Blood Between Queens (10 page)

Scrope grinned and bowed, preening at Mary’s notice.

“I thank Your Grace,” Lord Thornleigh said, “but the best refreshment will be your satisfied acceptance of my news.”

“News?” she cried in delight. This English word she knew. She clapped her hands with the eagerness of a child.
“De ma cousine?”
From my cousin?

“From Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth, yes.”

“Ah! I have . . . waited . . . hoped!” Keyed up, Mary went on hurriedly in French, and Herries translated, “Her Majesty longs to look on her dear cousin’s face. They have never met, she says, but she knows that when they do they will be as sisters. She says she longs to embrace her sister queen.”

“Sister!” Mary crooned. “Yes!”

“I assure you that Her Majesty feels no less love for Your Grace,” said Lord Thornleigh. “And to show you her love she has sent gifts.” He strode to the door and beckoned his two servingmen, who came in with a carved cedar chest heavy enough to require both of them to carry it. They set it down near Mary, bowing, and then, eyes down, retreated backward.

She looked excited and gestured for Margaret Currier to open the chest.

Before Margaret could move Justine said quickly,
“Permettez-moi, votre majesté
.
”
She made a deep curtsy, then went down on her knees beside the large chest.

Mary blinked at her. Justine’s heart was beating hard—she should not have spoken until spoken to—but Mary seemed more intrigued than annoyed, though whether by Justine’s French or her forwardness, she could not tell. Quickly, she opened the chest, releasing a scent of cedar, to show Mary the contents: several folded, sumptuous gowns.

“Her Majesty,” Lord Thornleigh said, looking pleased with Justine’s quick action, “sympathizes with the unfortunate loss of your wardrobe.” It was common gossip that the Queen of Scots had arrived in England with nothing but the clothes she stood up in. The black dress she wore now was likely the best that Scrope’s wife could lend her, and though of fine wool and enlivened with gold embroidery it had no regal splendor. “She hopes these poor offerings will bring you some comfort until you may again wear the raiment befitting your state.”

The gowns were anything but poor. Mary scooped up one of emerald satin, the bodice encrusted with seed pearls. She pressed it to her body as lovingly as a mother would a child. Tears gleamed in her eyes as she answered him, and Herries translated, “Unfortunate in circumstance I am indeed, my lord. But blessed in the love of my dear sister-cousin.”

“To be sure. Furthermore, Her Majesty sends you my ward here, Mistress Justine Thornleigh, to remain in attendance upon you. If the girl has acted out of turn, do forgive her—it is only because she is eager to serve you.”

“Aha.” Mary beamed at Justine.
“Très jolie.”
Very pretty. “
Mon seigneur,
I . . . thank . . . you.”

He gave a courtly bow. “The honor is mine, Your Grace.”

Still on her knees, Justine looked up at Mary, who was close enough to touch. Mary winked at her, smiling, which brought amused murmurs of approval from Scrope and the two Scots and gave Justine an unexpected thrill. Jane’s sweet lute music lilted on. Justine stood and curtsied again to Mary, and as she resumed her position beside Lord Thornleigh she caught the two young ladies looking at her with friendly curiosity. At such affable goodwill from everyone, especially Mary, she felt a flush of confidence. This would not be so hard a posting after all.

Mary’s exchange with Lord Thornleigh carried on, and Herries continued to translate, but Justine easily followed Mary’s French, despite her quickness of speech spurred by her excitement.

“Shall I see my dear sister-cousin soon, my lord? I am ready to travel at a moment’s notice. Are you to escort me to her court? To London?”

“Not yet, Your Grace. First, there is some business to settle.”

“Business?”

He explained that Elizabeth was grieved by the accusations that had been cast upon Mary. He assured her that Elizabeth was determined to end this purgatory of Mary’s, and that her ultimate desire was to restore Mary to her throne.

Mary’s intense interest was obvious. “Restore me? She said that?”

“She did.”

“It is all I want! All I desire!”

“And what she wishes. But she feels unable to do so while these accusations encumber you.” To that end, he explained, Elizabeth had authorized an inquiry into the causes of the rift between Mary and the government in Edinburgh.

She blanched. “An inquiry? What does that mean, inquiry?”

“Her Majesty has appointed commissioners to examine the matter. She has also asked the lords in Edinburgh to send their commissioners to account for their actions against you. Working together, along with you of course, a way ahead will be found.”

Mary looked horrified. “To defame me!” she cried. “To ruin me!”

At her outburst the Scottish lords tensed. The lute music stopped. Lord Thornleigh said with careful precision, “The aim, Your Grace, is merely to clear the air.”

“Defend myself to disobedient subjects? Never! I will not be judged! I will not be put on trial!”

“I assure you this is not a trial. Her Majesty seeks only peace and harmony in Scotland.”

She came close to him, so close that Justine, astounded, thought she might actually lay hold of him, but instead she clasped her hands and lifted them in supplication. “Oh, let me
see
my cousin. To her will I state my case. To my fellow queen. But
only
to her. Take me to her. I
demand
that you take me to her!”

He stiffened. “Please understand. Her Majesty cannot receive you at court while these serious charges hang over you. She has already compromised herself by standing by you. Now she asks that you stand by her and agree to this inquiry.”

Fury flashed in Mary’s eyes. She swooped toward Herries and snatched the dagger at his belt. Everyone gasped.

Mary thrust the blade out, clutched in both her hands, backing away from them all as if from attackers. “By God,” she cried in enraged French, “I will kill any man who would drag me off to be tried! Tried by the very villains who usurped my throne!”

Herries stood mute in shock. Justine, dumbfounded, had understood Mary’s French, and Lord Thornleigh, it was clear, understood her action.

“Madam!” Livingston lurched forward, consternation on his face, as though to disarm her for her own good.

She gave a menacing jab with the dagger. Livingston halted. Everyone froze.

Mary flipped the blade tip toward her own throat. Her eyes blazed fury at Lord Thornleigh. She spat in French, “Elizabeth will cancel this order, or I will kill
myself
.”

Scrope cried out in alarm, “No!” The two Scots looked deathly afraid. Mary suddenly swayed on her feet. Her face was white. Her arm with the dagger drooped. The blade clattered to the floor. Scrope rushed to pull a chair toward her and she sank into it, moaning. Herries and Livingston hurried to her side. Scrope, too. He was bending to take her hand to comfort her when Lord Thornleigh grunted a stern warning to him. “My lord!”

Scrope straightened, stiff, aware that, as Elizabeth’s lieutenant, he had gone too far. He stepped away from Mary.

Tears sprang to her eyes. She rolled her head in misery. “A trial . . . never.” Tears ran down her cheeks. Her breaths were shudders as she wept. “Only God can judge me!” Herries pulled himself together to translate this.

Lord Thornleigh, alone among the men, seemed unmoved. “As He shall judge us all, madam.”

She shot him a sharp look. Ignoring her two loyal lords who hovered by her side, she kept her eyes locked on Lord Thornleigh as she wiped tears from her cheeks and went on in French. Herries translated. “Her Majesty meant, sir, that no man stands between a sovereign and God.”

“Be that as it may, madam, the inquiry convenes at York as soon as the Scottish commissioners arrive. You are requested to appear.”

Mary was utterly still. Justine marveled at her instant composure. When Mary spoke, her voice was steel. In English, Herries repeated her words. “Tell my cousin this. I will never plead my cause against the usurpers unless they stand before me in chains.”

She got to her feet. Herries stood by her and translated. “Go, sir. Return to your royal mistress.” She threw Justine a glance of scorn. Her next French words stunned Justine. “And take this girl back with you. I require no such gift.”

Justine paced on the sunlit terrace beneath Mary’s tower. Dismissed before she had even begun! Indignation coursed through her. To be treated so disdainfully by Mary was not just a slap to her, it was a gross insult to Lord Thornleigh—to Elizabeth! It sparked in Justine a sharp, fresh desire to fulfill her mission. Yet what was she to do? Mary had retired in anger to her private suite. Lord Thornleigh was in Scrope’s rooms in conference with Herries and Livingston, trying to beat out a settlement. Justine was alone on the terrace with her fear that this venture was stillborn, that she would be riding back to London to face Will with no evidence to prove herself a loyal Thornleigh, only a stark confession of her Grenville blood.

Pacing, she reached the waist-high terrace wall and pressed her hands against it to steady her rising alarm. She
had
to stay. Had to somehow make them let her stay. But how? The men would be discussing only the inquiry, Lord Thornleigh urging his queen’s agenda while Herries pressed that of
his
queen. Perhaps, after long negotiation, they might come to terms, but what difference does it make to me? she thought anxiously. They won’t even be discussing me. She was a minor cog in these wheels of diplomacy, and much as Lord Thornleigh wanted her to stay and wait on Mary for any information she could supply to Elizabeth, he would almost surely sacrifice that point if he could get Mary to accept the far more urgent one of appearing before the inquiry. That was what he had been sent to do, if he could.

Well, I’ve been sent to do something, too,
she thought.
And I
will
do it.

The terrace overlooked the slope of the hill the castle stood on, and she gazed across the moors toward Yeavering Hall. It lay miles away, too far to see, but a memory surged back of that night she had seen her father for the last time.

Excitement shot through her. Is
that
the way to stay? My Grenville blood?

She hurried to the chamber she had been given, a small but cheerful room over the castle’s chapel. She found her maid, Ann, dozing on a chair by the open window, snoring softly in the afternoon heat. Justine passed her as quietly as she could so as not to wake her. She pulled a key from her underskirt pocket as she reached the cherrywood jewel case on the table. She unlocked it. Her necklaces and earrings, nestling in blue velvet, sparkled. Dumping them on the bed, with a glance at Ann to be sure she dozed on, she righted the casket and with her fingernail pried loose the velvet false bottom. Beneath it lay a hand-sized red leather pouch. She lifted it, its supple leather as soft as skin, and felt a shiver. It had been years since she had looked at it. The leather was pocked with black pinpricks, burned by cinders. Remembering, she could almost smell the smoke on her father’s breeches as he tossed this pouch to her from his horse. The day after he vanished she had looked inside the pouch—it held twenty-three coins, all gold sovereigns, and a jeweled pendant—then she had tugged tight its satin drawstring and never looked inside it again. Taken into Lord Thornleigh’s family, she had never needed the coins. She had buried the memory of her traitorous father and put aside the pouch. She wanted no part of his gift.

Until now. Not the coins. The pendant.

 

“Oui?”
Mary half turned her head as she sat writing at her desk.
“Qui est là?”

“C’est moi, votre majesté. Justine
.
”

Mary quickly turned.
“Comment êtes-vous entré ici?”
How did you get in here?

Justine curtsied, her heart pounding.
“L’escalier de terrace
.
”
The terrace stairway.

They continued in French. “Well?” Mary asked, the quill pen stilled in her hand. “What do you want?” She looked irritated, as if she felt a lowly servant had interrupted her though she knew she had to be civil to this relation of an English baron.

“Only to be of assistance to you, Your Majesty.”

“Oh?” Her tone was mildly sarcastic. “Not to your guardian?”

“Yes, of course. My attending you is his lordship’s wish.”

“Because it is his royal mistress’s wish?”

“Yes, exactly.”

Mary gave her a hard look. “Yes, exactly.” She winced, as though her headache had returned, and rubbed her brow, murmuring, “I would I knew Elizabeth’s mind.”