Blood Between Queens (9 page)

The shift in topic was jarring. “He hasn’t said anything lately.”

Her ladyship turned abruptly. “He spoke about it to you?”

Justine saw her blunder. “Only once.” This sounded worse—like a conspiracy. She hastened to add, “He didn’t want to worry you.”

Anxiety, like a shadow, fell over Lady Thornleigh’s face. “I would be the worst kind of fool to live with a man for over thirty years and not notice he was ailing.” Justine felt she was looking at a woman she thought she knew, but didn’t—not all of her. Not this deep worry.

Lady Thornleigh seemed to recover herself. She found a smile. Her voice, when she spoke, was strong and warm. “I know what you are feeling, my dear. Believe me, I wish with all my heart to see you wed the man you love. Marry, and be happy, as I have been.”

Justine gasped in joy. “God bless you, my lady!” Buoyed with relief, she jumped up and ran to her and embraced her. “You won’t be sorry. I’m sure you’ll find several young lady candidates eager to go to Carlisle. Her Majesty can have her pick.”

“No. It is you we have chosen. You are the ideal candidate. I told you, Will can wait.”

She pulled back in dismay. “But—”

“You are one of us, Justine, a Thornleigh. Thornleighs serve Elizabeth. It is our privilege and our duty. You shall not fail at yours.” She started for the door. “Be ready to ride north in the morning.”

 

Justine ran down the stairs to the library. Lord Thornleigh would listen to her. He would not let them banish her to Carlisle, cut her off from Will!

She found him standing at the big oak desk with his clerk, both of them sorting papers and packing them into a wooden chest.

“My lord,” she blurted, “I must speak to you.”

He looked up. “And I to you.” He turned to his clerk. “I’ll finish this, Curnutt. See about getting the letters sent, would you?”

“Certainly, my lord.” The clerk poked through the papers, gathering letters—an interminable business, it seemed to Justine. Waiting for him to finish and leave, she noticed Lord Thornleigh rubbing his left hand with his right, slowly, methodically. Was his hand numb? It gave her a prickle of alarm. Had his malady spread? He saw her looking and let his hand drop to his side as though unwilling to let her see.

The moment his clerk was gone he said, “So, has her ladyship told you of your mission?”

“Yes, but—”

“Good. We need to discuss the journey. Can your maid have you ready early tomorrow? I’d like to set out right after breakfast.”

“Oh, sir, I am loath to go! May I not decline?”

He looked taken aback. “Decline? A request from the Queen? Certainly, if you want to stain the reputation of our house.”

“No . . . of course not,” she stammered, “but, I mean, could you not intercede for me with Her Majesty? Get this plan changed?
Anyone
could go in my place. I know she relies on your counsel.”

“With good reason, that I advise her honestly. You are her choice, and I agree it’s an excellent one. Why do you balk?”

She was in turmoil. How much could she tell him? Looking at his weathered face, his worried look as he waited for an explanation for her extraordinary resistance, she knew his concern for her was heartfelt. He had taken her in when she was a terrified, lonely child and had brought her up like a daughter. No father could have been more kind. She owed him the truth. The whole truth.

She took a breath and began to pour out her heart. How, despite her promise, she had not yet told Will her real background. How she had met him that morning at St. Paul’s and heard that he’d told his mother of their desire to marry and that his mother had flown into a panic and refused to give her consent.

Listening, Lord Thornleigh let out a groan. He sat down heavily in the chair by the desk. “I was afraid of this.”

Justine froze. She was right. “She knows who I am. That’s it, isn’t it?”

He nodded grimly. “She does. So, now Will knows, too?”

“No. He has no idea about it, I’m sure. But he said his mother may come to
you
and demand that you refuse your consent.”

“Poor Joan. Don’t worry, I’ll talk to her.”

“And you won’t listen to her, will you? If she demands that you to forbid us to marry?”

“I told you, I’m pleased about this marriage.”

“But if she insists—”

“Justine, don’t worry. I’m sorry Joan has reacted so badly, but it changes nothing. You have my consent and my blessing. That’s all you and Will need.”

She was so grateful she did not trust her voice to be steady. She whispered, “Thank you.”

“I feel I should thank
you,
” he said with feeling. “This means a lot to me. A new beginning. The hatred between the houses of Thornleigh and Grenville has festered too long, like some witch’s spell. You and Will, with your union, are going to break it.” He glanced at his hand hanging limply at his side. “I want peace. That’s the legacy I intend to leave my family.”

“Leave?” She felt a clutch of alarm. “Is your malady so dire?”

He chuckled. “Don’t bury me yet, girl. I mean to dance and eat plums at your wedding.”

She had to smile. This day, so overwrought, was making her imagine things.

“You and Will have already made peace,” he said, “and that’s what’s so heartening. Now the rest of us need to do the same. I’ll talk to Joan.” He got to his feet. “And you need to go and get packed. Your first duty is to Elizabeth.”

She did not move. Gathering her courage, she swallowed and said, “Sir, there is more.” She confessed that this very morning she and Will had become betrothed.

“What?” His extreme displeasure was plain. “That was ill done, Justine. Betrothal is serious. It should be an open, public ceremony, not this hole-in-corner sneaking.”

“When I went to meet him, sir, I did not know it would happen. He asked, and I was so happy I said yes. He had brought a friend, a vicar, and the ceremony was done then and there.”

“And you never thought to wait until the thing could be properly done? You should have had your family with you.
Me
.” He looked almost hurt.

Justine loved him for his concern. But she could not pretend to regret her vow to Will. “I hope you will forgive me, my lord. It was done for love.”

He gave her a piercing look as if to warn her that she could not be so easily mollify him. But a ghost of a smile played on his lips. “Love above all, eh?”

It moved her. He understood. He was only putting on a show of anger now. Yet her fears leapt up again. “Sir, I persuaded Will that our betrothal should be a secret for now.” His angry frown returned and she hastened to add, “Because I am so afraid his mother will tell him about me.”

Wearily, he shook his head. “She won’t. When we took you in she gave me her solemn promise never to speak of it.”

Ah, that explained so much! Yet, was it enough? “But now that Will has told her about us? What if she breaks her promise and hurls the truth at him? Especially if I am sent north and am not even here to defend myself?”

“Then tell him now. Get it over with. Tell him today.”

“He’ll hate me.”

“Nonsense. You are an innocent in this miserable feud. He’ll understand that. And it’s clear that he loves you. Trust in that.”

She felt a shiver. “But
can
I trust? Won’t he see in me his enemies, my kinsmen? Can he really forget how his father was killed and his mother left widowed? Besides, our family and his are so staunchly Protestant, and he’ll realize that as a Grenville I was born a Catholic. For all these reasons . . . oh, my lord, I have seen with my own eyes the loathing he bears my aunt.”

“Frances? Ah, well, she is a hard woman to warm to.”

“It’s not that. Will hates her. For her Grenville blood.
My
blood.”

That gave him pause, she saw. Made him quiet. She felt a shudder, seeing how truly she had hit the mark.

“Look,” he said, “this can’t go on. You have to be honest with Will. You cannot build a marriage on a lie.”

Anger swelled in her, born of desperation. “Lies are what we’ve
all
been living with, ever since I came among you.”

“I thought it best for you. I would have done you no favor to have people know you’re the daughter of a traitor.” He heaved a troubled sigh. “However, that may have been a mistake. Your father’s sins died with him in the flames, and maybe that wiped the slate clean for you. This damned secrecy. I never thought it would grow into such a problem.”

She had to look away. Could not let him see that she held back a deeper lie. Her father had not perished in the fire. Where he had gone, she had no idea, but he was alive, somewhere, and she alone knew it.

“Justine.”

She turned back, hearing the new note in his voice. A hopeful note, as though he had discovered something. “This mission you’ve been chosen for,” he said, “to attend Mary, Queen of Scots. It could be the very thing to help you win Will over.”

She stared at him, baffled. “How can leaving him do that?”

“By your service to Elizabeth. Will is devoted to Her Majesty’s cause, as are all our family. Your being part of that cause will strengthen your bond with him. It will prove to him how deeply, how thoroughly, you are one of us. A Thornleigh.”

A glimmer of light broke through her fears. “Think you so?”

“I do. Show Will your loyalty, by your actions. Then nothing can shake him. Not even when you tell him your past.”

She clutched at what he had just implied. “
When
I tell him? You mean, not yet?”

He seemed to realize the contradiction: A moment ago he had said she should tell Will today. “You won’t be with Mary for long. A couple of months at most, and meanwhile I’ll deal with Joan. Once you’re back home, that’s the time to tell him. You will have proved yourself. I dare say your service to Elizabeth will even boost his prospects with Sir William.”

Justine felt a jolt of excitement. The picture he painted was so bright, so beautiful, it made tears spring to her eyes. She
was
part of his family, and she would prove this truth to Will! She would show herself to be such an essential member of the house of Thornleigh and be so valiant in her service to Elizabeth, nothing could shake his love, not even her Grenville blood.

“Oh, sir!” she said through her tears, and flung her arms around his neck. “I will excel in the mission. And when I return to Will, nothing will ever come between us again!”

He chuckled. “I do not doubt it.”

“Pardon, your lordship.” Timothy, the footman, had come into the room. “A letter.”

Justine pulled away, embarrassed at her outburst of affection, but feeling so happy she didn’t really care who saw it.

“It is for Mistress Justine,” he said, offering her the letter.

“Ah, Will is eager,” said Lord Thornleigh with a wry smile.

But Justine saw the handwriting. Not Will’s.

“No, I’m wrong,” he added, eying the inscription. “That looks like my daughter’s hand.”

And so it was, she saw as she opened the letter and looked at the signature. Isabel had written from Yeavering Hall. Justine’s first thought was of Alice. She’d had a letter from her only last week, Alice saying how happy she was to be working for Lady Isabel, and thanking Justine for her help, and sharing a jest from the servants’ hall. Isabel’s note was brief, only a few lines. Justine read them quickly.

Her heart juddered.
So very sorry . . . found dead . . .

“Justine?” Lord Thornleigh said.

She stared at the words that, even now, she knew would burn in her mind for as long as she lived . . .
strangled . . . by whom we know not . . . no trace of the villain.

The room around her blurred. Inside her, a stillness like stone.

“Justine? What’s wrong?”

She looked up. Tried to speak, but horror clogged her throat.
Alice . . . Alice . . . Alice.

C
overing the three hundred miles from London to Carlisle in England’s north had taken Justine and Lord Thornleigh and their party three weeks. They had journeyed hard, for Queen Elizabeth’s business required haste, and Justine felt the miles in every stiff muscle of her legs and back. The reins she held, brittle from her dried sweat, chafed her newly calloused palms. Her soul felt no less battered. Three weeks had not been enough to dim the horror of Alice’s death. Murdered.
Strangled
. What kind of devil would do that to lovely Alice? And why? Every mile Justine had ridden beat the merciless questions, like nails, deeper into her. She had no answers, only numbed disbelief.

It was a harsh land she and Lord Thornleigh had come into with their train of six men-at-arms, five servants, and the luggage packhorses. Carlisle lay in the rugged county of Cumbria at one of the most dangerous places in England: the border with Scotland. Centuries of intermittent warfare between the two countries had condemned the local people to endless poverty, misery, hunger, and death, and although there was now peace, tribal hatreds forged from time immemorial ensured that clans on both sides of the border continued to raid each other with great brutality. Thankfully, Justine’s party had completed their journey unmolested through this land of brigands. The weather had been fair, the roads and bridges clear, the inns, though often dirty, were welcome rest stops to such weary travelers, and they were now nearing their destination, Carlisle Castle. It was the seat of Henry, Lord Scrope, Warden of the West March, the Queen’s lieutenant in these parts. Lodged at his castle was his charge, Mary, Queen of Scots.

Justine gazed eastward across the stark moors toward Yeavering Hall, a hard day’s ride away. Yeavering Hall, once her home, where she and Alice had been such close friends as girls. It was near Yeavering that Alice had met her unspeakably violent death. Had she been the victim of a robber’s assault turned deadly? But what did poor Alice have worth stealing? Or had the killer been someone Alice knew? But Isabel had said in her letter that no one among the stunned household, when questioned, had any idea of who could have done such an evil thing. The murderer, they agreed, must have been a stranger, and after killing Alice had taken flight. Justine imagined the servants, Alice’s friends, grieving for her. She had always made friends easily. And what about her ailing parents? Their grief, Justine felt, could not be worse than her own. She had loved Alice.
And I sent her there, to Yeavering Hall. Sent her to her death.

She dragged her thoughts back to her mission, for her party had reached Carlisle. The town hugged its castle, the bastion of English forces through centuries of war, whose primary defenses were its massive thirteenth-century walls enclosing the town. An artillery platform squatted on the roof of the keep, and three fortified watchtowers rose from the citadel. Justine anxiously eyed the watchtowers as she rode across the drawbridge that spanned the moat. The hooves of her weary horse clopped with an eerie echo as she passed under the ancient arched gatehouse.

“Where do we find Lord Scrope?” the captain of Lord Thornleigh’s guard was asking the soldier at the gatehouse.

“He is with the Queen of Scots, sir,” the soldier said with a bow to Lord Thornleigh. Though his lordship was a stranger in these parts, any man richly dressed, mounted on a fine horse, and followed by a retinue merited deference. “In the Warden’s Tower.” He pointed down a narrow street. “Southeast corner of the inner ward, sir. You’ll find stabling there.”

The party carried on down the street, and Justine, rousing herself from her sorrow over Alice, took comfort in seeing people going about their workaday business. Hammers clanged at a smithy. Pigs grunted from a pen by the castle wall. Laundry, strung on a clothesline between the crowded houses, fluttered in the warm afternoon breeze. A rank smell rose from a small window, unglazed and barred, at the base of the castle wall. The lockup, no doubt. Justine had heard from a traveler at their last inn stop that whenever Scottish border raiders were captured, they were held in the castle jail. A fierce desire for vengeance stabbed her: if only Alice’s murderer could be manacled and thrown into this lock-up to suffer for his sin. But he was likely far away by now.

Or was he? What if he had not fled but was hiding? Or even going about his business, undetected by the community? She felt an overwhelming urge to investigate the matter on her own. Alice, a poor servant, had no powerful kin to press for a thorough inquiry, so pertinent details could have been overlooked. Justine judged she would be with Mary for some weeks at the very least, and Yeavering was not far. A chilly excitement rushed over her. Yes, she would make her own inquiries there. Someone might have information, might even have seen the killer with Alice. If she could track him down, she would see justice done.

The resolution cleared her mind like a bracing spring breeze. She shook off her sorrow. She would do her duty here with Mary and find out what she could about how Alice had died.

Her duty here. She meant to succeed in this mission. For Elizabeth, for the Thornleighs, and most of all, for Will. To make things right with him, she was ready to do her all. And now that she had finally arrived, she had to admit she felt a deep curiosity. What would the Queen of Scots be like? Justine had learned the basic facts about her, but mystique swirled around this woman three times married and only twenty-five. Crowned queen of Scotland as a baby. Sent to France at five to grow up in pampered splendor at the French court. Married at sixteen to the adolescent French king. Widowed a year later and brought back to Scotland as its queen where she married the young English nobleman Lord Darnley. Widowed again by his murder. Carried off by the violent Lord Bothwell—a staged incident, people said, for he was her lover; raped by him, Mary claimed—but three months after her husband’s murder she married Bothwell.
If the accusations are true,
Justine thought,
Mary is cunning. And wanton. And profane. Cunning enough to see through my posting here?

She felt a nip of panic. She had no training at being a spy. Lady Thornleigh had assured her that she needed none beyond her quick wits and her loyalty to Elizabeth. Justine wasn’t sure about the first, but had no doubt about the second.
So loyalty must be my guide,
she told herself. Yet her heartbeat quickened, for she was very nervous. Once Lord Thornleigh left to return to London she would have no ally here. Perhaps for months. The responsibility was daunting, knowing that, in some part at least, Elizabeth’s security rested on her shoulders. The Thornleighs’ honor certainly did. And, perhaps, her whole future with Will.

She took a deep breath to ready herself as her party reached the square stone tower that housed the Queen of Scots. Two steel-helmeted soldiers flanked its arched wooden doors. A half dozen soldiers patrolled each alley that ran alongside it. Three alert archers stood on the roof. Lord Scrope’s guest was well guarded. Justine was aware of the dual reasons: this level of security was normal to protect a royal personage—but also to contain a threat to England’s queen.

 

The comfortably furnished chamber into which Justine and Lord Thornleigh were ushered was large, lavishly hung with tapestries, quiet, and dimly lit. At the windows heavy gold brocade curtains were drawn against the sun. A hanging candelabra’s dozen small golden flames gave the only light. Justine caught the faint scent of a spicy perfume. It reminded her of incense. In fact, the atmosphere of the whole room put her in mind of a church, the old kind she had known as a child, a hushed dim place rich with Catholic splendor.

Their host, Lord Scrope, had brought them to this second floor suite of the tower, and he whispered, gesturing to the drawn window curtains, “Her Majesty suffers from headache.”

Justine was surprised by his solicitous tone. A large, fleshy man in his thirties, he was a powerful magnate with authority over the two thousand inhabitants of this town and other towns, and had command of hundreds of soldiers who would butcher and pillage at his order and had done so in the past, but his hushed voice and eager eyes were those of a suitor as he looked expectantly toward the narrow stone staircase curving to the upper floor, Mary’s private suite. The stairs were dark except for a wall-mounted rushlight flickering at the turning. Scrope beckoned the visitors to stand still, as though for an audience.

Lord Thornleigh frowned, looking impatient. “Has she been told we’re here?”

“Shh.” Scrope held a finger to his lips. “Loud noises,” he whispered, tapping the side of his head. “She cannot abide them.”

Footsteps sounded on the narrow staircase. Two well-dressed young ladies, treading lightly as they came down, emerged from its gloom. After a curtsy to the gentlemen, one went to the window to tug the edge of the curtains more tightly together, cutting out a stray beam of sunlight. The other, carrying a wine decanter, set it down on the gleaming oak sideboard where goblets stood. She did so gingerly, as though not to make a clatter.

Justine eyed the young ladies. She did not know them personally, but knew who they were. Margaret Currier, big-boned and broad-faced, and Jane de Vere, petite, with a washed-out pale complexion but bright eyes. They would be her sister ladies-in-waiting. In silent deference, they took up places at the far end of the room and stood still, waiting. As did the two lords. As did Justine, beside her guardian.

More footsteps sounded, descending the stairs, a heavier tread. Two men strode down, one gray-haired but erect as a soldier, the other younger, frailer of body, but with an arrogant aspect that branded him a noble. Scrope, indicating Lord Thornleigh, made introductions in a low voice. The men were Scots. The elder was John Maxwell, Lord Herries. The younger was William Livingston. Justine had been briefed about them. Loyal to Mary, they had fought for her in her battle against the Earl of Moray, her half brother, who had usurped her. When her forces were routed, these nobles rode with her for England. They, too, now looked toward the staircase.

Everyone waited. Outside, in the inner ward below, the voices and casual clatter of Scrope’s soldiers made a muffled hum.

A glitter at the turning of the stairs. Soft-slippered footfalls. In the stairwell’s gloom, Mary emerged. Gold embroidery on her black dress was the glitter, caught by the rushlight. Her face was still in shadow.

She was very tall. That was Justine’s first, startled thought. Taller than most men. As she reached the last step and moved toward the visitors, the light of the candelabra finally illumined her face. The candles’ golden glow showed skin as flawless as a child’s. A heart-shaped frame of pearls held back her smoothly coiffed, dark hair. There was a slight slope to her eyes; together with their alert gleam they put Justine in mind of a cat. Mary came straight toward Lord Thornleigh, her face alight with anticipation, and she caught up his hand and held it in both of hers. Justine almost gasped, so astonishingly intimate was the action.

He looked overwhelmed. He cleared his throat. He bowed.

Mary laughed lightly as though to excuse her impulsive action, and then let go his hand.
“Ah, mon seigneur, pardonnez-moi. Votre visite me remplit de joie.”
She added haltingly, “I . . . thank you . . . for to come.”

“Her Majesty says your visit fills her with joy, my lord,” said Lord Herries, stepping forward. “She has requested that I translate.” He added with a smile that softened his crusty, military bearing, “My father despaired of my wild youth in Paris, but my years there were worth something.” His English, though tinged with a Scots burr, was as elegant as any Whitehall courtier’s. “I hope you will accept this service?”

“Gladly, sir.” Lord Thornleigh looked relieved. “My French is but a poor relation to yours.”

Herries translated this for Mary and she laughed again, a soft, gentle laugh. Herries grinned. Lord Livingston smiled aristocratic approval. The beefy Scrope gazed at Mary, in thrall.

They are all so earnestly pleasant,
Justine thought. Even Lord Thornleigh, who moments ago had been soberly set on his duty here, looked lighter of heart. Mary had done it, she realized in awe. She had heard of the famous remark made by the Venetian ambassador in London, that Mary was the most beautiful woman in Europe, and now she saw why. She was as lovely of form as of face, but it was more than beauty that made people brighten in her presence. Liveliness sparkled in her eyes. Sensuality flowed in her every movement. Justine had a sense that Mary was wholly caught up with whomever she spoke to. At the moment, that person was Lord Thornleigh.

He said, “I hope, Your Grace, that your headache has cleared?”

When Herries translated this, irritation flickered on Mary’s face. Justine guessed it was because Lord Thornleigh had not addressed her specifically as a queen;
Your Grace
could apply to lesser royalty or a duchess. Though Mary had abdicated her throne over a year ago, she later declared that she had done so under threat of death and renounced the abdication.

She smiled, as though bent on ignoring such irritations, then charmingly brushed aside his concern for her health with a wave of her slender hand.
“Il va et vient; ce n’est rien.”
It comes and goes; it is nothing.

She gestured to Jane de Vere, who took up a lute and began to play soft chords, soothing and sweet. Mary then gestured to Margaret Currier, talking as she did so, and Herries told the visitors, “Her Majesty wishes you to refresh yourselves with wine after your long journey.”

Lord Thornleigh declined. He was ready for business.

“Pas de vin?”
No wine? Mary asked, her hand on her heart in mock dismay. She went on, casting a disarming glance at Scrope, and Herries translated, “Not even the finest Burgundy from the cellar of our noble host?”