Queen Mary's Daughter

by Emily-Jane Hills Orford

  “Are you sure you want to do that?” Gran asked, shock evident in her voice. “It does seem a little drastic. This is, after all, your life, the welfare of Scotland, and the Duke of Northumberland’s family home.”

  “Not anymore,” the duke answered, a twinge of sorrow evident in his voice. “Queen Bess made sure of that. I will stake my claim north of the border and fight for the princess, who I am quite sure will honor her valiant warriors.”

  Mary Elizabeth beamed at Thomas, the man who should have inherited this castle and the title that went with it. The young man couldn’t resist the urge to wink at the princess, an act that was rewarded by a quick blush on Mary Elizabeth’s cheeks. She quickly regained her composure. “I will indeed, my Lord. I will find you a suitable Scottish title and castle, one befitting a true warrior and champion of a noble cause.”

  The duke bowed his head to the princess before turning back to Jamie. “Let us make haste before our presence is duly noted.”

  “Hopefully we have not been spotted yet,” Jamie replied.

  They reined their mounts around and led the princess’s small army back into the cover of the forest. Nightfall would soon come and with it, the destruction of a noble edifice. And all because the Queen of England wanted Princess Mary Elizabeth dead, just like her mother.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  GREENWICH CASTLE, LATE SUMMER, YEAR OF OUR LORD 1587

  “Escaped! Again! What is she made of? Thin air?”

  “She is definitely a witch, your Majesty.” The mud-splattered messenger shuffled restlessly from his position, kneeling before the queen. He had ridden hard for many days and he was too stiff to stay on bended knee for any length of time.

  “Tell me everything.” The queen stepped back from the hearth where she had stood glowering into the flames. Now, instead, she glared at her messenger. “Now.”

  “Yes, your Majesty.” He kept his head bowed, fearing the look he might witness should he dare to meet the queen’s gaze. “It was dark. Night. The princess Mary Elizabeth–”

  “DO NOT CALL HER THAT! SHE IS NO PRINCESS!” The queen interrupted.

  “Yes, your Majesty.” He cleared his throat. “The witch approached the castle after nightfall. She claimed to be unarmed. She was admitted and taken to the commanding officer, who immediately arrested her and locked her in the dungeon with the rest of Northumberland’s family. A guard was sent later to check on the prisoners and he discovered that the cell was empty.”

  “Where did they go? They could not have just vanished into thin air.”

  “But, your Majesty, that would appear to be exactly what happened. Before a search could begin, chaos ensued as fires surrounded the castle and fiery arrows, strategically aimed, caused the entire castle to go up in flames.”

  “Just like that?” The queen snapped her fingers. “Impossible! It is a huge castle. It cannot be burnt that easily.”

  “But it was, your Majesty. Few escaped, as when we realised the castle was doomed, we all made haste to the nearest exit only to be met by a slew of arrows that downed the majority of the army. The commander was captured and taken prisoner. And the princess…” He cleared his throat, then corrected himself. “I mean, the witch appeared before a large army, sword raised. She singled me out as messenger, telling me, quite clearly, to tell your Majesty–” He paused briefly, “–and in her words exactly, 'I will not be captured. I am a force to be reckoned with. Take your army south and keep them away from me.'”

  The queen let out an ear-piercing shriek that rattled the windows. “No!”

  Chapter Thirty

  NORTH OF SCOTTISH BORDER, LATE SUMMER, YEAR OF OUR LORD 1587

  The image of the castle, the noble Alnwick Castle, riddled with flames like a skeleton of horrors burning from the inside out, haunted the princess’s sleep. That had been over a week ago, but each night it was a repeat performance for Mary Elizabeth as she tried to catch a few hours’ sleep, lying on the cold, hard-packed ground like everyone else in her little army. The fresh air was exhausting, but the nightmares kept the princess half-awake most nights.

  As their group headed even further north, they crossed the border into Scotland and veered as far west of Edinburgh and Linlithgow as they possibly could, avoiding any contact with King James’s allies. Leaning on the advice of her close-knit group, and some tips gained by visiting her brother’s court during the night when everyone else was asleep, the princess had been forced to admit that King James would not be of any assistance to her cause. In fact, she was convinced now that he was just another pawn on Queen Elizabeth’s chessboard.

  The castle, though, with its seemingly vacant façade, gutted by ravaging flames, was something she could not erase from her memory. She realised that all battles left scars, but this one felt more horrifying, intensified, perhaps, by the fact she and Lord Northumberland’s family had almost been trapped in that raging inferno.

  The plan had gone well. The group had hidden in the forest until nightfall. Billy and his scouts had quickly rounded up the English army’s scouts. Some had pledged allegiance to Princess Mary Elizabeth, hoping to gain leniency. She ordered the men, the ones who had survived her scouts’ attack, tied firmly to various trees in the forest and gagged. She took one of the scouts with her, to escort her to the castle, to gain her immediate entrance without a volley of wayward arrows directed at her. That part had worked well. She was quickly ushered into the grand hall where battle plans were being discussed. Sir Thomas Cecil, the queen’s man, so to speak, though all the men at the English court gave the appearance of being ‘the queen’s man’, was at the centre of the discussion, which came to a sudden halt when the princess was led into his presence. Sir Thomas was the eldest son of Sir William Cecil, first Baron Burghley and Queen Elizabeth’s chief advisor. Queen Elizabeth certainly had her court wrapped around her baby finger, an expression Mary Elizabeth remembered well from her childhood spent in the late twentieth and early twenty-first centuries.

  Sir Thomas had grilled her, declared her a witch, and confined her to the dungeon below the castle, imprisoning her with Lord Northumberland’s family.

  Jamie had followed young Thomas, slipping into the castle undetected. He had heard much of the exchange between Sir Thomas and Mary Elizabeth, so he knew where to look once the English believed that they had safely locked her away. Thomas was a handy guide as he knew the castle well, especially all the hidden passageways that led down into the dungeons. Jamie had somehow managed to slip a potion into the guards’ drinks. When they sat down to enjoy their brew and a few rounds of cards, they gradually fell into a deep sleep. Thomas retrieved the keys and unlocked the cell. Lady Northumberland had expressed her gratitude to Jamie and hugged her son fiercely, relieved to be free, along with the rest of her family and the princess.

  The timing hadn’t been perfect. Or perhaps Lord Northumberland had been caught unawares by a group of English soldiers. Either way, the battle had begun before they unlocked the cell door. Flaming arrows had pierced the windows on each floor of the castle, setting fire to the furnishings. The castle had burned from the inside out. It didn’t take long before smoke choked the corridors. With English soldiers scrambling to make their exit, Mary Elizabeth’s group came close, several times, to walking into a trap. Though, they needn’t have worried. The English were more concerned for their own safety, not considering for a minute their prisoners were now free and making their own way out.

  Lord Northumberland’s army had tightly encircled his family castle. Alnwick, as it succumbed to the flames, ejected the English right into of his hands. They dropped like flies, slaughtered as they tried to hustle into combat position. English military strategy had no place on the grounds of a burning inferno of a castle with the enemy well positioned to maintain the upper hand.

  The princess, Jamie, Thomas, Lady Northumberland, and the rest of the Northumberland family stumbled into the open air, gasping for breath. They kept low and made their way to the nearest tree line. I
t was only then that they felt safe enough to look back at the havoc that had ensued.

  The ghastly void, blackened where windows once allowed light to enter the rooms within, now spat plumes of flames and smoke. The stonework itself was streaked with smoke stains and pieces fell from the façade, crashing with resounding thuds, some shattering on impact. Lady Northumberland jumped repeatedly as falling stones made the earth beneath their feet shudder. She burst into tears, consoled only slightly by her daughters, who wrapped their arms around her shoulders, quietly sobbing themselves as they tried to sooth their distraught mother.

  Lord Northumberland had successfully captured Sir Thomas and several key players from the queen’s court. They would serve as good hostages to use on the bargaining table. Amongst the queen’s men, they chose a scout to play messenger and Mary Elizabeth took pleasure in, once again, sending a message to her cousin, a message that she, Princess Mary Elizabeth of Scotland, would not and could not be defeated.

  But the scar of Alnwick was too much to bear. Even Lord Northumberland and his family avoided looking at their beloved home. There was nothing left. Just a shell.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  LINLITHGOW CASTLE, LATE SUMMER, YEAR OF OUR LORD 1587

  “A messenger from the Queen of England, your Majesty, as well as a messenger from your sister.”

  “I have no sister,” James stated quite pointedly, pacing his private chambers restlessly. “My mother would have told me, would she not? All those letters, all those years of letters from my mother and no mention of a sister? Or were those letters censored as well? Confiscated and destroyed?”

  He came to a stop at the cut-glass window that allowed meagre light into his chamber, standing quietly, looking outside, but not seeing anything. There wasn’t much to see, as the torrential rains that had plagued Scotland for weeks made everything dark and dreary. Without turning, he waved dismissively. “Read the queen’s missive,” the king commanded, not wanting to take the effort to read the sealed letter himself. “What does she say?”

  The messenger handed the letter to the king’s current lover, George, Captain of the King’s Guard and the king’s chief confidante. He carefully pulled off the seal and unfolded the letter. “My dear Cousin,” he read out loud. “The pretender who claims to be your sister is a witch. Capture her and have her properly executed as befitting her status in the black arts. Until she is dead, there will be no official acknowledgement of you being my rightful heir.”

  “No!” King James stormed. “No. She cannot do this to me. I am her only legitimate heir. What does she think she is going to do? Suddenly give birth to a child to take her throne? She is how old now? Fifty? Sixty?” He shook his head and, turning away from the window, resumed his pacing.

  “We must do as she says, though, your Majesty,” George pointed out. “This so-called princess is also a threat to your throne.”

  “I know. I know.” Turning to his advisor, he asked him, “So do you know where she is? No one else does. Or they are just not telling me.”

  “She is in Scotland. That is all I know. Probably way up north. Perhaps on one of the isolated island off the northern coast.”

  “Well, she can stay there forever for all I care. Perhaps she will freeze to death.”

  “Not likely, your Majesty. Not with her kind of talent to cheat death time and time again. You must find her, imprison her, have her tried and executed.”

  “You are right. And so it shall be done.” He walked over to the window and watched the rain slither down the outside of the pane, blocking his view of the courtyard below. Just like his life, where everything seemed to slither out of control. “I once thought I would like to have a sister,” he muttered to no one in particular. “Leave me. Everyone. Just leave.” The rain continued to fall unabated, its insistent patter on the windows setting a restless rhythm that matched the king’s heartbeat.

  As the door quietly shut behind him, the king stood alone and forlorn. Yes, he had always wished for a sibling, especially a sister, one who would not have much claim to his throne.

  “I am touched,” a woman’s voice startled the king from his mesmerised gaze through the rain-fogged windows.

  He was startled that anyone would dare enter his chambers uninvited and unannounced. “And who let you in?” he demanded. He was about to call for his guards, but decided to deal with this intrusion on his own. She was, after all, just a woman.

  “I let myself in, brother,” came the answer that took care of many questions racing through the king’s head. She dipped a curtsy, and smiled brightly as she stood up. Taking a slow step toward him, she said sweetly, “I have always wanted a brother, so now we both have what we want.”

  “You are not who you say you are!” King James bellowed, stepping away from the window and pacing a circular route around the woman claiming to be his sister, eyeing her with great suspicion.

  “Oh, but I am.” Mary Elizabeth said, allowing the king to survey her from all angles.

  “What type of witch, are you?”

  “I am not a witch.” She tilted her head slightly to share her warmest smile with her brother, who had paused briefly somewhere behind her line of vision. “But I am a princess and I am your sister. Or, I should say half-sister, since we did not share the same father.”

  “You claim to be my mother’s daughter and the daughter of her lover, Lord Bothwell.” The king resumed his pacing, coming again to a stop in front of Mary Elizabeth, just a few paces away, staring her straight in the eye.

  “They may have been lovers, but they were also legally married,” Mary Elizabeth insisted. “You want to argue about my ancestry and who I am, or shall we discuss what is best for this kingdom? What is best for Scotland? Not just for our lifetime, but also for centuries well into the future.”

  King James shook his head. “I do not understand. You talk in riddles. Of course I am the King of Scotland. And, when Queen Elizabeth dies, I shall also be King of England. That is my right by birth.”

  “Your right by birth includes a responsibility, brother. And if you do not heed your responsibilities, you will endanger the well-being of the country you were born to rule, for generations to come. The English have never liked the Scottish and, under combined rule, the English will quickly overrun Scotland, take Scottish lands, marginalize and pillage the Scottish people, just as they have done in Ireland for generations.”

  “You cannot know this for certain,” the king argued. He knew he should call his guards, but this woman appeared harmless enough. And he wanted to hear what she had to say.

  “Take England’s throne and rule England. Leave Scotland’s throne to me,” Mary Elizabeth stated quite bluntly. “You have started to create a progressive court here in Scotland. It would be a shame to see it torn apart by English invaders.”

  “But they would not be invaders if they were all under the same governing body,” King James tried to point out. He started to pace again.

  “The English will always treat us as if they are the victors. The invaders, the conquerors! You cannot possibly want that for Scotland’s future.”

  A knock on the door interrupted further argument. King James' eyes darted toward the intrusion. “Is everything all right in there, your Majesty?” George’s voice called through the closed door. “I thought I heard voices.”

  “All is well,” the king replied. He veered back to his sister. Only she had vanished.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  BEAUCHAMP CHAPEL, WARWICK, JULY, YEAR OF OUR LORD 1588

  The solitary figure knelt before the open tomb. There was no epitaph, no monument – not yet – but there would be. He was a good man, if not a great man, and he was the best friend a lonely queen could ever hope or dream for. And now he was gone.

  “He died a noble death.” A voice disturbed the silence of the empty chapel. The funeral services had been over for some time and the chapel was like a tomb itself, devoid of petitioners and others who would come to gawk.

&n
bsp; The figure by the tomb rose to face the interloper. “You!” Queen Elizabeth’s voice showed her struggle for composure, struggling to maintain the sanctity of the place, the intimacy of the moment. She raised her right hand and pointed at the intruder as Mary Elizabeth moved from behind the shadows of the pillar. “You did this! You, you witch!”

  “I did not. I only told you his time was near.” Mary Elizabeth took a couple steps closer to the queen where she remained standing, trembling with a mixture of grief at her loss and rage at the princess’s intrusion. “He was not well for a long time. Even you could see that, and yet you made him your lieutenant and captain-general of your armies and sent him to Tilbury on the Thames to await the threat of the Spanish Armada, a threat that never materialised. And when you went to inspect the troops at Tilbury, you rode your horse, in state, while he walked next to you, bare-headed and, I presume, in considerable pain. A pain you have noticed many times in the last few years and yet you did not suggest that he ride next to you.” Mary Elizabeth paused in her rant and shook her head. “Do not put the blame on me, Cousin. You were as much a part of his demise as fate itself.”

  It was all true, to a point. The queen would never do anything to deliberately hurt someone she loved as much as she had always loved the Earl of Leicester, Robert Dudley. And now he was gone. She had seen him just over a week ago; they had dined together in London. Then he had headed out to take advantage of the healing waters at Bath. He never made it. He wrote her one last letter, dated just six days before his death. The love of her life, the one and only, the one she called “Eyes”, and he had signed the letter, as he always did, with the sign of ôô. She would keep that letter forever.