That evening, as we were preparing the princess for bed, there was a knock at the door to the apartments. Blanche went to answer it, irritable and perplexed, and came back into the bedchamber with a tall, stately woman in tow. She was swathed in a cloak of soft dove-grey, her lined face partially concealed beneath her hood, but Elizabeth seemed to recognize her at once as one of the Queen’s ladies-in-waiting.
‘Mistress Clarencieux,’ she said faintly, and curtseyed. Her face was suddenly very pale. ‘Have you come from the Queen?’
The woman nodded. ‘Her Majesty wishes to see you.’
‘Now?’
Elizabeth’s eyes widened, though she sounded more alarmed than surprised. She was probably afraid they might take this chance to convey the princess to the Tower of London under cover of darkness. She was still so popular with the common people that I imagined the government must fear sparking a riot if they tried to take her to the Tower by daylight.
‘Are you ready?’ Mistress Clarencieux replied, a little haughtily, and I sensed that she did not like Elizabeth.
Elizabeth hesitated, then nodded. No doubt she felt this might be her only chance to clear her name.
Her face composed, Elizabeth allowed Blanche to fasten a cloak about her shoulders and bring her outdoor shoes. Then we set off down the stairs to the privy garden, with Mistress Clarencieux leading the way. Blanche and I followed the princess, both of us unwilling to let her face the Queen alone. Behind us came half a dozen of Elizabeth’s guards, their faces stern, and several gentlemen ushers with torches.
We crossed the privy garden in silence under a gentle moonlight, and came to the base of the Queen’s lodgings.
The door swung open on a narrow winding stair lit by flaming torches in brackets. My heart beating hard, I glanced at Blanche. She was trembling, her lips moving in a silent prayer. It seemed that neither of us expected this night to end well.
Indeed, it was hard not to be frightened when all the time we could hear the gentle lapping of the River Thames behind us. It was only a short barge trip along the river to the Tower of London, the grim prison where Elizabeth’s mother had been lodged before her execution.
‘No one but the Lady Elizabeth,’ the Queen’s lady-in-waiting told us, barring our way.
Elizabeth turned, and there was naked fear in her eyes. ‘I will not go up alone,’ she insisted, and a mulish look crept over her face. I thought she had never looked younger. ‘Mistress Parry must accompany me.’
But Mistress Clarencieux shook her head. ‘Not Blanche Parry,’ she said cruelly, then her gaze flicked contemptuously to me. ‘You may take the girl instead.’
Gathering my full skirts, I stepped into the base of the tower after Elizabeth. They did not want the princess to feel safe or comfortable with her old servants about her. That was why I had been chosen. But I saw relief in Elizabeth’s face and wondered if she was hoping my gift might help sway the Queen to forgive her.
My palms began to sweat as I followed Elizabeth up the winding stair. Did she expect me to influence the Queen herself? I could lose my head for such a dangerous act, and this time there would be no one to save me.
To my surprise, the Queen’s apartments lay in silence and almost complete darkness. I did not entirely know what I had expected, but this sombre, unlit maze of rooms seemed more suited to a mole under the earth than a queen. Certainly I could never envisage Elizabeth living in such humble conditions once she was on the throne. Mistress Clarencieux seemed unperturbed by the darkness, leading us without faltering down a narrow, low-ceilinged corridor that opened into a vast, palatial apartment dominated by a magnificent bed hung with heavy curtains in some dark material. This room was lit only by a small fire that burned fitfully in the enormous hearth, its light barely reaching the creeping shadows beside the bed.
Coming to the centre of this strange room, Elizabeth sank at once to her knees and appeared to be praying fervently. I followed her example, kneeling a few feet behind her. I too bowed my head over my clasped hands as if in prayer, though all my senses were alive, listening to each tiny sound in the room.
Then Elizabeth raised her head and spoke, seeming to address the deep shadows beside the drape-hung bed. I feared to stare too hard, but listened instead. Earnestness trembled behind every word, a slight catch to Elizabeth’s voice as though she was on the point of tears.
‘Your Majesty,’ she breathed, ‘please believe that I am your humble and most loyal subject. Whatever you may have heard to the contrary, I protest these to be lies and wicked falsehoods. This I swear by Almighty God. You know my heart, for it is unchanged. I have remained true to Your Majesty from the beginning and shall be for ever.’
There was a movement from the shadows, a pale hand raised to an even paler face. The fire flared behind me, and I saw the slumped figure of the Queen, seated on a high-backed chair near the bed.
‘Still you cling so stoutly to the same tale and refuse to confess your offence.’ A hoarse voice spoke out of the shadows near the bed. ‘Take caution, Elizabeth, that your immortal soul be not perjured in this.’
‘I cannot confess an offence of which I am innocent, Your Majesty.’
‘I pray to God it may fall out so.’
‘If it does not,’ Elizabeth said, her voice tremulous, her hands still clasped together, ‘I request neither Your Majesty’s favour nor your pardon.’
‘Be that as it may,’ the Queen replied sharply, and straightened in her chair. The heaped folds of her gown fell away to reveal a large, rounded belly. I remembered the horoscope John Dee had cast, and wondered if there was indeed a child growing in there, or whether my own reading of the chart had been right, that the child was nothing but a phantom conjured up by a Queen desperate for an heir. ‘I daresay you will claim now that you have been unjustly punished at my hands.’
‘I should never say so to you, Your Majesty.’
The Queen snorted. ‘To others, then. Once you are safely away from here.’
‘No indeed, Your Majesty,’ Elizabeth persisted, and her voice grew more gentle. ‘For my long imprisonment is a burden which only I must bear. I have borne it now for more than a year. What I have told you here is nothing but God’s own truth. I humbly beg and pray Your Majesty to have a good opinion of me and to consider me still your true subject.’
There was a long silence. I felt the heat of the fire at my back, sweat on my forehead, and heard the rustle of Queen Mary’s gown as she shifted heavily in her chair. She was breathing erratically now, as though torn between two equally painful courses of action. The princess had never stood in sharper danger, I realized.
I stilled my own breathing to concentrate on the Queen’s instead. My fingers tingled with power, suddenly hot, almost unbearably so. If I could not influence her to show mercy, there was nothing to prevent Mary from sending her half-sister to the Tower, and from there to the block. After all, why not? Elizabeth, with her red-gold hair and flawless skin, must remind the ageing Mary of that wicked young beauty who had stolen King Henry away from her mother.
If Anne Boleyn could die a traitor’s death on the scaffold, so too could her daughter.
In, out. In, out. In, out.
I raised my eyes to that shadowy face, just the faintest gleam of eyes in the firelight, and fought the Queen’s frantic and almost hysterical desire to condemn her sister to death. Sweat crept down my neck, my body ached, and my mind warred with hers in terrible silence. Never before had I attempted something so grindingly difficult, to use my gift without speaking, to influence someone’s will with just the power of my mind. Yet somehow I had to do it. I could not fail Elizabeth again.
The Queen’s breath caught in her throat. Mary was about to speak.
‘Sí,’ Mary whispered, her head turned aside. ‘Sí, sí, entiendo.’
My gaze widened on the Queen’s face. She had spoken under her breath in Spanish, but to whom?
Rapidly, I searched the room with my eyes whilst trying not to draw attention
to myself, still on my knees behind the princess. Perhaps there, in the shadows behind the bed, where the curtains hung most darkly . . .
Queen Mary stirred. She gestured Elizabeth to rise and held out her hand.
‘Come, sister, let us be comfortable together and argue no longer. I had a most favourable report from the priests who were with you at Woodstock, and I know you have taken the Catholic faith to your heart.’
Elizabeth stepped forward and kissed Mary’s hand, then drew back, swaying slightly as though ill.
‘Perhaps I have been too harsh with you,’ the Queen muttered, seeming genuinely contrite. ‘Your cheeks seem very flushed. The palace at Woodstock was very damp, I am told. The air there does not seem to have agreed with you.’
‘I am not as well as Your Majesty,’ Elizabeth replied, lying smoothly. I saw her head turn as though her gaze was lingering on those deep shadows behind the curtained bed. ‘But now that I have come to court again, Your Majesty, perhaps my health will improve.’
Was it possible that Elizabeth knew who was hiding there, and was addressing that person – and not the Queen?
The two sisters spoke quietly together, mostly of the pleasures of country living compared to the smells and hardships of court. Then the Queen professed herself tired and dismissed us with a wave of her stubby-fingered hand. I followed Elizabeth out of the apartments, my head bowed discreetly. Had my magick arts had any effect on Queen Mary, or had she been influenced by whoever had been hiding in the shadows?
Whichever, the outcome was the same. All charges against the Lady Elizabeth had been dropped and she was not to be taken to the Tower again. I was overjoyed for the princess, and more than a little relieved for my own sake. If Marcus Dent had survived the hellish storm into which I had cast him, he had not yet sent word to the court that the Lady Elizabeth had a witch for a maidservant. So perhaps my spell that night had held true, binding the witchfinder’s tongue and hands against betraying us. It was an exhilarating thought.
Back in the safety of her private apartments, Elizabeth hid her face in her hands and stood speechless for a moment, her whole body shaking. I thought at first that she was weeping. Then she raised her reddish-gold head and burst out laughing, her eyes alight with it.
‘I am free!’ Elizabeth told Blanche Parry, clapping her hands in delight. ‘It is over. I am free!’
EPILOGUE
Promises, Promises
Following her late-night interview with the Queen, the door to Elizabeth’s apartments stood constantly open to a stream of well-wishers and courtiers curious to see the newly-pardoned princess. She kept discreetly to her rooms for a few more days, then began to venture out into the court itself. Then Elizabeth was invited to dine in the banqueting hall, and went thankfully, delighted with her new prominence. Even King Philip came to see her on several occasions, his blue eyes appreciative of her youth and beauty. His priests and Spanish courtiers often accompanied him, no less admiring, though I never saw Alejandro de Castillo among them.
Indeed, it was almost June before I saw Alejandro again. That morning, Elizabeth had insisted on a game of bowls in the privy garden, and was playing barefoot in the warm sunshine, surrounded by her newly gathered entourage.
Feeling a little low, I begged leave of Blanche Parry to be excused from my duties for an hour or two. Blanche did not seem to mind. Her eyes glowed as she watched Elizabeth enjoying herself in company once more, free of taint and wearing a newly refitted court gown with a gold foreskirt and peach satin sleeves.
I slipped away from their laughter and games, ducked under the low arch of the waterside gate and took a walk along the gently rolling river.
Even alone, I could not seem to shake off my mood, which felt like a heavy grey cloud hanging over me. Perhaps, I thought dismally, I should have stayed with Elizabeth and hoped to catch the eye of some young man who would offer me marriage and a good home. That was how I had always imagined I would spend my days at court, after all.
Yet now that I was here, and Elizabeth was out of disgrace, I found myself constantly unhappy and on edge. As though there was something else I should have been doing, but I had forgotten what it was.
Suddenly I shrieked in horror. A vast, long-tailed rat had darted out of a muddy hole in the river bank and was scuttling towards me, its black eyes gleaming. There was something horrible about the way the rat stopped a few feet away from me, standing on its hind legs like a man, and with such an air of purpose . . .
I stared. It was as though the rat knew me, as though it had been waiting for me and was now about to attack, its eyes as mad and determined as those of Marcus Dent.
I began to back away, my heart shuddering with panic, and cried aloud as a pair of strong arms seized me.
Looking up with a shocked reprimand on my lips, I fell silent. It was Alejandro de Castillo.
‘Why did you scream?’ he demanded.
‘There was a rat.’
In vain, I looked round, up and down the stinking, muddy bank of the Thames. The black rat had disappeared. I felt myself flush with embarrassment. Standing on its hind legs, indeed. It had been nothing but my stupid imagination running away with me again.
His brows had risen at my explanation. His tone became sardonic. ‘This is a river, Meg. There are always rats on a river.’
Now my heart was beating hard for quite another reason. Alejandro was quite infuriatingly handsome, I thought, trying not to stare at his chin, his mouth, the broad forehead or sweeping dark hair.
Was I in love with the Spaniard?
It didn’t matter even if I loved him to Hell and back, I told myself fiercely. I turned and fixed my little-girl-in-love gaze on the dirtily flowing river instead of him. This thing bursting in my heart was an impossibility. Alejandro and I could never fit together in this dangerous England that Queen Mary had made. That was something I had to accept, and the sooner the better.
Alejandro set me back on my feet and bowed low, one hand on his sword hilt. I curtseyed in return, unsure why he had come out here after me.
When I looked at him again, his face was as sombre as it had been on the day we parted. I knew then that Alejandro had not forgiven me.
‘I hear that Elizabeth is no longer under guard,’ he said, watching me steadily.
‘Yes, the Queen finally agreed to see her, and after that meeting the guards disappeared.’ I felt my cheeks grow hot under his gaze. ‘I think we may have you to thank for that courtesy, Señor de Castillo. Her Majesty mentioned your letter.’
His brows rose again at that. ‘Señor de Castillo?’ he echoed softly.
My flush deepened. ‘Alejandro.’
Alejandro took my hand and raised it to his lips. ‘Meg,’ he said, pronouncing my name with obvious satisfaction, and there was something in his tone that made my toes curl and my body shiver.
‘Anyway, thank you for helping,’ I whispered.
‘It is King Philip you should thank for the Lady Elizabeth’s release,’ he told me quietly. Although he was still not smiling, the taut lines about his mouth seemed to have melted away.
‘So the King was there!’ I exclaimed, and he hushed me. I dropped my voice. ‘I knew there was someone else in the chamber with us, hiding behind the bed curtains. The Queen spoke in Spanish. So it was the King?’
At last he smiled, and gave a little nod. ‘But that is not to be told to Elizabeth.’
I searched his face. ‘Very well.’
A stately barge of courtiers on a pleasure trip floated slowly past on the Thames. Some of the richly dressed lords and ladies on board stared at us, much to my annoyance. I stared back until they averted their eyes.
Frowning, Alejandro touched my hood with its trailing veil. ‘Is your hair growing back under this?’
Damn my blush!
‘A little every day,’ I agreed. ‘The Lady Elizabeth thinks it best if I keep my hair hidden while it grows, so the courtiers don’t stare.’
Alejandro nodded. ‘Of course,�
�� he interrupted bluntly. ‘She wants you to marry.’
‘No.’ I laughed at his misunderstanding. ‘Quite the opposite. I do not think Elizabeth wants me to marry at all. Now she is back at court, it suits her better to have other unmarried women about her. This hood is so severe, I think she’s hoping no man will look twice at me.’
‘A court of virgins,’ he mused, ‘to set against an ageing Queen, still undelivered of her child?’
I looked away. I had been wrong. He had understood perfectly.
‘There is a whisper,’ I said cautiously, ‘that the Queen is not pregnant at all. That she was never pregnant.’
Alejandro looked sombre again. ‘Time will tell,’ was all he would say on that score, though he took my hand again. This time I could feel his heart beat through the rapid thud of warm blood. His thumb caressed the inside of my palm. ‘Meg, I am glad to have found you alone at last. There is something I wish to ask you. That is, I was wondering . . .’
My mouth was suddenly dry. I stared up at him, terrified of what he was going to say. If I was honest, I had dreamed of this moment a thousand times, staring out of the window or lying in my bed at night. I had imagined Alejandro’s voice, how he would take me in his arms afterwards . . .
For a few precious seconds, I met his beautiful eyes and my heart sang with joy. And then reality flooded back into my heart, cold and cruel as the water they had tried to drown me in. Alejandro was soon to be a priest. I was a witch, or would be one day, if I could find a way to complete my apprenticeship now that my aunt was dead.
Such a marriage would be like hitching a cart to a cat. Fur would fly from the beginning.
‘My family back in Spain is very wealthy,’ he began, as though this would reassure me. His smile was awkward. ‘I have my own large and gracious home in the country, and lands too, with a marvellous vineyard. I even have a title that I will inherit in time, for only a nobleman may become a priest in the Order of Santiago. I would be honoured if you would share those things with me, Meg Lytton.’
Witchstruck Page 25