Jack did know. But to hear Heydon talk of it as though it was all a grand game – a game at dice or cards – was troubling. ‘When do we move?’
‘To Tutbury?’ asked Heydon. Jack actually meant to London, but he shrugged, happier with the misunderstanding. ‘Up to the earl. I’d hoped not to have to see that place again, but it can’t be helped. It’s close enough to the north to be useful too, I suppose.
‘Your wife – what was she saying to you there? And when you left Queen Mary’s chamber?’
‘Only that she thought something was happening. At last, she said.’
‘What did she mean by that?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘And still she’s met with no one – you’ve found her sharing news with no man?’
‘No. She speaks only with her fellow maids. Sometimes with the countess – the old woman seems to have taken a shine to her.’
‘I see,’ said Heydon. ‘Well, you’re forewarned. I expect Woodward will be along soon to give you a bellyful of the Bible and get you moving. Get a start now and avoid him.’
***
Amy felt no sense of elation. She had hoped that when Queen Elizabeth found out about all the back and forth of letters between Mary and Norfolk, the Scottish queen would be sent out of the Shrewsburys’ care and into the Tower of London. Yet all that seemed to be happening was a move back to draughty and smelly old Tutbury. If Brown had a hand in any of it, he was not the most effective agent in the world.
As the preparations to remove the queen back to the crumbling castle were begun, Amy went out of her way to consult with the countess – ostensibly on the trifling matter of which bedlinens should be packed. In truth, she suspected that Bess herself was working with Brown. Only she would warrant entry to his private lodgings. She had, too, tried to recruit Amy as a spy, and sent other gentlewomen into Mary’s chambers as watchers. It might be her.
Armed with her cover story, Amy made her way to the countess’s private office. Before she could reach it, she heard raised voices. Bess’s Derbyshire drawl was the loudest. As Amy listened, she felt her heart flutter – if only a little.
‘It’s a matter of trust, my lord, trust. The queen don’t trust us, that’s all there is to it.’
‘Yes, my love. But what can we do?’
‘You leave that to me, husband. I know Elizabeth well enough. And this man, this Huntingdon, what is he like? You know him?’ Shrewsbury’s response was too muffled to discern. Bess’s next words drowned him out anyway. ‘It’s a punishment, too. She blames us for this Norfolk foolery. Cecil knew – they all knew, all about it. Yet she calls us … I can’t even say it. She blames us because she can’t blame them for their deceit, simple as that.’
Amy had no idea who ‘Huntingdon’ was.
‘We didn’t ask for this,’ said Bess, ‘not none of it.’ Her voice lost a little of its heat. ‘And yet we have the expense of it. And the blame when the queen’s ministers keep secrets from her. I don’t know why we bother, sometimes, really I don’t.’
‘But what to do, sweetheart?’ asked Shrewsbury. His voice was still weak. He had never really recovered from the illness that had plagued him early in the summer.
‘Put up with him, I suppose. Put up with him spying and informing Elizabeth that we’re soft and weak and in thrall to the prisoner she thrust upon us.’ The earl made a weak little noise. ‘Yet we needn’t put up with it quietly. No, my lord, not all. If Huntingdon is going to lord it over us in our own house, poke his nose into the way we keep custody of this queen, then he’ll hear our complaints too.’
‘We should then write her Majesty?’
‘Write, fie! I shall go to her.’
‘But you cannot – we cannot leave our guest.’
‘We can’t – I can!’
Amy eased her ear away from the door. So someone called Huntingdon had been drafted in to keep a closer eye on Queen Mary than the Shrewsburys had been doing. Perhaps Brown had come through after all.
The door flew open.
‘What the devil?’ asked Bess. ‘You girl, what do you mean creeping along corridors?’
‘I need to find out about the linens, my lady. Mr Woodward says we’re all to be moving soon.’
‘Does he indeed?’ Bess stepped out and closed the door on her husband. ‘I want only the cheapest and the meanest linens brought out of this place,’ she said, her voice low. ‘See to that. I want no more good things spoilt by rot and damp. And…’ she trailed off, as though deciding how much to say. ‘Well, you’ll all have to know soon enough. Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth has ordered that a new man be sent up to us. To help us keep custody of the Scottish queen. The earl of Huntingdon. A good man. I don’t want him thinking that we keep the lady in luxury, coddling her and letting her scheme and plot. You understand me?’
‘Yes, my lady.’
‘You recall I said that I might go up to London some time, to court?’ Amy nodded her head. ‘Yes, I said I might bring you along, girl. I don’t forget a promise, not to one of my girls. Should you still like that? A visit to London?’
‘Yes, my lady. Very much.’ Changed times, she thought, to be saying that. London was a pit. But anywhere was better than a prison.
‘I’ll remember that. Do you sew?’
‘Yes,’ said Amy, delight streaking across her face. It felt a long time since she had really smiled. ‘My mother was a seamstress. It’s what I want, to ply –’
‘Good. I mean, I couldn’t take a laundress to court. Might as well say I find the queen’s servants poor – that I think the queen sleeps in her own filth.’ Bess seemed to find this hilarious, and she barked laughter. Amy smiled politely. ‘Right. Away with you, girl. Remember what I said about the linens. Be sure that only the meanest are packed. We’ll show this Huntingdon that we’re no slaves to the queen of Scots.’
She gave Amy a little push to get her moving and then returned to her husband. Amy kept her smile. Huntingdon, she was sure, would be the answer to her prayers. He would be the man to take Mary Stuart and her minions away. He would be the one to free Jack from their rotten influence.
2
Jack had his shirtsleeves rolled up. He had finished brushing down the stallion that Norfolk had sent with him – the stallion that had never seen any hard riding. It seemed that Norfolk would never send anything else. The rumours were that he was under house arrest – probably bound for the Tower. No one seemed to know exactly what was happening, but there were no more letters, no more trinkets or pledges of love and money sent to Queen Mary.
The quality of light changed in the stable and Jack turned. In the doorway stood a tall man. Even with the light at his back, Jack could tell who it was. The earl of Huntingdon had been awaiting them when they arrived at Tutbury, a tall, austere man with a neat blonde beard, waxed to a fine point. He remained in the doorway for a few seconds, saying nothing. Then he raised a hand, clicked a finger, and pointed to the side. From behind him a soldier appeared and took up his station where Huntingdon had indicated. The earl then strode in. In his wake hobbled Shrewsbury, leaning on a cane and looking very small.
‘So this is where her couriers arrive?’ asked Huntingdon. His voice was high-pitched, making it sound like everything he saw and spoke of was beneath him. He did not wait for Shrewsbury’s response. Instead he strode forwards, towards Jack.
Heydon had warned him about the new earl. He was apparently related to Queen Elizabeth – he stood somewhere in the royal succession, though he showed no particular interest in the throne. Instead, his interest was in ferreting out Catholics and seeing them to the gallows. As they stood toe to toe, Jack could almost imagine the man sniffing at him, detecting his change in faith. ‘Name?’
‘Cole, my lord.’
‘This is the fellow sent from Norfolk with the horse?’ asked Huntingdon, not taking his eyes from Jack.
‘It is,’ wheezed Shrewsbury. ‘He is a well trusted young fellow.’
‘By you, perhaps. We a
ll know what trust reposes in you.’ Shrewsbury said nothing, but Jack coloured. Huntingdon was of Shrewsbury’s rank. He owed the old man respect. Instead he was belittling him in front of a servant. ‘I don’t trust you, Cole. I don’t trust any of you who’ve been working in this tainted place.’ He stepped backwards, and brushed down his doublet, swishing his half-cloak back. Jack realised he wanted to give the impression that proximity had soiled him. ‘I have no doubt you, boy, have been passing that woman’s disgusting letters to her. Under your nose,’ he spat at Shrewsbury. Jack kept his eyes ahead, staring at nothing.
Huntingdon clicked his fingers again, and another soldier came into the stable. ‘I want this place taken apart. Look under hay. Look in any barrels of feed – empty everything. The slaves here can put it together again. If you find anything – anything – bring it to me immediately. Come, my lord of Shrewsbury. Where do the servants sleep?’
‘We have had the old hunting lodge made up into sleeping chambers. As at Wingfield, male and females separate. To stop them having to leave the castle.’ Shrewsbury sounded like he was making a bid to be helpful.
‘Hmph. Some sense, then. Yet a place for them to gather and plot together. We will see what the kitchens and the laundry have to offer first.’ He turned to look again around the stables, where already a soldier had begun kicking at bales of hay. ‘Yes, you’ve all had rather a high old time of it here. That is all over, I assure you.’
Huntingdon swept from the room. Shrewsbury gave Jack an apologetic look. He did not look at the soldiers but began limping after his departing new tormentor.
When they had gone, Jack left the ongoing destruction. The soldier at the door did not try and stop him – in fact, he had joined his fellow and was using his sword to stab at haystacks. He caught sight of Huntingdon’s tall, straight back as he went up the hill to the castle proper. He did not pause, letting his half-crippled old peer totter after him. For a man in his early forties, Shrewsbury had aged in the past year to something nearer sixty.
If Huntingdon was intent on finding something – proof of Mary resistance to Elizabeth, or the resistance of her servants – that meant the possibility of the stolen Scottish document being found. He began walking uphill himself, hoping to find Heydon and discover where exactly he had hidden it.
***
Within days of Huntingdon’s arrival, Amy had begun to wonder at what she had unleashed on the household. She stood in the laundry as men tipped over coffers of sheets, thrusting their hands in and pulling them out. ‘Here, hold on,’ she cried. ‘You’ll rip them.’ She and her fellow maids were lined up against the wall of the room.
The soldier gave her a crooked smile, held up a sheet, and tore it down the middle. Huntingdon looked on, his face impassive. ‘What have you found? I tell you, lads, it will be these women who fall under that wretched Scottish queen’s spell. Fools – addle-pated fools.’
‘There’s nowt here, my lord.’
‘Nothing? Well, they have just gained wit in hiding their crimes. How now, girls, have you passed your secret notes and papers into the Scottish queen’s own hands?’
No one spoke.
‘Very well. Hold your peace, then. We shall take the queen’s rooms apart. But know this: if anything is found there, we know that it did not walk in by itself. We know that some crooked members of this household have given the woman succour. Come, lads.’
She watched the earl and his men go, leaving behind their whirlwind of destruction. No, this was not what she had wanted at all. She would have to find Brown and let him know that the new man was overzealous. In truth, she had begun to wonder just how a lowly figure had managed to get an earl sent down. That is, if he had had a hand in it. She had no idea how the structures of power worked. Perhaps Brown reported to someone, who reported to someone, who eventually reported to Cecil and the queen. Probably Mr Brown had no real influence as to who was sent or recalled, or what they did when they arrived. Still, she would have to try. If Huntingdon was going to rip apart the castle every time the whim struck him, then she was responsible for everyone’s misery and fear. What would suit everyone, then, was if the high-toned bastard found something – some proof of treachery and took Mary away.
She thought of the Scottish queen. She had hated her, wanted her gone, imprisoned somewhere dark and forgotten. But the woman had tried to build bridges between her and Jack. What was more, she felt that Jack might actually have listened to her. Was that artifice? Was the woman exercising the charm that men always spoke of? Or … or could it be that she was simply a sad, pleasant woman who had fallen victim to the men around her?
It did not matter. What mattered was getting Mary taken off the Shrewsburys’ hands and making sure Jack didn’t suffer for falling under the spell of a priest. Something, though, drew her feet up towards the royal apartments. She crept along the wall of the corridor, the sound of angry sobs drifting towards her.
‘Where is it? Where are your letters, woman, where are your secrets? We know you have them.’
‘You are speaking to a queen,’ said Shrewsbury, his voice small but steel-edged.
‘I know to whom I’m speaking, thank you, my lord – and she is now a queen without a kingdom. She is nothing but a papist scourge on this land. Well, where are your letters, your Majesty?’
The sound of Mary’s sobbing rose in pitch, and Amy heard Bess. ‘That’s enough, my lord. The queen is … she’s distraught.’
‘My lord of Shrewsbury, if you would control your wife.’
‘I can speak for myself,’ Bess growled. Good for you, thought Amy.
‘Control your wife, my lord,’ Huntingdon repeated, no trace of emotion in his voice. Shrewsbury made inarticulate little noises. ‘But see that she is not so familiar with this woman in future.’
‘Come, your Majesty,’ said Bess, her voice suddenly all honey. ‘I’m sure my lord of Huntingdon is just being a mite cautious. Won’t you sit?’ Amy couldn’t see what was happening, but when Huntingdon spoke, she could hear that Bess’s attempts to needle and undermine him worked. He positively squeaked in rage.
‘You see! You see! You see, Shrewsbury, what stuff there is between women? Your wife has become a … a friend to this woman. A friend to a prisoner of the queen of England.’
‘It’s no crime to pass the time of day with a woman. We’ve had no commands to lock this lady in a dungeon,’ said Bess. Her voice had turned calm, making Huntingdon sound crazy.
‘Your wife has been turned,’ he shrieked. ‘I shall have to tell the queen of this. Tell her that her prisoner is being cosseted and preened by her gaoler’s wife.’
‘My lord, please, I think there’s no need for –’
‘I understand you have even allowed her visitors.’ Huntingdon all but spat the word. ‘VIS-I-TORS!’
‘Some gentlemen have come, it is true,’ said Shrewsbury. ‘To pay their respects to her Majesty.’
‘To pay – to gape like landed fish at a caged lioness, a caged viper. And to plot with her, I’ll be bound, to wink at her escape from this place. I see what goes on, oh yes. You and your wife – you’ve been enjoying the fame of this enterprise. Showing her off to the local gentry, eh? Your captive que–’
‘Nothing, my lord,’ said a new voice. Amy recognised it as one of the soldiers who had helped destroy the laundry.
‘Nothing in the bedchamber? You checked under the bed? I heard that this queen once hid a lover under her bed and killed him when her brother discovered it.’
‘Nothing. Just papist toys and books.’
‘What books?’ The soldier did not response; Amy supposed that he must have shrugged or shook his head. Perhaps he could not read. There was some more stomping and crashing, but no voices spoke for a while. She started to wander away, when she heard Mary speak.
‘You are a cruel man,’ she said, dignity giving weight to a sob-ravaged voice. ‘I can see that. Yet your cruelty shall not get you anything. There is nothing to get. I have done nothing.’
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‘Nothing, eh? I have heard the rumours from our eyes in the north, madam. If there is discontent there it is you have sewn it. And these people who have let you. All of them, the whole pack, top to bottom. No more. If those fools up there raise arms and die for it, it is all of you who will have the blame.’
Amy walked away from royal apartments. She paused at an open shutter downstairs and let the breeze wash over her. It was rancid, heavy with the smell of sewers, as all breezes seemed to be at Tutbury, but she welcomed the sting. She deserved it. It carried the sounds of hammering, sawing, kicking, tearing, and crying.
***
Heydon was in the little office room. ‘Jack,’ he said, rising. ‘What’s the face for?’
‘That man, Huntingdon. He’s tearing apart the stables. He’s looking for anything he can to hurt Queen Mary. I …’ Jack let his eyes wander over the room. Books and papers were all laid out neatly for inspection.
‘He’s yet to get here. I won’t have him tearing anything apart.’
‘But … the paper we took from Scotland!’
Heydon chanced a look at the closed door behind Jack, before he removed his hat and set it on an empty space on the table. Then he turned it over. ‘A fine lining, isn’t it?’ With a deft movement, he pulled the lining out of the hat, revealing the square of paper. Then he replaced it, pressing it in tight with the tips of his fingers. He put it back on his head and bowed.
‘I still don’t think it’s safe enough on your person. I should bury it somewhere. In a box. In the woods.’
‘Oh no. The queen’s bastard brother thought that leaving it off his person would keep it safe. And here it is, hundreds of miles away, in a foreign land in a man’s hat. I won’t be making that mistake.’
‘Hmph,’ said Jack. Again he tossed his head, forgetting about the missing lock. Worse, he reminded himself that his head had begun to itch interminably as the hair grew back. ‘If you say so, Philip. But this Huntingdon – he’s a monster.’
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