Blood Between Queens (37 page)

“Monsieur Rigaud!”

He looked up, over his shoulder. His nose was bloody, his cheek scraped. His eyes went wide as he recognized her.

A pock-faced man stepped into her path. “Halt there. What business have you with the prisoner?”

“I . . . I owe him money.”

Rigaud struggled to his feet.

The man pushed him down again, looking almost amused. “Your doxies pay
you,
do they, Frenchie? That’s a twist.” He chuckled, and so did another man standing guard over Rigaud.

“Please, may I have a word alone with him?” Justine handed the pock-faced man a half crown.

He took the coin and shrugged. “Why not?”

The two guards withdrew a few paces. It was enough for Justine.

“I have the money,” she told Rigaud. “Look.” She held up the fat purse. “Now, tell me who you saw with Alice in the church. You said you knew the man.”

He scoffed. “What’s the use? If you give me the money now, it’ll go straight into their pockets.” He jerked his blood-flecked chin at the two guards who were watching them, arms lazily crossed.

“I can send it to you,” she urged. “In France.”

“Ha. The devil alone knows where I’ll be.” He looked away as if done with her.

“Monsieur, please. Won’t you tell me? I will give you all of this and more for just one word. Just the name of the man who killed my friend.”

He regarded her for a long moment, a misty light coming into his eyes. “I’ll tell you what. Give it to Nan.”

“Who?”

“You saw her. Big with child.”

The skinny woman at the door? It surprised her. The woman had spat his name.

“I’ll miss her,” he said. “Give the money to her.”

“I shall.” The lead guard was starting to look impatient. “The name, monsieur,” she said. “Give me the name.”

A wherryman shouted a last call for loading his boat to go out to the ship. “That’s for me,” Rigaud said, getting wearily to his feet. “
Adieu
to Puritan-ridden England.” Then, bitterly, “
Bonjour
to priest-ridden France.”

It struck Justine that she had come for nothing. “You don’t know,” she said in dismay. “You don’t know who killed her. You only wanted the money.”

“Oh, I know,” he said quietly. “I sold him wine for years. I saw him strangle that girl. I ran so he wouldn’t see
me
. That was the last thing I needed, him looking to finish me off, too. He always was a prickly one. Liked a fine claret, but I never could sell him my Malmsey. Not good enough for the lord of Yeavering Hall.”

“Did you say . . . Yeavering Hall?” The thought of Isabel’s husband Carlos jolted her. Madness. Impossible.

“That’s right. For that’s the name. Sir Christopher Grenville. I’d heard he was dead. I’d been away so long. But Grenville is who I saw that day in Kirknewton church. He was very much alive. It was the girl who was dead.” Rigaud looked at her. “See that you give that money to Nan, won’t you?”

She heard no more words. Only clanging church bells. Shrieking gulls. In her head, in her horror, a roaring like the sea.

I
saw him strangle that girl.
Rigaud’s words thrashed in Justine’s mind as the wherryman strained at his oars, making for Chelsea. The wind had kicked up choppy waves, and Justine gripped the gunwale for balance. The waves beat the boat and the Frenchman’s words beat at her:
Sir Christopher Grenville . . . I saw him strangle that girl.

Absurd, her rational mind told her. Rigaud, of course, had made a terrible mistake. He was simply wrong. Justine was coming to Kilburn Manor to see her father, and a few words with him would clear up the hideous error.
June fifth?
he would tell her.
I was sailing that day from France
.

The wherry rocked as it came alongside the Kilburn Manor jetty and she climbed out, shivering so much she fumbled at the coins in her purse to pay the wherryman. The wherryman tipped his cap to her and pushed off to row back to the city. She was alone on the jetty. Winter’s late-afternoon shadows stretched across the river, trying to claim the land for dusk. She looked up at the old red brick manor house. She had spent the night there in a soft bed in a scented chamber and had not seen her father that morning before she’d set off to see Rigaud. Across the courtyard rose the new wing, imposing but deserted. Her father was camping there. Hiding out.

A crane startled her, lifting off the water with a noisy flapping of wings. She stared at the rings of ripples the bird left, breaking up as they met the confused waves. Kilburn Manor was such a solitary place here at the bend in the river where waterfowl fed among the reeds. It struck her that Elizabeth would be coming here tonight to discuss Mary’s abdication. An excellent place for the secret meeting. No one to see Elizabeth arrive.

Father arranged that well
. That was a happy thought.
He cares about Mary. Cares about me. Rigaud’s accusation is absurd.

Up the steps to the house she went, then across the muddy courtyard toward the new wing. The mild weather of the last days had melted the pristine Christmas snow. The lane of topiary felt like a tunnel rising out of the muck. She hastened through its shadows.
Absurd,
she told herself. Her father had barely remembered Alice when she had mentioned her murder. Besides, why would he have been anywhere near Yeavering Hall?

To simply see again the grand house that once was his? She remembered his anger:
“It was stolen from me.”

No, it was absurd and Rigaud was confused. He had not seen her father for over a decade. He only
thought
he saw him in Kirknewton church.

Yet Rigaud had been so sure. He had known her father well, had personally sold him wine at Yeavering Hall. For years.

No,
absurd
. Strangle Alice? What possible reason could he have for such a savage act?
Father will explain. He’ll scoff and say that poor Rigaud has been drinking too much of his own wine.

She reached the new building, cold inside, deserted, and climbed the wide staircase. Upstairs she opened the door to the lofty chamber where her father had comforted her yesterday beside the little coal fire. The room was abandoned. No sign of his makeshift camp at the hearth. His few belongings, the scatter of cushions, the coal fire, all had vanished. For a moment, standing in the chill darkness, it seemed to Justine that she might only have dreamed that he had been here.

No. She remembered his comforting words, his sympathetic embrace. Remembered him telling her Elizabeth was coming.

Back to the main house she went to seek Frances.
Aunt
Frances, she reminded herself. It was still hard to think of her as kin since she had avoided Frances for so long, not wanting any tie to another Grenville, wanting everyone to accept her as a Thornleigh. Now, with Will lost to her, everything was different. It gripped her like grief. She tried to take heart from the lesson she had learned, that her Grenville kin were the only people she could rely on. Her aunt. Her father.

She found Frances in her bedchamber. She had pushed open the green brocade bed curtains and stood sorting through a heap of objects dumped helter-skelter on the bed. Silver spoons, silver plates, ropes of pearls and jeweled rings, gem-studded goblets, silver candlesticks.

“Aunt, have you seen my father?”

Frances spun around, her hand flying to her heart. “Justine! Oh, you gave me a fright.”

Justine was surprised by her appearance. A frantic look in her eyes, her hair in disarray. Perhaps it was the stress of preparing to welcome Her Majesty to her house. Frances had always been high-strung. “Has he left for Bolton already? My father?”

“Bolton?”

“In the north. To see Mary. Help her prepare.”

“For what?”

“For going to France. I must see him before he leaves England.”

“Leaves? Good heavens, Christopher will never leave England. No, no, he just rode to Kingston. He’ll be back in time.” She wiped a hand across her brow sheened with sweat and went back to sorting through the pile, hastily packing objects into a satchel on the foot of the bed.

Never leave England?
Justine knew that was not true, but she hesitated to press the point, for her aunt looked so oddly distracted, her actions almost manic. Was she ill? She watched her cram a silver salt cellar into the satchel. “Are you going somewhere? After the Queen’s visit?”

“After . . . ?” Frances started like a caught thief. She wrung her hands. “I know, Christopher said not to pack. Said it would look wrong. I understand. And of course gowns I can replace. But these precious things . . .” She caught sight of something on a table and cried, “Ah!” She hurried over to it and grabbed it, a jeweled casket. “My mother’s.” She tried to jam it into the satchel, but it was too large, the satchel too full. She threw up her hands in despair, then sank onto the bed. “So much to organize. I cannot keep it all in my head. The servants . . . well, nothing can be done about that. It’s the children . . . the children . . . they are my life!” She looked frightened and was fighting tears. “They will go to my friend, Lady FitzAlan. It’s all arranged. But not until later, Christopher says. Not until not until Elizabeth arrives. I promised him, no changes. But, oh dear God, to wait until the last moment . . .” She rubbed her brow. Her breathing was shallow. “Do I have time to take my little ones before he comes back? No . . . no, Christopher would be angry. And I know he’s right, but—” She suddenly stopped and gaped up at Justine. “You!” She jumped up. “
You
can take them!”

Justine was trying to follow the incoherent babble. “Katherine and Robert? To see your friend?” A social visit for the children? How could she think about such things with Rigaud’s words clanging in her mind! “I’m sorry but I cannot. I must see my father. You say he’ll be back this evening?”

“Of course. Soon. But I want the children out before he comes. Please, you
must
take them.”

“Perhaps your steward can take them. It’s urgent that I stay and see—”

“I cannot trust him! Not him, not any servant.”

“What? Why not?”

“Because he is not one of
us
. You are. Christopher says you are.” She clutched Justine’s hand. Frances’s hand felt so icy, Justine flinched. “He wants the best for you, Justine. And we all must trust each other now. It will be worth it, you’ll see. Once this is over and Mary is queen, our family will be restored. But for now, my children cannot stay here.”

“Mary . . . queen?” What was she talking about?

“Good heavens, Justine, what else do you think all this is about?”

“The meeting tonight, you mean? It’s because Mary is abdicating.”

Frances shook her head, a sly light in her eyes. “No, she’s not.”

A cold finger scraped up Justine’s backbone.
Why
was Frances sending the children away? Was there some impending danger? And why was she packing her silver? She slid her hand free of Frances’s grip. “Aunt, what is going on?”

Frances spoke in a low voice that thrummed with excitement. “Plans are afoot.”

“Yes. Elizabeth is coming. But if not to discuss Mary’s abdication, then why?”

The sly look in Frances’s eyes deepened to satisfaction. “Because after tonight there will be no Elizabeth.”

Justine stared at her. Her mind emptied violently as if a plug had been pulled and everything she knew about herself flooded out. Will’s mother’s words rushed in.
“The swamp that bred you, the crocodiles who whelped you . . . you cannot escape your tainted blood . . . your father, Christopher Grenville, a traitor . . . He plotted against our queen
.”

She felt her legs might give out. Treason.
Father
. She groped for the bed-curtain to steady herself.

“Justine? Are you all right?” Frances was regarding her warily, a frown creasing her brow, as if she suddenly realized she had said too much.

Justine’s heart was banging so hard, so high in her chest, she could not find breath to speak.
Frances is his accomplice. They’re going to kill Elizabeth. Here. Tonight.

“Justine?” Frances stiffened.

Their eyes locked.

Justine saw that if she betrayed an inkling of her horror, Frances would see. Would know she was not one of them.
Get out,
she thought frantically.
Get away from here
. But if Frances suspected, she could call in servants to hold her.

She made herself let go of the curtain. There was only one way to get out. Pretend to go along.

“I had no idea,” she said, forcing steadiness into her voice. “About . . . dispatching Elizabeth. I wish Father had told me.”

Frances still seemed wary. “He thought it better that you didn’t know. Safer for us all. Since you’re so close to Lord and Lady Thornleigh.”

Justine’s heart bled.
Father used me.
The abdication message from Mary—a lie. His litany of the Thornleighs’ crimes—lies.

That horror was too monstrous. If she thought about it now she would go mad.

“Still,” she said, “I wish you had confided in me. I could have helped more.”

“Well, I wasn’t sure,” Frances said, flustered.

“I got close to Mary, as you know. She is the monarch England needs. A monarch of the true faith.
Our
faith.”

Frances relaxed a little. “Christopher brought you up well. Your soul is Catholic.”

Justine’s thoughts were charging ahead. She had to get away immediately, before her father came back. And Elizabeth—she would soon be on her way here.
How can I prevent the calamity?
“Aunt, we will work together and get this done. So please, keep nothing from me. Let me help. What can I do? Of course, the children! We must get them away, now.”

Frances brightened. “You’ll take them?”

“Right away. You are so right not to entrust their safety to servants. But we must leave without making a fuss, it must look like an ordinary outing.”

“Exactly. To Arundel House. Lady FitzAlan is expecting them. A visit to her children, I told her.”

“I know her ladyship. Call Katherine and Robert.” She tugged Frances to the door. “Hurry, Aunt, call the children. I’ll have them settled snugly with Lady FitzAlan before the sun goes down.”

“Bless you, Justine.”

 

Frances’s boat had been brought around to the end the jetty, and a gray-haired footman with a sunken chest and a cough sat at the oars waiting for them. Justine held hands with Katherine and Robert, hurrying them toward the boat. Her father might be back at any moment.

“Off we go now,” she told the children as merrily as she could. She turned to the footman, smiling. She needed to make a friend of him if she was to countermand the orders Frances had given him. Her destination was not Arundel House, but Lord Thornleigh’s house. No one would believe a warning from her, but Elizabeth would listen to Lord Thornleigh. “What’s your name?” she asked.

“He’s Fletcher,” said Robert as he hopped into the boat.

The footman nodded, suppressing a cough. “Aye, mistress. Fletcher.” He did not look well.

“There’s a half crown for you,” she said, “if you’ll row us faster than you’ve ever rowed.”

“A race?” Katherine asked eagerly as she took the stern seat beside her brother.

“That’s silly,” Robert told her. “We’re the only boat.”

“I’ll do me best,” the footman muttered.

“What’s wrong with Mother?” Katherine asked Justine.

“Wrong? Why, nothing.”

“She was crying when she said good-bye.”

“Ah, well, I warrant there’s a lot on her mind.” Justine stepped into the bow and sat, telling Fletcher to cast off. He was in the middle, his back to her. He hauled at the oars and the boat pulled away, and Justine looked back at the house. Sickness roiled in her stomach. How did her father plan to kill Elizabeth?
Like he killed Alice?
She took a deep breath of the cold river air. No time for sickness. She had to stop Elizabeth from coming.

They passed a fishing smack, its sails luffing as the men hauled in their catch. The river was broad, and near the far shore wherries and small sailboats beat against the wind and waves. She watched Fletcher labor at the oars. He did not look strong, and it was four miles to London. She wished she had a strapping oarsman to speed her all the way to the Old Swan Stairs by London Bridge. From there she could run to Lord Thornleigh’s house on Bishopsgate Street.

A terrible new thought struck her. The note she had sent to Lord Thornleigh!
I pray you, come this evening to Kilburn Manor . . . Do not fail me, or my life will be nothing.
Her father had urged her to write it—to make peace with his lordship, he had said. She cursed herself for believing him. She dreaded what he really intended. He had murdered Alice—it choked her to face that, but she now felt it must be true. And he was preparing to murder the Queen. And Lord Thornleigh? Was that part of his grotesque plan? Wildly, she prayed that her note had miscarried, that his lordship had not received it.
Let it be so. Don’t let him come.