Blood Between Queens (34 page)

Lost in these thoughts, she was startled when the door swung open and Sir William Cecil marched out. The crowd parted with a hush to let him pass, the Queen’s most trusted adviser. Will was at Cecil’s side. Justine craned to see past the press of bodies as Cecil and Will hurried down the stairs, vanishing in the throng. What was happening? She pushed her way to the railing and was looking down to catch a last glimpse of Will when a page reached her and handed her a note. Will’s handwriting—the scrawl showed his haste. It said he and Cecil were going to Whitehall to see Her Majesty and he would call on her at the Thornleighs’ house first thing in the morning to take her to see his mother.

So her news had lit a fire! This was good. Yet she felt a stab of disappointment. Newly eager to meet Will’s mother, she would now have to wait until tomorrow. She was so proud of him, though; it appeared he had become indispensible to Cecil.

She started down the stairs, then stopped at a sudden thought. Why not visit his mother herself? Alone with the lady she might win her over. Once, the prospect would have made her cower, but this day had wrought such wondrous things: the resolution of the two queens’ standoff, the joyful reunion with Will, his leap forward in Cecil’s esteem, all of which would bring Justine back into the Thornleighs’ good graces. Why should she not try for one more marvel?

She went east into London, buoyed by hope.

The sun, misted by returning clouds, had slunk below the city’s rooftops by the time she reached the narrow streets of Cripplegate Ward, and people were trudging home for supper. On Silver Street, near the northwest angle of the city’s wall, she found the house tucked into the crooked intersection with Monkwell Street. She paused at the front door. Lord Thornleigh had told her that the last time his sister had been to his house was when he’d brought Justine into it. After that she had refused his invitations so consistently the family had stopped expecting her. Justine took a deep breath, then knocked. Snow had begun falling.

An elderly, weary-looking housemaid opened the door. Justine asked for Mistress Croft and was led through the dim passage and into a small parlor at the back of the house. Shuffling back into the passage, the maid muttered that the mistress might be back or might not, and before Justine could ask what she meant the kitchen door groaned, closing behind the maid.

Justine looked around in the silence. She had come this far. May as well wait.

The room had a forlorn feeling and a musty smell. Its two small mullioned windows, cut into many panes, held thick glass opaque with dampness. The simple furnishings were of old oak, solid but scarred. Hewn oak beams supported the low ceiling where a cobweb in a corner snagged a ray of the lowering sun. A sound made Justine turn. In the cold hearth a draft whispered, sucking air from the chimney. Cold white ashes rose in a puff, then collapsed. Beside the hearth was a table on which a domed glass case held flowers that looked dead.

Death
. Justine shivered, remembering Rigaud. He had seen the man strangling Alice and knew his name. Who was it? Frances had given her the money, so now at last she would find out. She glanced at the window. It would soon be dusk. Too late to return to Rigaud now. Tomorrow, first thing, she would go back and buy his information.

“Hello? I did not know we had visitors.”

Justine spun around. A cloaked woman stood in the parlor doorway. She held a small posy of withered flowers. Justine’s heart thumped as she curtsied. “Mistress Croft.”

“Has Susan not taken your cloak? Do forgive us. She is forgetful. And I, well, I sometimes lose track of time when I am with my husband.” She smiled sadly at the withered flowers she held. “These have done their office.” She took them to the glass case. Separating one brittle bloom, she lifted the glass dome and laid the dead flower among the other desiccated ones arranged there. “My husband Geoffrey rests in St. Olav’s churchyard,” she explained, turning to Justine. “It is difficult to get flowers in January, but I do my best.” She lowered her voice and added with a knowing smile, as though sharing a secret with a friend, “He cannot abide holly.”

“Mistress Croft, I—”

“Yes, do forgive my manners.” She glanced toward the kitchen. “Susan should have welcomed you. May I take your cloak?” She was shrugging off her own.

Justine whirled off her cloak. “I have just seen your son.”

“Will?” She draped both cloaks over the back of a chair. Her courteous smile persisted, but with a mildly probing look. “Are you acquainted with my son?”

“I am.” Justine’s mouth felt as dry as the withered flowers. “Madam, I am Lord Thornleigh’s ward. Justine.”

She had never seen a person change so abruptly. The kind cordiality died. “I see.” Her eyes were as cold as a grave. “Have you come to gloat?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“You ensnared him. Now that I see your face, I see how. Men are easily blinded.”

Justine’s anger flared. She squelched it, telling herself to be the diplomat Will thought she was. “It was he who ensnared me, madam, with his kindness and goodness. You should be very proud of such a son.”

It was as if she had not spoken. “Even my brother is blinded. Richard says I must accept you.” A shudder ran over her features. “That I cannot do.”

There was something so strange in her look, her tone—something unbalanced. It drained Justine’s anger, and she felt a tug of pity. The lady knew she was losing her son. “Madam, I know you have misgivings about me. I understand why. But Will and I have pledged to marry, as you know, and it would mean so much to him if you would give us your blessing. I promise you, nothing means more to me than his happiness.”

“Liar.”

This was too much. “Madam, I have come in good faith. If you think—” She stopped, pushed back the anger again. Trying one more time, she forced civility into her voice. “Will you not sit with me a moment and talk? We both love your son. With such affection in common, can we not be friends?”

“Love? Ha! You are a Grenville!”

The venom in her voice rocked Justine.

“If you really loved him, you would tell him the truth.”

Lord Thornleigh’s very words. It rankled Justine. She was tired of people telling her what to do. “Perhaps I
have
told him,” she challenged.

“No. If he knew he would have turned his back on you.”

“Yet you have not told him either. Why is that? Perhaps because you fear it would make no difference to him?”

“I made a vow to my brother to keep silent about you. A foolish vow, made years ago, and one I now bitterly regret. But a vow is a sacred thing, and I will not profane it. Poor deluded Richard, he thought if he raised you gently and no one knew the truth about you he could make you into a Thornleigh. Impossible. Can a crocodile be made a lion?”

This was madness. She would not stay and be abused. “Hear me, madam. I love Will and he loves me and we shall be married, and nothing you can do or say will make him change his mind. I came to offer my friendship. I see that I expected too much. I shall leave you to your morbid fantasies.” She snatched her cloak off the chair. “I wish you a good day.”

She was almost at the door when the woman said in a stunned tone, as though having a revelation, “You don’t
know
the truth. That’s it, isn’t it? No one has told you.”

“That I was born a Grenville?” What nonsense. “Of course I know it.”

“Poor fool, you’re rotten to the core and you don’t even know it.”

The insult was so gross it left Justine almost breathless. “Have a care, madam, or—”

“Let me tell you about the swamp that bred you. The crocodiles who whelped you. Your grandfather, Anthony Grenville, was Richard’s neighbor in Essex where he and Honor first settled. Grenville was a foul-hearted papist, a mad dog in his religion. He heard of Honor’s so-called heresy and one night he stalked into their home with a pistol and shot Honor. She lived in fevered agony for weeks and we thought she would surely die. It is God’s mercy that she survived. Anthony Grenville was
your grandfather
.”

Justine stood in shock. Her father had said nothing about this. She had never met her grandfather.

“As wicked as the father were the sons. John Grenville, the eldest, hoarded his hatred for our family. Under cruel Queen Mary he rose to prominence, one of her papist lapdogs. But to us he bared his fangs. He captured Richard. Threw him into the Tower in a cell so small he could neither stand nor lie, and left him in his filth to starve. Then he captured Honor, and her fate was worse. He stretched her on the rack, ripped her sinews, a torture that would leave most people shrieking mad, but Honor endured the agony for the sake of her friend, Princess Elizabeth, now our queen. I nursed them both, Honor and Richard, when Grenville was made to let them go, and pitiful it was to see Honor broken, with a lifeless arm, and Richard as thin as if he were made of sticks. They recovered, and John Grenville went to Ireland on Queen Mary’s business, but only to bide his time. Finally, he struck at us. Geoffrey was at Richard’s house with Will. Speedwell House. Will was twelve. A drowsy Midsummer Day it was, the household folk at lazy chores in the courtyard when Grenville thundered in with his horsemen. They charged the men, hacking with swords, firing arrows. My Geoffrey tried to rally with Richard. Will grabbed a bow. But they were swarmed. Three arrows felled Geoffrey. Will saw his father writhing in the dirt, bleeding out his life. John Grenville burned Speedwell House to the ground. That was
your uncle
.”

Justine was riveted in horror.
Will saw his father murdered.

The woman’s eyes narrowed on her. “And then there was your father, Christopher Grenville. A traitor. He used my niece, Isabel, to further his plot against our queen, and when Isabel tried to stop him he bound her and carried her to his millrace to drown her. Yes! He was about to hurl her, hands tethered, into the tumbling river before he was stopped. That was
your father
.”

Justine blinked.
Father?
Impossible. The tale had leapt beyond belief. The woman was raving. Eaten up with hatred and grief, her mind deranged, she was spinning lies about anyone with the name of Grenville. Justine said as civilly as she could, “Madam, I am sorry you lost your husband. But this awful feud had nothing to do with me. I was a child. It is the past. If you keep Will chained to these ghosts—”

“It has everything to do with you! You Grenvilles are born wicked. Born bad. You may think you’re different with your pretty face and your gentle ways learned from my brother and his wife, but you cannot escape your tainted blood. It is your destiny to be the worm in the apple, the canker in the rose. You are a bad seed, Justine Grenville. If you marry my son you will make him wretched, as wretched your aunt has made my nephew Adam. You will blight Will’s life. You will spawn children to carry on the Grenville evil.” She was short of breath, almost panting. A wild light leapt in her eyes. She snatched Justine’s hand. “It is not too late! Release my son. Tell him you cannot marry him. Let him go. Let this end!”

Justine pulled back her hand, appalled. The woman was a lunatic. “Please understand. I love Will. He loves me. Nothing can stop us.”

In the awful silence, footsteps sounded in the passage and a moment later the parlor door opened.

“Justine!”

She spun around.
Will
.

“Sir William is in conference with Her Majesty,” he said, in high spirits, “won’t need me until tomorrow. How wonderful that you came. Hello, Mother.” He was grinning, dusting snow from his shoulder. “Even more wonderful to see you two together.” He came to Justine’s side and said to his mother, “I hope you’ve been discussing the wedding. As soon the inquiry ends we’ll post the banns.” He winked at Justine. “And the inquiry’s end, I predict, is nigh.”

She could not find words. He looked so happy, his mother so miserable. Rubbing his hands briskly to warm them, he insisted that Justine stay for supper. “We’ll set a wedding date, we three, and discuss who to invite.”

When he went to the kitchen to tell the cook, his mother regarded Justine with a look that sent a chill up her backbone. “You are wrong, girl,” she said quietly. “There is something I can do to stop you.”

It shook Justine so deeply that when Will came back she could scarcely put on a calm face. He was saying that after supper it would be too late for her to return to his uncle’s house. “Stay the night, my love.” She balked, saying Lord Thornleigh would expect her.

“I’ll send a note. He’ll be fine, knowing you’re here. Besides, the snow is falling thick. It’s hardly safe. Stay, and we’ll make merry.” His smile was warm, full of admiration. “Today we have good cause, God knows.”

His mother pleaded a headache, ordered that supper be brought to her chamber, and left them. Justine was relieved to see her go, yet didn’t know how she could put a rational sentence together for Will, let alone spend the evening with him in the parlor. She was saved when, after supper, a clerk came to the door and delivered an armload of documents from Sir William. Will winced, telling Justine he was sorry, but the papers required his immediate attention. She was secretly glad, and left him to go to her bed.

She lay on a narrow bed in the cold light of the moon, watching it dart through clouds as though in search of a hiding place. She could not sleep for thinking of Will’s mother’s words.
I can still stop you
. How?
By telling him about me?
Her vow to Lord Thornleigh was sacred, she had said, but people routinely broke their vows. If she did tell, would it devastate Will? That afternoon in the hubbub of Westminster, when they were both flushed with the thrill of Justine’s message from Mary and the joy of being reunited, it had seemed that nothing could take Will from her. But now, shaken by the depth of his mother’s derangement, she was no longer sure.