Gosford's Daughter

by Mary Daheim

  Drury’s pale eyes darted in the direction of Sorcha’s wool-covered “haunches.” He flicked his tongue over the scarred lip and cleared his throat. “Ah, since there is clearly a misunderstanding, we can allow you to enter the castle. For a time, however. Only for a time.” He held up one pudgy thumb.

  Sighing, Sorcha dismounted and let a servant lead Thisbe away. “Your messenger must have missed us,” she said, now on eye level with Sir Drue Drury. “Perhaps he passed by in the night.”

  Drury still did not meet her glance, seemingly diverted by the flurry of activity among Scots and serving people. “Perhaps, perhaps. Yet it would have been better for you all to have stayed at Chartley. Or,” he added in ominous tones, “to have returned to Scotland.”

  He started to turn away, but Sorcha was at his heels, like a worrisome terrier. “Why? What’s amiss?”

  At first, Drury didn’t respond, but kept walking briskly toward a side entrance between what appeared to be a chapel on the right and a great hall on the left. “Amiss?” Drury all but snorted. “Even now, the scaffold’s abuilding for the prisoner.” He jerked his head in the direction of the great hall. “All that is needed is our gracious sovereign’s word to proceed with the execution. But does that word come? My, no!” Leaning against a heavy, ancient battered door, Drury tugged at the latch and looked fretful. “The warrant is drawn up, we’re told. The prisoner is ready, she says. The ax is sharpened, it’s said. And nothing happens—except that Sir Amyas gets sick!” Drury threw up his hands in helpless exasperation, the picture of a frustrated civil servant, charged with a duty he was powerless to perform.

  Only Drury’s words about the scaffold had really sunk into Sorcha’s brain. She was barely conscious of Ailis, who had followed them to the side entrance and was looking much put out. The door suddenly opened from inside, revealing the tall, imposing form of Gavin Napier.

  It was all Sorcha could do to keep from hurling herself into his arms. Napier, however, seemed as astonished to see Sorcha as she was relieved to see him.

  “You came,” he stated without inflection, and stiltedly stepped aside to let Sorcha, Drury, and Ailis pass through the doorway.

  “You know them, I assume?” Drury inquired peevishly of Napier. “Then,” he went on as the other man nodded, “take charge of them. I must go see if Sir Amyas improves. Such a time for ill health on his part!” Drury fussed off down the narrow corridor, the quick little steps again reminding Sorcha of a performer in a court masque.

  Aware that she spoke too quickly, Sorcha explained why they had come to Fotheringhay despite orders to the contrary. Napier, leading them in the opposite direction from Drury, nodded once or twice, then headed up a twisting stone staircase to a drafty wing of the castle that looked out directly over the River Nene.

  “Our quarters are cramped,” he told Sorcha and Ailis, pausing midway in the corridor and fingering his bearded chin. His preoccupation with practical matters provided a more relaxed veneer. “Let me think—you could stay with Gillis Mowbray and Elizabeth Curle.” Napier finally turned his hunter’s gaze on Sorcha. “I suspect, alas, it will not be for long.”

  “Then it’s true? The Queen will … be executed soon?” Sorcha’s voice was wispy in her ears.

  Napier nodded gravely. “All is prepared. Though,” he added, gazing from one end of the empty corridor to the other, “there is a curious reluctance on Elizabeth’s part to act. It makes me wonder, as I did when I followed Her Grace here.” He shook his head, and gave a rueful little laugh. “Either way, our poor sovereign lady will die. Unless, as Patrick Gray has hinted to Elizabeth, Jamie intervenes.”

  “Gray!” Sorcha involuntarily stepped back a pace at the Master’s name. “And how does that loathsome creature figure into all this?”

  Napier brushed Sorcha’s wool sleeve with his fingers. “He has written to the Queen of England, stating that King Jamie will not tolerate the execution of his mother. I think Gray blusters. Jamie will not sever the bond between himself and Elizabeth, not even to save his mother’s life.”

  “I would to God it were Gray going to the block, instead of Mary Stuart!” Sorcha couldn’t still her tongue and felt herself flush. “As for Jamie, I am embarrassed for his lack of heart.”

  Again, Napier touched Sorcha’s arm. “So are we all.” He glanced at Ailis, who still had her cold hands tucked up her sleeves. “Come, Gillis will see to you. I believe Elizabeth Curle is with the Queen.”

  As Napier opened the chamber door, Sorcha lifted searching eyes to his face. But the priest avoided her gaze, ushering them into the room with only a brief greeting for Gillis. The rabbit-like face twitched with excitement, but Sorcha was still eyeing the door as it closed behind Napier. So, she thought to herself, here I am at Fotheringhay, and so is he, but what good does it do us? In her frustration, she snapped at Gillis who was trying to lead her toward the fireplace.

  “Hold on, let me take off my cloak*” said Sorcha crossly. She saw Gillis step backward in confusion and immediately became contrite. “I’m sorry, Gillis, I’m weary. And cold.” She made a vague gesture of appeasement in Gillis’s direction. “Nor does the news which met us bode well.”

  “ ’Tis terrible!” moaned Gillis, pushing the settle closer to the fire. “Yet our sovereign lady is so brave and cheerful. She writes her last letters and disposes of what little is left to her and spends much time in prayer. Her chaplain, de Preau, was allowed to visit for a time. Queen Mary is a saint, mark my words,” asserted Gillis. Her hands fluttered nervously, as if to excuse herself for speaking with such conviction. “Though who wouldn’t pray, being so near to judgment?”

  “Aye,” agreed Sorcha absently, dropping down onto the settle to feel the warmth of the fire touch her face. As Gillis chattered on and Ailis responded in her terse, unemotional manner, Sorcha stared at the flames, wondering if fervent prayer at the close of one’s life did indeed help pave the way to heaven. Burdened with her own sin of loving a man who had taken Holy Orders, Sorcha questioned her right to salvation. Perhaps she could neither bid love to come nor to go. But she had willfully, shamelessly, pursued Gavin Napier to Fotheringhay. Sorcha meant to tempt him—why else had she come? And how could Napier ever love her when she clearly dismissed the jeopardy to their souls? Yet Sorcha knew she could not stay away from him. She was drawn like a river to the sea, like a flower to the sun. And even the threat of hell couldn’t seem to stop her.

  Chapter 15

  The Queen of Scotland’s chambers were far more austere at Fotheringhay than they had been at Chartley. Gone was the royal dais, removed by Sir Amyas Paulet, and in its place hung a stark crucifix. The furnishings were old and shabby; the room itself seemed very damp. Nor did Mary Stuart’s spirits appear as buoyant as Gillis had described them. Sorcha found the Queen doleful, devoid of energy, and considerably more crippled than she had been just three months earlier at Chartley.

  “I have written twice to my cousin, Elizabeth,” Mary said querulously to Sorcha and Elizabeth Curle on a dark January afternoon. “I have begged her to end my misery, not for my own sake, but for yours. You are both peaked, Jane Kennedy is unwell, my poor maid, Renée, cries all the time, Gillis trembles whenever someone comes to the door. Father de Preau has been sent away. Yet I hear nothing—Sir Amyas remains ill, unable to bring me news.” She paused to wave away a bowl of beef broth proffered by Elizabeth Curle. “Now my household is being further reduced. Melville is removed; so is my butler—who will be next?” Mary moved fretfully in the bed, where she had spent the past two days.

  “Still,” interposed Elizabeth Curle, “you must eat. Shall I have chicken fetched? Or fresh salmon?”

  Sorcha, who hadn’t eaten since breakfast, felt her stomach stir with hunger. But Mary Stuart shook her head. “No, ma chère, I have no appetite. Nor could the English ever cook properly.” She uttered a feeble laugh. “Mayhap that has been the hardest part of my captivity—being subjected to English food.”

  “Then we should req
uest something French,” Sorcha declared brightly, unable to pass up an opportunity to quiet her own hunger pangs. As the Queen started to protest, Sorcha gently waved her hand. “Please, Your Grace, I insist on having the cooks create a delicacy to tempt you. Please?” She gave Mary Stuart a winsome smile.

  The Queen relented, and half an hour later Sorcha had all but miraculously reappeared with broiled trout stuffed with nuts and raisins, slices of sugared apple in cream, and a plateful of honey tarts. “It may not rival Chenonceaux, but it smells most enticing,” Sorcha asserted, placing the large tray before her mistress.

  “La,” exclaimed Mary Stuart, taking one look and falling back among the pillows, “it’s very good of you, but I cannot.” She shook her head in apology. “Forgive me, ma petite, food turns my stomach more than it tempts.” Seeing Sorcha’s face fall in apparent hurt, the Queen held out her hands. “Oh, dear Sorcha, I mean no ingratitude! Here,” she said, pointing at the tray, “you and Elizabeth eat. I shall receive pleasure from watching you.”

  Sorcha, with visions of apples, trout, and tarts being thrown to the castle hounds, all but snatched the tray from the bed. However, Elizabeth Curle merely nibbled at the food, apparently sharing the Queen’s loss of appetite. At first, Sorcha ate somewhat self-consciously, but so sweet and tender was the trout, so crisp and tangy were the apples, so light and flaky were the tarts, that within less than ten minutes, the entire meal was devoured. After all, thought Sorcha, using her napkin to stifle a hiccup, the Queen of Scotland’s stomach disorders were well known. In such a time of great stress, it was no wonder the poor woman couldn’t eat.

  She could pray, however, and expressed a desire to say the rosary. Brushing crumbs from her bodice, Sorcha knelt with Elizabeth Curle by the bed to tell their beads in French. Since Mary was inclined to spend several minutes meditating on each of the Sorrowful Mysteries, nearly an hour passed before they kissed the small crucifixes and put their rosaries away.

  It had started to snow by then, persistent small flakes that swiftly covered the ground outside Fotheringhay Castle. Mary Stuart declared that she would take a nap. Moments later, she had fallen into a fitful sleep, and Elizabeth Curle suggested that Sorcha might as well leave.

  Somewhat sluggishly, Sorcha agreed. Her digestion was unsettled, no doubt the result of eating too fast. When she reached her quarters, Sorcha told Ailis she wanted to lie down and rest.

  “Are you ill?” Ailis inquired with a hint of concern tugging at the corners of her small mouth.

  “Nay. Mayhap I’m bored. Where’s Gillis?”

  Ailis pulled back the counterpane and the sheets. “Tending to the laundry.” She stepped aside as Sorcha fell onto the bed, shivering slightly. “You appear flushed. Are you feverish?” Ailis’s glance had sharpened as she peered at Sorcha.

  “Flushed? Her Grace said I was peaked.” Tentatively, Sorcha touched one cheek. “God’s teeth, I am overwarm. And thirsty. Is there water or beer?”

  “Certainly. Wine, too.” Ailis waited for Sorcha to state a preference, but she merely nodded and closed her eyes.

  By the time Ailis had poured her a cup of water, Sorcha appeared to be asleep. Yet Ailis noted that her breathing was irregular and her face was a blotchy crimson. Alarmed, Ailis hurried from the chamber to fetch Dr. Bourgoing, but she almost collided with Gavin Napier at the end of the corridor.

  With her usual economy of words, Ailis explained Sorcha’s condition. Napier told her where she might find Dr. Bourgoing, then headed for Sorcha’s quarters, where he, too, was distressed at her feverish state and unnatural breathing.

  “Sorcha!” Napier whispered her name hoarsely, then bent to shake her by the shoulders. She flopped about in his grasp like a floundering fish, but her eyelids fluttered open.

  Napier grabbed the cup of water Ailis had left on the night table and forced it between Sorcha’s lips. “Drink this,” he commanded. With a flickering, glazed stare, Sorcha gulped down a swallow or two, then pushed the cup with one weak hand. But Napier batted her away, bringing the cup back to her mouth. “Drink, by God, or I’ll pour it down your throat!”

  The fury masked the fear in his voice, and Sorcha drank again. With his free hand, Napier searched under the bed for the chamberpot. “Take more, Sorcha,” he ordered. “It’s dog piss.”

  Sorcha’s eyes flew open, her body convulsed, and she screamed just once before vomiting into the chamberpot that Napier had swiftly hauled up onto the bed. As she retched violently, he held her shoulders tight and relaxed his own ever so slightly.

  At last, Sorcha went limp. Napier still held her, but pulled the long, tangled hair back from her face and waited to make sure she was through being sick.

  “Was it truly dog piss?” Sorcha whispered hoarsely.

  In spite of himself, Napier laughed. “No. I only told you that to make you retch. ’Twas water.” Carefully, he laid her back among the pillows and was shocked to see how suddenly her flushed face had turned pale. “Sorcha, what did you eat today?”

  Sorcha grimaced at the mention of food. “Trout. And apples and honey tarts. I was greedy.” She attempted a smile, but it was a pathetic effort. “I’d had the meal prepared for Her Grace. She had no appetite so I ….” Sorcha paused as the door opened to admit Ailis and Dr. Bourgoing.

  Napier rose from the bed to greet the Queen’s physician. “Mistress Fraser vomited everything,” he told Bourgoing as Ailis went to tidy up. “It was poison, I’ll stake my life on it.”

  Bourgoing’s thin face turned grim. “Henceforth no one must serve the Queen but her people.” He waited until Ailis had removed the chamberpot, then sat down next to the bed. “Poor child, such an irony that you ate that food! Yet you are young and strong. No doubt Her Grace would have perished.” Gravely, he crossed himself.

  A trace of color was returning to Sorcha’s cheeks. “I don’t understand—why would anyone poison Queen Mary when she is to be executed?”

  Napier had moved next to the physician but remained standing. “She is sure to be killed, yes. But all along I’ve feared a treacherous end for her, rather than a public, legal one. Elizabeth dallies and dithers over the warrant. Ever since Queen Mary grew ill a week or so ago, I suspected that she was being slowly poisoned. I also suspect that’s why Sir Amyas is ill as well.”

  Sorcha tried to sit up but failed. Slumping back against the pillows, she gazed in bewilderment from Napier to Bourgoing. “Sir Amyas is being poisoned, too?”

  Napier shook his head. “No, no. I mean that it may have been suggested to him that he do away with Queen Mary by other than legal means. His strict Puritan conscience would balk at that. So he took to his bed, claiming illness as an excuse to not carry out such an odious order.”

  “Then who?” asked Sorcha, realizing that her voice had grown stronger, though her body was still weak. “Drury?”

  Napier shrugged. “Perhaps. But it could be anyone who feels compelled to murder a Catholic sovereign or please Elizabeth. The reward, after all, would no doubt be great.”

  Ailis, who had completed her domestic tasks, came round to the far side of the bed. “I beg leave to inquire. My Lords, why Mistress Fraser became so violently ill when the Queen has not.” She turned her myopic stare on the priest and the physician. “Pray enlighten me, if you will.”

  Bourgoing sighed, bony fingers brushing at the scant gray hairs that grew long across his balding pate. “We can but assume Her Grace was being given poison in small doses that merely weakened her and made her lose all appetite. The less she ate, the longer she lived. The assassin must have decided that a large measure would result in immediate death.” He lifted his narrow shoulders in an expressive gesture. “So, this time the poison was sufficient to prove fatal for one already ill. Praise our Holy Mother that it was consumed by someone in good health.”

  Sorcha gave Dr. Bourgoing a skeptical look. “You may speak thus from not having eaten it, sir. I am grateful to be alive, but not for suffering from a great deal more than acute indiges
tion.”

  Dr. Bourgoing had the grace to appear chagrined. However, he reassumed his professional aplomb by way of apology and made several suggestions as to Sorcha’s recuperation. “Indeed, by tomorrow you should feel almost like yourself, my child. Sleep is your greatest ally.”

  Ailis saw the doctor to the door. Napier seated himself in the chair Bourgoing had vacated, and took Sorcha’s hand. “We’ll not speak of this to anyone,” he said quietly. “It would be useless, even harmful, for Her Grace to find out.”

  Weakly, Sorcha tried to squeeze Napier’s fingers. She was trembling, no doubt in reaction to the shock of her close brush with death. “It’s horrible … I might have died … What if you hadn’t known what to do?” She stared at Napier with huge, wide green eyes.

  “Don’t think about it.” He spoke more gruffly than he’d intended and looked away to the corner of the room, where Ailis was busying herself with the instructions Dr. Bourgoing had given her. “It may be that you would have merely been very ill for a few days.”

  “But you came,” Sorcha persisted. Feeling Napier start to take his hand away, she clung to it as if it were a piece of shipwreck on a storm-tossed sea. “You were here. You saved me.” This time her smile was real, if tremulous.

  Napier smiled back, though there was nothing wolflike in his face, and Sorcha was reminded of the other Napier. She wanted very much to ask the priest if he’d ever encountered the man who looked so much like him. But sleep tugged at her eyelids, and very soon Sorcha was dreaming of the Master of Ness, gliding majestic and free through the tree-shaded glens of the Highlands.

  Sorcha and the Queen both rallied over the course of the next few days. While no one had informed Mary Stuart about her lady-in-waiting’s critical attack from poison, Sorcha caught her mistress regarding her inquisitively on at least two occasions. Perhaps Queen Mary had noticed the vigilance of her attendants over her food, or had heard a rumor of Sorcha’s sudden, violent illness.