And Less Than Kind

by Mercedes Lackey

  Pasgen shrugged. "The desire for power sometimes wipes out common sense and there is power in that Evil. But we do not need to worry about losing the trail for long. It will burst out again." He bit his lip. "Unfortunately without us on its heels, it will have time for a more complete destruction of its next target."

  Hafwen put a hand on his wrist. "Let us go back to Avalon. I will speak to the ladies of the lens. Perhaps one of them can scry for such a Sidhe as the gnomes have described."

  "Will the guards at Avalon pass me?" Pasgen asked.

  Hafwen tightened her grip on his wrist and smiled. "I am sure they will . . . now."

  Chapter 28

  Inexorably in the early morning of March twenty-fourth, Elizabeth was removed to the Tower. To her relief the tide was too low for her to be brought in at Traitor's Gate. The barge that carried Elizabeth to the Tower landed at Tower Wharf. She was helped from the barge by Sir John Gage's men and crossed the drawbridge to the west of the fortress. There were dozens of guards lining the route and Elizabeth paused midway.

  "Are all these harnessed men for me?" she asked tensely.

  "No, madam," Gage replied, his lips twisting as in contempt.

  "Yes," Elizabeth insisted. "I know it is so." Her eyes met his and her head turned slowly so she could see up and down the ranks of men.

  "God save Your Grace," one voice called and then another.

  Gage flung up his head, but before he could roar for order, about half the men were on their knees with their caps in their hands. Elizabeth shook her head and found a tremulous smile, just as Gage snarled at the men, who came to their feet in haste. Elizabeth allowed one hand to creep through the edge of her cloak and twitched her fingers in acknowledgment, looking back over her shoulder as Gage led her in through Coldharbour Gate.

  Within, although she was not led to any dank dungeon, there was less comfort for her. The four commodious rooms assigned to her in the palace portion of the Tower were those in which her mother had waited to die, and the councilors who had accompanied her were planning to lock her in. Gage and Winchester wanted to turn the great keys in the heavy locks but Sussex would not agree.

  Tears marking his cheeks, he said, "What will you do, my lords? She was a king's daughter and is the queen's sister. You have no sufficient commission so to do. Therefore go no further than your commission." And after a significant pause, he added, "Let us use such dealing that we may answer it hereafter."

  Gage still wished to insist on treating Elizabeth like a common prisoner, but Winchester glanced at Elizabeth's white face and dark eyes and then urged Gage out of the door, Sussex following. Elizabeth listened tensely, but there was no sound of the great tumblers sliding home.

  She then turned away from the door toward the three women waiting to serve her. Her heart sank and cold filled her belly. Kat was not there, nor even sweet, silly Alice Finch. She had been sure Dorothy Stafford and Frances Dodd would not be allowed; they were too clever, but even Eleanor Gage had been removed . . . no doubt because she had become fond. Elizabeth knew only one of the faces—Elizabeth Marberry.

  She would not weep; she would not. She stared at them for a moment stiff with cold and terror. Was she to be all alone with not one kind face? Without a word, Elizabeth passed what she knew to be her female warders and sought sanctuary in the farthest room, the bedchamber. Eventually they would follow her, but her step was swift, her stride long. At least she would have time to wipe the tears from her eyes.

  But then Blanche was there, lifting her cloak from her shoulders. Elizabeth had left all the doors open as she passed. She did not dare utter a word, but Blanche's little smile told the tale. The councilors were male fools; they had not thought to change her servants.

  For now, no matter how loyal, the servants could do little beyond offer small comforts, foot-warmers and lap robes and warmed wine. All day on Palm Sunday, as if the heavens wept for her, it rained. The next day was clear, but the servants had whispered that, although the door had not been locked, there were guards just beyond it. Dutifully, Elizabeth sent one of her ladies to ask permission to take exercise; the permission was refused.

  The days passed heavily. Elizabeth was not allowed either books or writing materials. She did needlework, but more often the shining needle lay still as her eyes, dark with disquiet, stared out into nothing. On March thirtieth, Good Friday, the Council came in force to question Elizabeth again. Likely they should have known better. They pressed her hard on how a copy of her letter to the queen excusing herself from coming to London because she was ill found its way into the possession of the French ambassador.

  Elizabeth looked from one face to another, brows raised, as if she could not believe her ears at such stupidity. "Do you think me an idiot?" she retorted. "Why should I provide a copy of such a letter to the French? If one of my servants so betrayed me, you have my leave to punish him or her in any way you see fit. But, my lords, I would suggest you look first among your own people. They would profit far more from selling so empty a letter from me to the French than my people would."

  Her near contemptuous indifference and the simple logic of her reply made too much sense. Her women and menservants had already been questioned; every one denied vehemently that Elizabeth had ever suggested giving a copy of her letter to the French. If the copy was made without her permission, she was not guilty of anything. Moreover the copy could have been as easily made when it was in the queen's possession or any member of the Council's. The line of questioning was soon abandoned.

  Much more straitly she was accused of planning to go to Donnington and summoning to her support the retainers she had warned to arm themselves. She replied she never, neither by word of mouth nor word on paper, ordered a removal to Donnington.

  From that avowal she could not be moved, even when Croft was brought to confront her. She acknowledged that he had suggested she go to Donnington and that she had said she would consider his advice—because it was the easiest way to quiet him and be rid of him. And then added, "But what is this to the purpose, my lords? May I not go to mine own houses at all times?"

  Upon which Croft knelt and declared that he was very sorry to be brought as a witness against her, but that he had been tortured and threatened again and again touching what she had said to him.

  And the earl of Arundel also begged her pardon for troubling her about nothing. But others asked what she had replied to the letters Sir Thomas Wyatt confessed he sent to her.

  "I never had a letter from Sir Thomas," she replied. "If Lord Russell says he delivered one to my house, ask him if he put it into my hand. Whoever he delivered the message to had more sense than to pass it to me."

  Despite Arundel's apology, they returned again and again to her planned removal to Donnington. It would have been a sensible move if Elizabeth had been part of the rebellion and if she confessed to having planned to go, incriminating.

  Donnington was a castle and was defensible and it commanded the valley of the River Kennet which linked the Thames valley to the main road to Marlborough and the west. But Elizabeth could not be tricked or overawed into any confession. To every question about her plans, the stocking of the castle, and when she planned to go, Elizabeth stubbornly replied in the negative.

  "I did not go to Donnington. I did not plan to go to Donnington. I did not order any man of mine to go to Donnington. I will say the same no matter how often you ask. And as I told Bishop Gardiner when he first questioned me, the captain of my guards did order extra food and weapons after Sir James Croft told me of the unrest in the country. It was for our own use in Ashridge. None was sent to Donnington nor anywhere else. I spoke the truth to Bishop Gardiner then. I have spoken the truth to you now. I did not and would not rebel against my sister, my queen. I am Queen Mary's most loving and loyal subject, now and to the end."

  But Elizabeth's steady resistance to pressure to confess was not the final hurdle in the race for her life, and she had no power at all over that last test because it was n
ot hers. She could only wait in agonizing anxiety to learn what Sir Thomas Wyatt might be forced to confess. After a month of torment both physical and mental, Wyatt was brought to the scaffold on April eleventh. The tale of the letters sent to Elizabeth had been wrung out of him, but Wyatt was a fine, brave gentleman and whatever temptations had been offered to incriminate Elizabeth faded to nothing when he stood on the scaffold.

  Denoriel was in the crowd that had come to see Wyatt die. He was not there willingly; he had never before attended an execution. Bright Court Sidhe killed, although not often; however they did not indulge in public beheading. But Denoriel had to know what Wyatt would say in his last speech. If he implicated Elizabeth, Denoriel would somehow build a Gate to the Tower and bring her out.

  Physically shaken, trembling with weakness, Wyatt still spoke clearly to the watching crowd. He confessed he had rebelled, but did not say he was sorry. "And whereas it is said and whistled abroad that I should accuse my Lady Elizabeth's Grace and my Lord Courtenay; it is not so, good people. For I assure you neither they nor any other now in yonder hold or durance was privy of my rising or commotion before I began. As I have declared no less to the queen's Council. And this is most true."

  Denoriel uttered a gasp and tears of relief came to his eyes. Beside him, a burly man smelling strongly of onions said, "Good for him. They have used him hardly, I can see, but still he speaks the truth for Lady Elizabeth. And no man would lie when his soul will be facing God's justice in moments."

  "Indeed he speaks the truth," Denoriel said fervently. "Lady Elizabeth is no rebel, and all should hear Wyatt's words."

  The queen's men on the scaffold with Wyatt were not in agreement with Denoriel—or most of the watchers, many of whom had cheered Wyatt's exoneration of their beloved Lady Elizabeth. The priest who was supposed to minister to him tried to speak over his voice and say his words denied a written confession.

  But there was no written confession, Denoriel knew; had there been Elizabeth would have mounted the scaffold also. He saw that Wyatt would have said more, but another of Mary's men pulled at his sleeve to turn him away from the listening crowd. It was too late; they had heard. Elizabeth was a great favorite with the people of London. Word of her exoneration spread, not least to Elizabeth herself in low and hasty whispers from Blanche, who had heard of Wyatt's speech from the other servants.

  That night, Elizabeth prayed fervently for Wyatt's soul and then slept better than she had since the day she had arrived. The next day, perhaps hoping she did not know that Wyatt had cleared her moments before he died, Gardiner and some of the Council confronted Elizabeth again. They sought any hint of guilt, so little as a paling or blushing, any admission at all to save their faces and present to the people of England. They got nothing beyond steady denial and avowals of loyalty from her.

  Elizabeth's popularity grew as word of Wyatt's exoneration spread. Denoriel did his bit among the merchants of the city. They were already disgruntled by the queen's favoring everything Spanish, and the common folk murmured against so innocent a lady being kept in the grim environs of the Tower. The Council ordered that the "false report" of Wyatt's speech not be repeated, but it was useless. Hundreds of people had come to see the rebel die and had heard him clear Elizabeth of compliance.

  The next day, two young men were sent to the pillory for spreading the word that Wyatt had cleared Lady Elizabeth of any part in the rebellion. But they were most gently treated by the crowd; a few folk even cheered them. Moreover, Wyatt's head, which had been exhibited on a gibbet, was daringly stolen on the seventeenth, no doubt to be given an honorable burial. Rhoslyn watched Mary forbid any search for the thief; Mary was sick of death.

  Without intruding on their minds—Rhoslyn was afraid that if she touched Renard Vidal would sense her interference—she also saw that Renard and Gardiner were coming to realize Elizabeth would not go to the block. Mary had abandoned that idea altogether, and as soon as she made up her mind to find a different way to deal with her sister, Rhoslyn saw to it that her headaches and stomach cramps all but disappeared. Mary now thought more and more of her coming marriage and less and less of the late unpleasantness, including Elizabeth.

  Rhoslyn was sewing nearby when in a last ditch effort to get her to condemn Elizabeth, Renard told Mary that considering all the rebels she had pardoned and the fact that Elizabeth and Courtenay were still alive, he did not think Philip would be safe in England. But even that, Renard's sharpest arrow, this time did not penetrate. With tears in her eyes, Mary assured him that she would rather never have been born than that any harm should come to Philip. But she did not order Elizabeth be put on trial.

  A week later, a warrant for Elizabeth's immediate execution was delivered to Sir John Brydges, Lieutenant of the Tower. Had it been delivered to Gage, Elizabeth might have died or been forced to go Underhill, but Brydges, although a firm Catholic, was an honest and careful man.

  The warrant had not been delivered by a high Court functionary nor with the ceremony he would have expected to surround the condemnation of the queen's sister. Brydges examined the warrant very carefully. A number of passionately Catholic Council members had signed it, but the queen's signature was missing. Brydges did not officially report the matter, but he did tell Lord William Howard, who thanked him with great warmth.

  Mary heard of the forged death warrant through a whisper from the marchioness of Exeter, who could not make up her mind whether she was more horrified by the attempt or by Elizabeth's escape from it. And Mary was stricken by the worst headache she had had since she had first decided to send Elizabeth to the Tower—a decision she regretted more each time she thought of it.

  She was so ill, she had to cancel a meeting with Renard and go to bed. Rhoslyn sat beside her, reading softly from a book of meditations. In the evening, Mary sent an order to the Tower, which she signed prominently, forbidding any act against Elizabeth unless it was confirmed by herself in person. After that, Mary felt much better and was able to attend her evening Court.

  Brydges, seeking to cheer his prisoner, who was bored and tired of her confinement, told Elizabeth about Mary's care for her. Elizabeth spoke promptly and gratefully about her sister's kindness, but slid from that subject to questions about why such an order was needed. Not averse to displaying his cleverness to his enchanting ward, Brydges confessed his detection of the false warrant.

  Elizabeth paled noticeably; she resolved at that moment to sleep with her shields up, but only thanked Brydges so warmly that he colored and assured her that her safety and well-being were among the most important of his duties. But only three nights later, a young man with a forged permission from Brydges to deliver a bottle of fine wine to Lady Elizabeth was passed by the indifferent and bored Tower guards into Elizabeth's chambers.

  The ladies had gone to bed as soon as it grew dark; there was very little to occupy them since Elizabeth had no books for study, no writing paper for letters, and no confidence in the women. Having learned in her previous confinement that it was dangerous to be unpleasant to her assigned attendants, she spoke to them pleasantly enough, but only on the most mundane of subjects—about the dishes at dinner or their needlework.

  The young man made his way through the darkened rooms without difficulty; on Renard's recommendation he had been appointed one of Elizabeth's gentlemen grooms. A little to his surprise he was stopped by the guard at the bedchamber door. He showed the bottle of wine, and when the man bent down to examine the forged pass, in one swift motion he struck the guard with the bottle.

  Softly he opened the door, slipped in, and stood a moment to accustom his eyes to the even dimmer light. It did not take long for him to make his way to the great bed and most silently draw the bedcurtain aside. God's will to forward his purpose seemed clear; Elizabeth was fast asleep on the side of the bed he had approached. Silently he drew the long, thin poniard from its sheathe at his waist, raised it, and struck!

  Elizabeth woke with a shriek. The young man cried out almost a
s loudly because his knife had simply rebounded from the lady's body. Not believing what had happened, assuming the knife had turned in his hand so it did not strike true, he struck again. The poniard still would not bite. It slid down Elizabeth's side into the bedclothes, and was torn from his hand as she twisted away.

  When his victim first screamed, he reached out to close her mouth to silence her . . . and his hand simply would not touch her face. He did not believe that either, and could only account it a miracle of God's to protect her. She screamed again and again. The young man turned to flee; then he yelled as a white figure, also shrieking, rose up from the foot of the bed and clutched at him.

  He shook off the hands and heard screaming, "Catch him! Catch him! Do not let him escape. Oh, Elizabeth, call the guard. Where is the guard?"

  The guard was unconscious, in a pool of wine. The assassin easily evaded the pursuing women, barefoot and clad only in their night rails. He burst through the door past the outer guards and careened away down the stair. The delay of the guards to listen to the shrieking women and try to understand what they said, merely guaranteed the escape of the would-be assassin.

  As soon as the women were gone, although she was panting with fear Elizabeth dismissed her shield, found the knife the assassin had tried to use, and added several large rents to the sheets. When the ladies came back, they found Blanche with a stout cudgel in her hand, standing over her weeping mistress. Mary's ladies they may have been, but the terrible shock had awakened a strong sympathy for Elizabeth and they spent the rest of the night huddled around her on her bed.