by Jodi Taylor
‘I know,’ he said, resigned. ‘We’ll be making sure none of you get mugged, murdered, or molested.’
We strode out around noon, leaving Weller behind to mind the shop.
Farrell and I led the way through the muddy streets. Small boys and dogs followed on behind us. Markham swung into action. Peterson, a little apart from us, bowed and smiled his way through the crowds.
We stopped at a trinket stall. Farrell bought every item I admired. I don’t think the stallholder could quite believe his luck.
Following the smell of cooking, we entered a small inn. The landlord made a private room available. We enjoyed a roast bird and a pastry stuffed with dried fruit. Drink flowed. Farrell ruthlessly over-tipped everyone.
A small crowd waited in the street, all with invitations to visit their brother’s inn/shop/stall/whatever and possibly buy their sisters.
Markham and Randall were slowly weighed down with our purchases, which included several pairs of soft gloves, ribbons, a length of lace (‘Oh good, more lace!’), some honey cakes, a couple of small and very shrivelled lemons, a birdcage complete with songbird occupant (who was released around the very next corner), a packet of needles (which would be very useful should any of us ever learn to sew), a small pillow stuffed with herbs (to ensure my ladyship’s peaceful repose), a copper bracelet (to ward off painful joints), and a pot of honey.
Farrell was measured for a pair of boots he was assured would be ready on the morrow and even Guthrie was sorely tempted by a small Italian dagger, complete with worn leather sheath.
Peterson divided his time between young girls (who giggled and blushed) and old women (who made him giggle and blush).
It felt as though half the town was following us from stall to stall and I suspected a good number of them were from Holyrood. Eventually, as it began to get dark, Guthrie called a halt.
We returned home, tired, muddy, and hungry. We could do no more. It was all in the lap of the gods now. Or History herself.
I went out the next day, walking around town with Schiller and Markham, getting our bearings and planning possible escape routes back to the pods which were located about a mile outside town, and so we missed it When we got back to the house, everyone was upstairs, frantically lugging down bolts of cloth and all the other bits and pieces. While we were out, the Queen’s messengers had called. We were summoned to the palace the next day. To present ourselves to the Queen. All of us.
My restlessness that night was not completely due to the fleas in the mattress. I hardly slept at all, running over everything in my mind. Beside me, Schiller tossed and turned as well.
We were downstairs early, sitting around the table, drinking tea (our one luxury – we’re St Mary’s – we run on tea) and eating bread and cheese. There wasn’t a great deal of conversation. We all knew what we had to do; there was no point in banging on about it.
Schiller and I disappeared upstairs to start dressing. We had decided that, for our first appearance, I’d go for something a little different. I had two court dresses. One was magnificent but conventional, in black and gold. However, the second was of a glorious turquoise, a colour that would not be widely known in this country until around 1573. For the purposes of this assignment, we were calling the colour Celeste. We’d chosen it specifically because it looked spectacular with red hair and Mary Stuart had red hair.
In common with the English court, fashion here followed the Spanish tradition, with dark, heavy colours and wide sleeves. Mrs Enderby had dressed us in the lighter Italian and French styles, hoping they would appeal to an exile from the French court. Schiller fastened my exquisite lace ruff and we bundled my hair into a jewelled net.
Farrell and Peterson looked magnificent, in similar outfits of black and silver. Guthrie wore dark red and even the security team looked good. We’d dressed them in the richest fabrics allowed in an age where your rank clearly defined the clothes you wore.
By the time we got downstairs, the wagon was loaded, the horses were ready, and this was it.
Once again, Markham and his drum preceded us. You could argue it was all a bit over the top for so short a journey, but we were too important to visit the palace on foot or without an entourage.
Reassuringly, we were received with the greatest courtesy. Guthrie and his team remained behind to supervise unloading the wagon and the rest of us were escorted inside at once, relieved of our outdoor clothes by an army of servants, shown into a large, chilly, crowded room, and just when I was beginning to think it might be easy after all, they left us there.
We clustered together for security and, in my case, warmth.
Time passed.
Then some more time passed.
‘Come on,’ grumbled Peterson. ‘We’ve only got three weeks, you know.’
It was unlike him to complain. He was nervous. We were all nervous.
To relieve the tension, I placed my hand on Farrell’s arm and we began to walk slowly around the room. See and be seen. This chamber was full of second-tier courtiers – those not quite important enough to be in the same room as royalty. Just as we had hoped, our attire attracted a certain amount of attention. Heads turned to watch us pass. I caught sidelong glances and people whispered behind their hands.
Even more time passed.
‘This is normal,’ I said, hoping it was. ‘If we didn’t have to wait, then how would we know how important she is?’
Farrell nodded, then stiffened and stared over my shoulder. ‘Something’s happening.’
I could hear a bustle behind me, but refused to turn around. We stood, apparently oblivious, discussing the weather in light, social tones.
Someone cleared their throat. Farrell turned slowly. A man bowed low and murmured something I never caught. He turned away and set off down the room. Farrell and Peterson fell in behind him. I, of course, brought up the rear. Silent courtiers watched us go. I could hear my dress swishing as I walked.
Ahead of us, a door was flung open. Someone announced us.
I caught a vague impression of light – a lot of light – warmth and colour.
We stepped over the threshold.
This was it.
Chapter Eighteen
Years ago, I’d waited outside another door, not knowing what was on the other side. On that occasion, it turned out to be Mrs Partridge’s sister, the Sibylline Oracle, with an offer that changed my life. But what I remember most from that day was the sensation of stepping blindly into the unknown.
This was no different.
To begin with, I couldn’t see a thing past Farrell’s broad back. A sudden silence fell as we were announced. As carefully instructed, the men bowed and we curtseyed. We straightened, walked slowly down the room, paused and bowed again. We all stayed put as Leon advanced alone, bowed before her for a third time and waited for royal acknowledgement.
I shifted my weight slightly so I could see past Peterson. Being women, of course Schiller and I were at the back.
The queen sat at the far end. She wore black, as did many of her court, but there’s black and then there’s black. This was the second kind. Her famous cap nestled amongst flaming red hair dressed with pearls. I know she wore a red wig to her execution and I suspected she wore one now, as well. But that wasn’t unusual; many women in this age wore wigs. Her skin was good – she had no need to whiten her face with the lead-based cosmetics that probably did for Elizabeth in the end. And she was beautiful. Classically beautiful, with large, well-opened eyes and a short straight nose. I never saw Elizabeth Tudor, but I doubted the Queen of England could match the Queen of Scotland. It was fortunate perhaps, that they never met.
Her ladies in waiting clustered at her feet, sitting on cushions, their skirts billowing out around them and looking like opulent mushrooms. No one else was seated. The room was very hot and very crowded. Still, if I fainted, my clothes would probably hold me up.
I saw her smile graciously, then take a second glance and smile again, more warmly this time.
Her taste in husbands notwithstanding, she knew quality when she saw it. She said something. The room was silent and watching, waiting to take its cue from the queen, no doubt. Farrell had his back to us so no clues there. I made myself stand quietly and wait. There was nothing I could do. Slightly behind me, Schiller’s gaze would be raking the room trying to identify those present, to put names to faces. Behind me, Guthrie had waited at the door as instructed. Randall and Markham were getting things ready outside.
Farrell turned and caught our eye. Peterson offered me his arm, Schiller fell in behind and we slowly approached the queen.
My God, I was going to meet Mary, Queen of Scots! I was actually going to meet Mary Stuart! My heart hammered away and when I curtseyed for the third time, I wasn’t sure I could get up again.
She wasn’t an unkind woman. Unlike Elizabeth, who famously didn’t like other women at all, she seemed charmed to meet me, allowing me to rise almost at once. Farrell introduced Peterson first. He murmured politely and then it was my turn.
I heard Farrell say, ‘My sister, Your Grace.’ I kept my eyes on the floor until she spoke. Don’t stare, Maxwell. You’re a professional historian.
She greeted me. Her voice was very quiet and she had an accent. I obviously wasn’t expected to reply. In charge of this mission I might have been, but I was still as nothing in the scheme of things. She cast an appraising glance at my dress and nodded. I was dismissed, but kindly.
With relief, I curtseyed, stepped back carefully and found a place off to one side with my back to a window. This suited me. I could see what was going on.
Now Peterson joined in the conversation, smiling and gesturing. It all seemed to be going quite well.
I left them to get on with it and gazed around the room. It was panelled, as most rooms were, in some old, dark wood, darkened further by fire and candlelight. The room smelled of candles, smoke, perfume, and bodies.
Behind me, Schiller whispered, ‘Beside the window, there, in black, with red sleeves – that’s the French Ambassador, de Castelnau.’
And then, even as I stared, Clive Ronan slipped quietly through the door, past Major Guthrie, who kept his head and politely stepped aside for him, and made his way to Michel de Castelnau’s side. They exchanged looks but said nothing.
For a moment, I think we were all paralysed. Was it really going to be that easy?
Guthrie looked directly at me. I pulled myself together and made a tiny negative gesture. Now was not the time or the place. Concentrate on one thing at a time. If we got this afternoon wrong, we could lose our heads. Concentrate on the now.
Guthrie casually turned away so his back was to Ronan. Behind me, Schiller grasped my sleeve and gently drew me back a pace or two so we were sheltered by two very young women, who seemed, in some way, to be attached to the queen’s famous ladies – the Four Marys. Beaton, Seton, Fleming, and Livingstone. Only two of them were here today and which two was anyone’s guess. However, they were important women in their own right and these two younger women were, I guessed, ladies-in-waiting to the ladies-in-waiting.
There was so much to watch and think about, I hardly knew where to start. In front of me, Farrell and Peterson were doing a good job. Schiller was safe with me. Randall and Markham were outside if anything went wrong and Guthrie would hold the door until we could get away. All of which left me free to consider Clive Ronan, standing a discreet half pace behind the French ambassador.
The first thing that struck me was how young he was. How very, very young he was. He had hair. And two ears. And no scars. The second thing, to my huge relief, was that he didn’t know us at all. He hadn’t met us yet. His future was our past. I glanced at the oblivious Farrell and Peterson. They were doing their job. Guthrie was watching Ronan without seeming to. I turned my head to Schiller and cut my eyes to Ronan. She nodded and slipped quietly away. Other people were moving around too and chatter was springing up again as it became apparent the queen was occupied for a while. This seemed a very informal court. An approachable and affable queen set the tone.
I turned back and inadvertently brushed someone’s arm. One of the young ladies in waiting said, ‘Oh,’ and dropped a piece of embroidery. Quickly, I picked it up and handed it back to her.
‘Your pardon, mistress.’
She smiled nervously, considerably flustered. I put her age at around fifteen or sixteen.
‘Your stitching is exquisite.’ Which it was. Don’t underestimate our ancestors because they can’t drive cars or build a data stack. They had their own skills. She spread it out so I could see it properly. Beautiful birds swooped and danced in a variety of brilliant colours and complex stitching. It was lovely.
She blushed a little. ‘Thank you.’
We both shot a glance back to the queen who was still occupied with my boys. They all seemed to be getting along really well. So long as neither of them married her!
I had no idea of the protocol here and hoped for the best.
‘I am Mary.’
She smiled again, nodded and whispered, ‘Margaret.’ Either she was very shy or we were breaking some sort of rule and not wanting to push any further, I turned to watch the room, straining to hear the conversation with the queen. Within the last few minutes, the noise levels had risen considerably, not helped by two or three musicians playing softly in the corner. Well, they say the watcher sees most of the game, so I’d better watch.
Now the queen was openly laughing and Farrell gave the signal. The doors opened and heads turned in surprise. Markham and Randall entered, bearing a large carpet, and we were off.
With a flourish, they threw it down and its momentum propelled it down the room, unrolling as it went. It was a beauty, the biggest and best we had, in shimmering shades of red and gold and woven with intricate symbols, the meaning of which I could see Farrell explaining to the queen. She nodded vaguely, unimpressed. She had her own carpets. However, that was just the beginning.
I saw Markham speak to the musicians and coins changed hands. They broke immediately into something loud and lively.
The atmosphere changed and before people had a chance to take in what was happening, the show began.
We’d agreed that speed was the key. Surprise piled upon surprise. Keep it coming. Don’t give them time to keep up. The ancient Persians demonstrated not only their wealth, but also their contempt for it by casually flinging around their priceless carpets as if they were nothing. Exquisite kilims dropped carelessly one on top of the other, the visible top layer only hinting at the treasures buried beneath. We intended something similar.
Before anyone had time for more than a startled exclamation, Randall hurled a bolt of white velvet. Shot with metallic thread, it unrolled across the crimson carpet, glinting softly in the light. The queen leaned forward, but before she could take it in, it was gone, buried beneath an undulating ruby red silk, and then that was gone, covered by a black and gold brocade and then another silk, green, shot with blue. Great bolts of material tumbled down the room. We barely gave her time to assimilate one marvel before partially burying it under the next.
The musicians, who knew their trade, picked up the beat. The pace quickened. Purple and blue taffetas rolled across the carpet.
Peterson was laying out beautifully carved cedar wood boxes, inlaid with mother of pearl and redolent with the scents of the east.
Leaving Randall to hurl fabric around as if his life depended up it – which it did – Markham was working the room. He produced, apparently from nowhere, a number of flimsy, silken scarves, one of which he flung artistically into the air. It hung, weightless, glittering in the candlelight before he laughingly snatched it down, drew it through a ring seemingly plucked from behind a lady’s ear and presented both to her with a sweeping bow. She clapped her hands with delight and he made his way around the court, generating a vortex of colour and movement, presenting rings and scarves to every woman he encountered.
Randall tumbled bolts of lace in a heap and topped th
em with muslins and linens so sheer they were almost transparent. I could hear cries of astonishment from around the room.
I stole a look at the queen who sat quite still, her face expressionless.
With a final flourish, Randall threw his last bolt of velvet; Markham let his scarves flutter and rest where they fell. The musicians drew one final chord and to cries of appreciation and regret, it was over.
Everyone turned to see the queen’s reaction.
She sat back and regarded Farrell steadily.
‘A pretty show.’
He bowed.
‘You think to win me over with this display?’
‘Oh no, Your Grace.’
She looked at him.
‘These poor things are just today’s offerings.’
‘What else do you have for me?’
No pretence, no politely leading up to it – just straight out with it – what else do you have for me?
‘Spices, Your Grace, every flavour known to the east.’
She shrugged. ‘Nutmeg, cinnamon, I have all this.’
‘And yellow saffron, more precious than gold.’
She raised an eyebrow.
‘And perfumes. All the scents of the Orient for your pleasure alone.’ He smiled at her.
She smiled back.
This seemed to be going quite well.
And then, all of a sudden, it wasn’t.
A flustered chamberlain appeared at her elbow.
‘By Your Grace’s leave, the Earl of Bothwell desires admittance.’
I had a sudden flare of hope. He was here. Would she see him? Was our intervention unnecessary? Was History working alongside us to put this right?
Apparently not. All the progress we had made flew straight out of the window.