyond her face. “It seems that our sovereign lady has changed her mind and wishes to see you now. Will you come?”
“Of course.” Sorcha glanced at Rob, as if for reassurance. He lifted one shoulder and smiled faintly. “Will you join us, Rob?”
Napier answered for him. “No. Too many would tire her this time of night. I will escort you only as far as her chamber door.”
Sorcha couldn’t suppress a look of annoyance, though whether it was for the Queen’s nervous state or Napier’s arrogant indifference she could not be sure. Hastily, she rummaged about in a partially unpacked trunk for her mirror and a hairnet. The mirror proved elusive, but at last she pulled out a wide green velvet bandeau that would serve to keep her unruly hair in place. Her appearance was hardly suitable for meeting the former Queen of Scotland, but then, this sudden invitation was not a formal state occasion.