Blood Between Queens (18 page)

Justine held her breath, trying not to show her eagerness to hear more. She concentrated on poking her needle in and out of the linen. “He has tried to before and failed.”

“Ah, but this time the hawk has been starved and will go for the kill. He
must
win, you see, by proving my guilt. If he does not, and I am restored to my throne, he fears I’ll have my revenge on him.”

Justine dared to look up. “Would you?”

Mary’s eyes locked on hers. “Wouldn’t
you?
”

In the silence, a dog howled far across the fields.

An apologetic smile softened Mary’s face. “Forgive me, cherie, I should not burden you with my worries.”

“It is no burden, my lady. I am your friend. I hope you know that.”

“I do.” She leaned closer and whispered conspiratorially, as though aware of Lord Scrope’s spies at her door, “The sacred object you gave me? It is safe in my keeping.”

Justine felt a rush of victory she could not hide. But she made her smile one of reassurance. “As your secrets are safe in mine, my lady. You can tell me anything. I am your servant.”

Mary’s look was intense, as though to examine her. Then, grave of face, she went back to stringing her beads. Justine’s hope plunged. Had she gone too far? She went back to plying her needle, but her mind was far from the stupid task. She had bungled this chance to get Mary to talk. She was a fool to have pushed.

The candle flames jerked in the window breeze. Someone in a far room was plucking a lute idly, tunelessly. Justine struggled to decide what to do next.

Then Mary said, very quietly, her eyes on her task, “It wasn’t my husband they came to murder. Their target was me.”

Justine tried to stay still, to lure her to go on, but she was too surprised. “You?”

“It was the coldest night that winter. February. Henry and I were traveling to Edinburgh.” Justine was so surprised to hear this intimate use of the Christian name it took a moment to realize: Henry Lennox, Lord Darnley, Mary’s husband. “We stopped for the night just outside the city at Kirk o’ Field, at the old priory, where we settled into the provost’s lodging. We had stayed there before in the happy days when we were first married. How I loved Henry. He was so dashing, so . . . manly.” She glanced up with clear eyes. “Have you ever loved a man?”

Justine felt a blush heat her face.
Will.
“Yes,” she said, perhaps too quickly.

Mary’s smile was tender. “Then you know what I mean. What woman ever forgets that feeling? Henry gave me my baby boy, James.” Her smile faded. “I have not seen my son for over a year. Moray keeps him under his thumb in Edinburgh.” Her eyes stayed on her bracelet as she worked on it. “Henry and I had our disagreements. What married couple does not? Gradually, he drew away from me. We spent more time apart. I don’t know why. Perhaps it was my fault. He was a proud man, and maybe in my efforts to rule my realm I did not pay him enough attention. Whatever the reason, I deeply regretted the bad feeling between us and I wanted to repair it. So I invited him to join me at Glasgow. He came, and we had friendly words, which heartened me, and then we set off for Edinburgh to see our son at Holyrood Palace. But that February night was so cold, so bitter, we stopped at Kirk o’ Field, at the old priory, the provost’s lodging. That’s where Moray’s killers struck.”

Moray’s?
Justine blurted in surprise, “Your brother?”

“Not in person. He is clever, he stayed far distant from the vile deed itself. But he had done his work, inciting his fellow Protestant lords against me. Morton, Lindsay, Ruthven, and more. Their henchmen set gunpowder in the basement of the priory. Many barrels, packed with gunpowder. I went out that evening to pay a brief visit I had promised to two faithful servants who were getting married. The murderers hadn’t expected that. While Henry slept, they struck. The explosion was so huge, so monstrous, people in Edinburgh felt the ground tremble. They found my poor husband’s body in the garden, in the snow, the blast so powerful it had thrown him there, all mangled. When I returned and was told I almost collapsed in shock and grief.”

Tears sprang to her eyes. Impulsively, she reached for Justine’s hand and squeezed. “It is such a relief to have someone to talk to. A friend. I have been so alone.”

Justine saw her raw loneliness, and it moved her. “Oh, my lady. How terrible for you.”

Mary nodded, then drew back, clearly struggling to regain her composure. “After, the lords who had done the foul deed, and who held sway in my fractured government, quickly laid the blame on a man they loathed for his ambition, the Earl of Bothwell, James Hepburn, the captain of my guard, a hard, experienced soldier. Long before this tragedy he had done good service to me and I had rewarded him by making him an earl. That had angered many nobles who felt they were his betters. So they tried him for the murder of my poor husband.”

“But Lord Bothwell was acquitted, was he not?” That much was common knowledge.

“Yes, but the lords had created a monster. Bothwell hated them for trying to bring him to the executioner’s block. He decided to strike for power—the power that lay in me. He proposed marriage to me. You can imagine my revulsion—poor Henry’s body was scarcely three months in the ground! That did not daunt Bothwell. He came at me in the countryside. I had left Edinburgh to visit my baby son at Stirling Castle, where I had moved him for his safety, and was returning to the capital accompanied by a small escort of thirty men. Five miles from the city, near the bridge over the River Almond at Cramond, Bothwell intercepted us with a force of over four hundred men, all with swords drawn. We anxiously drew to a halt, and Bothwell took hold of my horse’s bridle as though I were his captive. He told me I was in danger from a brewing insurrection in Edinburgh and he was taking me for my own safety to his castle at Dunbar. My men did not believe him and were about to defend me, but I was appalled. Stalwart they were, but so vastly outnumbered. How could I let them be slaughtered for my sake? So I stopped them, and I went with Bothwell.” She shook her head in bitterness. “There was no insurrection, of course. It was Bothwell’s ruse to lay hold of me, to control me and thus control the crown.”

Her voice became tight and thin. “And lay hold of me he did. It was a forty-mile ride to Dunbar. We arrived at his castle at midnight, and after we entered, all the gates were shut. He took me to his chamber and boasted he would marry me. I refused. But I was so weakened by these terrible events—Henry’s murder, this violent abduction—and felt so alone I was near to breaking. I knew I was completely in Bothwell’s power. He forced me into his bed and . . .” She shrank back into her chair, as though cringing at the memory. “He is not a gentle man.” Tears choked her words.

Justine was horrified.
Rape
.

Mary swallowed hard, raised her head, and went on. “With me so weakened, Moray and his band of murderers saw their chance. Ascendant in the government, they sharpened their knives for Bothwell. They declared publicly that they would liberate me from his tyranny and thralldom, protect the Prince, my son, and bring Bothwell to justice, as they said, for my husband’s murder. And I?” She lowered her eyes, “By then I knew the worst. I was with child by Bothwell.”

Justine gasped. She pressed her hand to her mouth, wishing she had not made the sound which seemed coarse, a further insult to Mary, who had suffered so much. But she was mesmerized by the tale and could not help hungering to hear more.

“Yes,” Mary said, “he had won. What could I do but marry him?” She took a breath before going on. “But our marriage was the end for Bothwell. With his enemies so strengthened, he knew he had gone too far—he could not fight them all. He fled to Denmark, and is there still.” Mary seemed to take no joy in relating his downfall. “That’s when Moray and his fellows finally came after
me
. They publicly accused me of having masterminded my husband’s death, using Bothwell as my creature. They took me to Loch Leven, to a lonely tower on the island. They took my son away . . . my baby boy. I have not seen him since . . .” Her voice faltered. She closed her eyes. “Forgive me.” After a steadying breath, she went on, “At Loch Leven they came to me with papers of abdication, Lord Lindsay and Robert Melville and more, the cowards. They crowded into my small room and shouted at me, demanding that I sign. I refused. Lindsay held his knife to my throat and told me if I did not sign he would slit my throat. I was weak with fear. I signed their miserable paper, silently vowing to have it overturned when I was free. Every court in Christendom rules that an enforced abdication is void. Their paper was worth as much as Lindsay’s spittle.”

The desolation on her tearstained face was awful to behold. Justine had seen her tears before when Mary had been crossed, tears of anger and frustration, but this was something else. No one with a heart could behold this woman’s pain and not feel pity. Justine felt close to tears herself. It startled her, unnerved her. Was she being disloyal to Elizabeth by pitying Mary?

Mary shook her head at the misery of remembering. Her face was pale, her mouth trembling. “At Loch Leven I was so distraught I became ill. And in that weakened state of abject wretchedness, I miscarried. Twins. Born dead. Dear God . . .” A groan escaped her and her eyes closed and she slumped forward.

“My lady!” Justine lurched to break Mary’s fall, taking her by the shoulders. Mary felt limp in her arms. In pity Justine went down on her knees and wrapped her arms around her to hold her upright in the chair. “My lady, you are ill!”

Mary jerked, resorted to consciousness, though her face was drained of color. “No . . . no, I am fine . . . though sick at heart!” She smiled faintly through her tears. “God bless you, cherie.” She stroked Justine’s cheek. “God bless you.”

That night, sleep was impossible for Justine. She lay on her bed, her body as still as if hands pinned her there, but her mind awhirl with all that Mary had told her, all that Mary had suffered. To find her husband’s mangled body in the snow . . . the horror of it. To be raped . . . the degradation! To be made pregnant and then bear dead infant twins . . . how pitiful. To be kept apart from the baby son she loved . . . how did any woman bear that sorrow? Justine thought of Will, of the happy future she hoped to share with him, and of one day having his child. It made her feel all the sorrier for Mary.

Of course, there had to be another side to Mary’s story, Justine knew that. The Earl of Moray would no doubt air it at the inquiry, and Elizabeth’s commissioners would listen gravely and come to a conclusion. But they were men, their world a regimented place of facts and politics, and none of them would ever see what Justine had seen tonight. The private, woman’s hell that Mary had been dragged through by forces more powerful than she was.

Justine stared out the window at the stars, and under their cold glitter a thought stole over her that shook her. Her own private hell—the chasm that threatened to open between her and Will—was one she had had no part in making. It was a legacy of the feud between the Thornleighs and Grenvilles. Like Mary, she was in chains forged by forces beyond her.

She and Mary, she realized, had much in common.

Again, she felt a pinch of guilt. Was the sympathy she felt for Mary a disloyalty to Elizabeth? No, she told herself, feeling quite clear-eyed. She was sworn to do her duty—she
wanted
to do her duty—and nothing would change that.

Yet, which of these queens had the more urgent cause? Elizabeth, who had good reason to fear the men who wanted Mary in her place? Or Mary, who had been so cruelly wronged?

Who was right?

 

In the dark garden below Mary’s suite, Christopher Grenville wolfed down meat on a leg of cold roasted capon, his eyes never leaving the open window above. Its rectangle of candlelight was a maddening blank: He could see no one. From it came the murmur of women’s voices, and the lilt of it told him they were speaking French, but the sound was so faint he could not decipher a single word. Justine? Mary? Both? He dared not go any closer. He had watched from the shadows of the rose trellis as a kitchen maid had brought out a plate of meat scraps and bones, apparently for the water spaniels in the kennel beyond the garden. At the smell they had barked and jumped in their chains. Christopher felt no less ravenous, famished from his ride from London. The maid had set down the plate on a stone ledge just outside the kitchen door and gone back inside as though she’d forgotten something. Water for the dogs? A cloak for herself? Watching, Christopher didn’t know and didn’t care. He had snatched the capon leg and gone back into the shadows. He felt the humiliation more sharply than the hunger. As lord of Yeavering Hall he had been served succulent dishes morning, noon, and night. Now his life was skulking and hiding, eating cookhouse food in corners, forever on the move to avoid suspicion, forever a-horse in Mary’s service. He’d had his bitter fill of being a fugitive. But he ordered himself to swallow his impatience. Once Mary was on the throne his fortune would be restored; God would smile on him again. Yet there was much to do to bring that about, he thought as he wolfed the meat, watching her window. Had she got the note he’d paid the scullery boy to take up to her? He had to talk to her.

And he hungered to know about Justine. It wracked him that his daughter was so near, yet he still had not seen her. She might as well still be locked in Thornleigh’s house, ignorant that her father was even in England, let alone a stone’s throw away. He was so on edge he tasted nothing of the meat as he tore off another bite with his teeth while the dogs barked on.

Hinges creaked. He tensed, eyes darting to a narrow wooden door at the base of the round tower. A woman emerged into the darkness, tall, hurrying toward him with a rustling of silk. Mary. Christopher tossed away the stripped capon bone. “Over here,” he said, glad of the dogs’ barking that masked his voice.