Blood Between Queens (11 page)

“Your Majesty, if I have offended you in some way I entreat you to forgive me. I would not distress you for the world.”

Mary cocked her head, vaguely intrigued. “Your French is excellent.”

“Thank you. My mother was French. From Lille.”

“But your father English?”

“Yes. I was born not sixty miles from here.”

Mary, losing interest, was tapping the feather end of her quill against the desk. “If you have been sent with instructions to pacify me, save your breath.” She turned back to her writing. “You may go.”

“I have no such instructions. I have come on my own. Your Majesty, I hope you will accept a gift.”

Mary turned. She eyed the red leather pouch that Justine held up. “A trinket from your guardian?”

“No, Your Majesty. From me. And it is no trinket.”

She came close and kneeled in front of Mary. Tugging loose the pouch’s satin drawstring, she slipped her fingers inside and slid out the pendant. It was a crucifix, two inches of pure gold. The cross had been wrought by a master craftsman to seem like rough, splintered wood, while the skin of the Christ, slumping in agony upon it, was as smooth as water. The wounds in his nailed, bleeding palms and at his nailed, crossed ankles were rubies.

Justine looked up. Mary’s face had utterly changed. Boredom and irritation had fled. She looked enthralled. “Beautiful,” she whispered, and reached out to touch it.

Justine whispered, too. “The people in these parts hid many such sacred objects. They are keeping them safe, waiting for the day when the one true church is reborn in England.”

She waited, holding her breath, watching Mary. What she had just said was near blasphemy in Elizabeth’s Protestant realm. Enough to warrant a complaint against her in the church courts, if anyone cared to make it, and certainly enough to compromise Lord Thornleigh.

Mary gave her a searching look. “Is that your wish?”

Justine was committed now. “It is. And the wish of thousands of good people here in the north. But most of all, Your Majesty . . .” Her mouth was so dry she had to swallow to go on. “Most of all, my wish is to serve you. I hope you understand how these two wishes are one and the same.” She held out the pendant crucifix as an offering.

Mary held her gaze for a long moment, her face grave, as though weighing a hard decision. Then she took the gift.

Justine let out a puff of breath, too relieved to hide it. And encouraged. Now she dared go on. “Let me stay, Your Majesty? Please. Let me stay.”

Mary looked mildly taken aback. “Subtlety is not your forte, is it?”

“If you send me back, the Queen will only send someone else in my stead. And you could do worse than me.”

“Really?” She seemed almost amused.

“Really. The two young ladies who attend you now, do they speak French?”

“Yes.” Her lips curved in a sly smile. “Badly.”

Justine returned the smile, exulting.

Abruptly, Mary stood. “Rise. What did you say your name was?”

“Justine, Your Majesty.” She got to her feet.

“Justine, fetch Lord Thornleigh. And would you kindly translate for us?”

She hurried to tell him. She would have run along the corridor if servants at their tasks had not been watching. He was startled when she told him that she had managed to speak privately to Mary, had impressed her favorably, and now Mary was asking to see him.

“Lead the way,” he said, clearly pleased.

They assembled again in the tapestry-hung chamber, and this time Mary was waiting for them. Justine stood in pride of place beside Mary as her translator, as Herries had done before.

Mary raised her chin proudly before Lord Thornleigh. “My lord, I have revised my decision concerning this inquiry my dear cousin has set in motion.”

He bowed with respect. “Then Your Grace will attend?”

“No. It is beneath my honor to do so. However, I shall send commissioners to make my case. I alone, sir, will choose them.”

Lord Thornleigh frowned. This was not what he had expected. Nor had Justine. But she felt, and sensed that he did, too, that it was Mary’s final answer. Justine hardly cared. She had won what she wanted. She was staying.

He collected himself and gave another bow, stiffer than before. “I shall take this message to Her Majesty.”

“Thank you.” She glanced at Justine. “And take your ward home, too.”

Justine gasped. “But—”

“Tell my cousin,” Mary said directly to Lord Thornleigh, “that as soon as she welcomes me to her court, I shall welcome her people to mine.”

N
ight was the only safe time for Christopher Grenville to move. Tonight, though, a full moon shone down mercilessly on Carlisle Castle. Christopher backed up against the recessed door of the castle chapel, shrouding himself in deeper shadows as a soldier on horseback trotted past. The clatter of the hooves faded and silence fell over the narrow, moonlit street. An owl hooted from the castle wall. Christopher let out a pent-up breath. He was taking a huge risk in coming here. The incident with the seamstress from Yeavering Hall three weeks ago haunted him like an ill omen. The price on his head for treason now included murder. Curse the girl for recognizing him! He hadn’t wanted to kill her, but what choice did he have? He could not let word of his return get out. Even more worrying was that figure he had seen running away through the churchyard. A witness?

He clenched his teeth, cutting off the galling worries. The risks and dangers he faced would all pay off if his plans for Mary bore fruit. And that looked so hopeful now! He was itching to tell her. All evening he had waited in the castle’s cellar tavern, alone with his ale, watching the window until he saw the sun set. Earlier he had tethered his horse in the woods and trudged into the castle precincts where his homespun clothes and the satchel of trinkets he had slung over his shoulder gave him a certain invisibility—a harmless peddler, one of many country folk who constantly came and went with their produce and wares. Now, night was his other ally.

He hoped that Mary had not changed her routine. She, too, liked the night.

He slipped inside the chapel, closing the door quietly behind him. The dimly lit space seemed deserted—just five vacant rows of upholstered benches. The altar slumbered under a pale wash of moonlight crimsoned by a stained glass window. A faint light glowed from an alcove behind a pillar. He moved silently past the benches, past the pillar, and reached the alcove. A woman was kneeling in prayer before a bank of votive candles under a wall-mounted cross. Christopher’s nerves leapt to life.
Mary.

She raised her head suddenly at a sound. She looked over her shoulder, saw him, and gasped in fear.

He moved so quickly he was behind her before she could rise. He clamped his hand over her mouth and pressed the back of her head against his thigh, his other hand pushing her shoulder down to force her to stay on her knees. She squirmed. “Be quiet,” he whispered in French. “Do not call for help.”

He loosened his hold on her enough to let her twist around, still kneeling. She looked up at him and her eyes went wide, not with fear now but with surprise. “You!” she whispered.

Power surged through him as he kept hold of her shoulder to keep her down. To have Mary Stuart on her knees before him. A queen!

“Give me your hand,” he said. He felt her slight shiver at his command—a shiver of pleasure, like the old days. It made
him
shiver. Obeying, she offered her hand. He took it and brought it to his lips. “My lady.”

Her wide-eyed gaze, and the way she stayed in a pose of submission when she could have risen—it fired his blood, made him bold. He turned her hand and slid his tongue across her palm. She trembled. He thrilled at her salty taste.

A thud at the altar startled them both. Mary jumped to her feet. Christopher gripped the dagger handle at his belt.

A cat leapt down from the altar, streaked across the chapel, and disappeared into the shadows.

They turned to each other and she gave a small laugh of relief. He relaxed, too, letting go the dagger. Face-to-face with her now, she so tall, her regal bearing returning, Christopher felt the intimate spell dissolve.
A good thing,
he thought, getting control. He had been too near forgetting himself. That would be dangerous, for him and for her. He could hope for that reward later, the taste of her skin, as the crowning prize for their success. He wanted even more—she could restore his lands to him, raise him to greatness, even make him an earl. But only if the plan he had set in motion succeeded. For now, he had to keep his distance.

He carried on, still in French, the language they always used. “My lady.” He made a courtly bow. “I thank God to find you so hale.” Hale, and beautiful. She wore a silver silk gown, its bodice encrusted with seed pearls that shimmered through the gauzy shawl wrapped around her shoulders like a Scottish mist. The last time he had seen her was over a year ago, in Edinburgh. He had taken a letter from her to France, to her uncle the Duc de Guise. Neither could have imagined then that she would soon lose her kingdom.

“You are wrong, sir. I suffer.”

That alarmed him. “Do they abuse you?”

“No riding, no hunting, and only a paltry pair of attendants as if I were some petty gentlewoman. That’s abuse enough.” With a wounded, angry look she smoothed the skirt folds of her gown. “I have had to send Lord Herries to borrow from the local merchants just to hire pantry servants.”

He relaxed, glad to see she had not changed. Mary, the haughty, wronged beauty. Almost smiling, he asked, indulging her, “Is Lord Scrope so spiteful?”

“Scrope, no, he was biddable enough, until his handlers brought him to task for it. Now he makes no move without permission from Elizabeth, not so much as allowing me to purchase a pair of shoes. I swear, when I fled my captors I came into England in good faith, trusting in Elizabeth’s friendship. And what have I found? Contempt. Hardship. I have exchanged one prison for another.”

Her anger was real and raw—and no doubt merited, Christopher thought. Yet there was much of the child in her. Impetuous and angry when she wanted something, but vacillating when political decisions were needed. Passionate about friendships, but disinterested in affairs of state and therefore an easy victim for a cunning, determined adversary like her half brother Moray. As a ruler, Mary was often out of her depth.

Yet she had been kind to him, a man adrift, in exile from his homeland, and he would never forget that. They had met when she was the young Queen of France, just seventeen. He had been drifting on the fringes of the French court, unwilling to draw attention to himself since the English presumed him dead. Then members of Mary’s circle had brought him to her attention, for although the rebellion he had planned had not come to pass he had proved himself an enemy of Elizabeth of England. Mary had welcomed him. And what a dazzling young queen she was! Lively, amusing, generous—a blaze of beauty and high spirits and glittering fashion. But when her sickly teenage husband King François died, Mary’s status at the court of his brother, the new King Charles, shrank overnight to nothing. Suddenly adrift herself, a dowager queen with little power, she had turned to Christopher for comfort. He saw his opportunity, a nubile widow of eighteen, hungry for a strong man’s hand. He took it, and took her.

That single night together had forged a bond that had remained strong through the next six years, though they had spent them mostly apart. She had left France to take up the Scottish crown that was her birthright and had remarried—the wastrel, Lord Darnley—while Christopher had remained in Paris managing some of her property interests. He had traveled often to Edinburgh to carry her messages back to France. Then came the debacle of her downfall, and Christopher had despaired, sure she was lost, and his own prospects, too. But she had escaped, and the moment he heard she had taken sanctuary in England he praised God and pledged himself to her cause. Helping her was the only way he might one day reclaim his
own
birthright, his English property.

Now that seemed thrillingly possible.

“You shall not be a prisoner for long, my lady. I bring news.”

She clapped her hands, eager for it. “Ah! Am I to be rescued?”

He glanced around to make absolutely sure they were alone, then gestured for her to take a seat on the nearest chapel bench. They sat down together, close enough that Christopher could keep his voice low. “I have come from Alnwick, and I bring you the pledge of my lord Northumberland.” Though he was saddle sore and bone-weary from his journeying, seeing Mary’s excitement energized him afresh. Thomas Percy, Earl of Northumberland, thirty-eight, was the most powerful lord in the north and devoutly Catholic. Christopher had met with him at Alnwick Castle, the ancient seat of the Percy family, where they were joined by the Earl of Westmorland. It was a secret meeting behind closed doors in a long-unused gatehouse apartment, for they were talking treason. “These lords are with you, my lady. To the ends of the earth.”

Her eyes glowed. “Good men, and true!”

Christopher did not tell her how nervous the two nobles had been, at first, to plan sedition with him. Not that they lacked the desire to depose Elizabeth. Eight years ago Northumberland had worked closely with Christopher on the uprising they had eventually been forced to abort. Now, the earl was cautiously eager to try again. Together, both earls could raise several thousand men among their followers. But they lacked the stomach to act on their own. To motivate them, Christopher had told them of the rumor gaining strength in France that the pope, at the urging of the King of Spain, was considering excommunicating Elizabeth and condoning her overthrow. That had fired up Northumberland and Westmorland. If they took action in the name of the pope, God’s representative on earth, and successfully overthrew the heretic English queen, they would be cheered by all the Catholics of Europe.

He told Mary the same thing now.

She beamed. “The pope? It is the answer to my prayers!”

“God has not forsaken you, my lady. Though Elizabeth has.”

“But, oh, the
waiting,
” she groaned. “It will take forever for the pope to act. While I wither here.” She grabbed Christopher’s elbow with a fierce determination. “Ride back to Northumberland. Now, this very night. Tell him he must gather his men-at-arms immediately and descend on this place and free me!”

He could not hide a disapproving frown. Were they to snatch her like the local border raiders who stole cattle?

“Do you doubt me, sir?” she challenged. “I am ready to hazard all, I swear it. I can ride as hard as any man, and you know it!”

“I do indeed, my lady,” he said with genuine admiration. “And your loyal followers would gladly fight for you to the death. But this is no way to proceed. Where would Northumberland take you? To what end? You cannot go back to Scotland to be in Moray’s power.” No, it served Christopher’s purposes far better if she remained Elizabeth’s prisoner, making her plight irresistible to her followers: Mary, the innocent victim of her cruel cousin. It would help fire them to action. “I beg you to be patient, my lady. There are plans afoot.” He added in a keyed-up whisper, pleased to tantalize her, “When you leave here, it will be to ride to your new capital. London.”

She gasped. “London?”

“You know it is yours by right. Elizabeth is a bastard and a heretic. She holds the crown in sin. You are England’s rightful monarch.”

She stared at him, taking it in, clearly enthralled. Her claim to the English throne was one she had publicly stated for years. “But Elizabeth’s hold is strong. Are you saying Northumberland and Westmorland will march against her? When? When will they strike?”

“They stand willing now, but they have sent me to warn you that their strength is not yet sufficient, and I agree. They can raise five thousand men, perhaps six. An impressive army, to be sure, but Elizabeth can best it. Before we can move, we need an ally. One with muscle.”

She did not flinch at the idea. It was as though she had been waiting for this opportunity.

“France?” she suggested. “My Guise uncles keep urging Charles to back us, but—”

“No, forget France.” King Charles was too beset with strangling the many-headed monster of heresy in his own realm. Huguenot factions kept erupting throughout the country, enlisting thousands of French men and women to their ranks. The King had neither the forces nor the inclination to adventure against England. “The ally we need is Spain.”

“Philip? Bah! He is maddening. The most Catholic prince in Christendom they call him, but what good is his pious talk if he will not commit to my cause? They say he believes the slanders against me. Believes the vermin who call me adulteress and murderer.” Tears glistened in her eyes. She raised her chin with a look of furious pride.

A fine show,
Christopher thought.
Quite convincing.
He did not know if she had been complicit with the Earl of Bothwell in her husband’s murder or not. Darnley, an arrogant drunken fool by all accounts, had apparently deserved it. As for adultery with Bothwell, Christopher knew Mary’s appetites and knew Bothwell’s reputation for womanizing and violence, so he was inclined to believe that the two had been lovers before Darnley’s death and had worked together to kill him. But Mary had vehemently denied all of it, and Bothwell, who had fled to Denmark at her downfall, wasn’t talking.

None of it mattered to Christopher. “Philip’s reluctance,” he said dryly, “has more to do with trade between Spain and England. He wants no disruption of it, which Elizabeth might threaten if he were to back you.”

“I wish I could turn him! I shall write to his wife. I know her, she is pious. I shall tell her that if I were Queen of England I would restore the one true church in this land.”

“Pious she is, but I doubt she has the ear of her husband.”

Mary frowned at this, acknowledging the truth of it.

“There is another, though, who does,” Christopher said. “Philip’s representative in London. Ambassador de Spes is fervent in his faith, and in his support of your rights.”

“That is true, he is! And he has sway with Philip.”

“Let me go and speak with him, urge him to stiffen the King’s backbone.”

She seemed moved. “A dangerous venture for you, though. London. If anyone should recognize you . . .”