The Memoirs of Mary Queen of Scots (20 page)

Jamie was made very welcome in the manor house as Holp the peddler, supplier of balms and potions, and in no time he had won George Talbot’s trust for providing him with his much needed larks’-tongue balm. Bess too was won over when she saw that the peddler could keep her supplied with cosmetics to redden her aging sallow cheeks and when he offered her a pretty cap sewn with lavender flowers which, he said, would prevent the headaches that often caused her agony.

“I have a terrible pain in my side,” I told the peddler once he had satisfied George. “Have you anything that might ease it?”

He turned limpid eyes on me. “Have you consulted a physician?” he asked in his most professional tone—always aware, of course, that Bess and George were overhearing every word, and listening for every nuance.

“Yes. In Scotland. But he wasn’t able to help me at all. The pain comes and goes. Sometimes it is so sharp I cannot sleep at all.”

“If you would permit a brief examination, perhaps with your tirewoman present?”

I looked over at Bess, who appeared skeptical at first, searching
our faces, but finding nothing suspicious, dropped her reluctance and shrugged. “Why not?” she said. “What harm can a dirty peddler do?”

A guardsman accompanied Jamie and me to my bedchamber where he left us, with Margaret Hargatt as chaperone. As soon as he had gone Margaret, smiling, retired to a small antechamber, leaving us alone.

At once we came into each other’s arms with such fervor that we might have been apart for a hundred years, and not just one.

I had not thought that I had such kisses in me, or such deepgoing need for Jamie’s mouth and arms and hands—for every muscular inch of him. Knowing that we dared not take too much time to assuage our passion, and that at any moment we might be interrupted by the guard or my wardens, only made us more fervent.

But at length, in response to Margaret’s discreet knock, we had to let each other go and do our best to recover our self-control.

“We will meet again, and very soon. I need to talk to you urgently,” Jamie said. “I will find a way. There are many Catholics in Oakerthorpe who support you and are sympathetic to you. I will be staying there. You’ll see me again before you can miss me, I promise!”

And then, straightening our clothes and composing our flushed faces, we returned together, along with the guard, to where Bess was waiting. I held my side (which in truth did often give me pain) and Jamie went on about how I needed to use the oil of vetiver he provided and take long walks as often as possible and avoid draughts. Then, with a bow to me and another to Bess (George having left during our absence), he strapped on his heavy pack and took his leave.

I could hardly sleep that night—not because of the pain in my side, but from excitement. He had come to me! He would see me again—and soon. Elizabeth would restore me to my throne, and Jamie would be near me, where he belonged. Yet Elizabeth wanted me to marry Thomas. And the Scots, or at least the current ruling group of them, had banished Jamie from the country.

Oh, the complications! How would I ever find my way through
them? I didn’t think it would be possible to regain my throne without the armed might of Elizabeth’s soldiers. Yet I did not want England to conquer my realm of Scotland, and place me on its throne as a mere puppet of my cousin.

If only I had an army of my own again, a loyal, stalwart army that would not melt away when attacked but stand and fight, and prevail.

I went for a long walk that afternoon, following Jamie’s advice and hoping that once again my guards and I would meet him coming along the road from Oakerthorpe. But we did not see him, nor did he find a way to send me a message. I ate my supper in dejection, went to bed early and tried to sleep.

I was awakened in the middle of the night by Margaret, wearing her nightdress and holding a candle.

“Milady! It is—it is Holp the peddler again”—I had made Margaret swear never to refer to Jamie by his real name or title, or as my husband. “He is in the still room, waiting for you.”

The large, dark still room of Wingfield Manor, where flowers were preserved to be made into perfume and fruit was made into jam and grains were fermented, was adjacent to my apartments. I hurried there without being seen or stopped (the guards being notably inactive at night) and found Jamie, crouched against the wall that separated the still room from my antechamber, scraping at the old bricks with his knife.

“How did you get in?” I asked him. The manor stood on a steep hill, the cliffs sloping sharply away on all sides, and the apartments Bess and George lived in were directly above the wide arched entryway. Everyone who came in and went out of the manor could be seen from their vantage point, or so it was assumed.

Jamie turned toward me and smiled. “The Master of the Household likes his cards and dice,” he said. “I challenged him to a game. He let me in through the trap door to the old dungeon. He says they used to keep witches and heretics there, in the days of Henry V. Or was it Henry VI?”

“Never mind, one Henry is the same as another.”

“At any rate, the dungeon has a passageway to the kitchens, and from the kitchens it is only a few steps and a stairwell to the main house. The master brought me up here, to the still room. This is where they play cards after the household goes to bed. No one uses the still room at night.” He went on scraping at the bricks as he spoke, the aged mortar crumbling and falling to the floor as he chipped away at it. Presently he stood up and put the knife back in his belt, wiping his hands on his vest.

He grinned and came over to me.

“Imagine this, Orange Blossom,” he said, cupping my face in his hands, his voice low. “The still room has a cupboard for curing meat. In the cupboard is a place where we can take our ease.”

He kissed me and, taking his candle, let me into the dark cupboard. Wooden tubs took up much of the space, but there was room for a straw mattress and blankets.

“Now,” he said, “no one will disturb us here. Of that I’m certain. The meat in these tubs won’t be cured until Michaelmas.”

We lay on the soft yielding straw, wrapped in each other’s arms, for the whole of that happy night, the sharp scent of salt in our nostrils and the sweet familiar warmth of our bodies balm to our lonely hearts.

The jennet Thomas sent me was as sweet-tempered a horse as I had ever ridden. She arrived one day, brought to Wingfield Manor by two messengers wearing the Norfolk livery of green and silver.

All the grooms and stable boys gathered around to admire her, stroking her velvety coat, rubbing her nose, admiring the way her tail was braided, remarking over her hooves, which were striped black and white.

She was small, a woman’s riding horse rather than a man’s, and she seemed to favor me as I approached her and held out my hand. She nuzzled me and made soft snuffling sounds. I could not wait to ride her.

I had ridden many horses, but had not had a favorite since my dear Bravane had grown old and broken a fetlock and had to be shot. How I had mourned him that day! Now, I thought, here is another favorite to love.

Presently my warders George and Bess came out into the courtyard.

“Another gift from your admirer,” Bess said, glancing at the messengers in their Norfolk liveries and then down at my hand to assure herself that I was wearing Thomas’s diamond ring.

“A fine jennet,” the earl remarked, his eyes agleam, taking in at a glance the little horse’s pinto coloration, her mostly white body and brown legs, her deep chest and broad, muscular loins, her beautiful proportions and quiet disposition.

“She comes from the Asturias,” one of the messengers said. “Her blood line goes back twenty-seven generations.”

“And has she foaled?” Bess wanted to know.

“I believe so. She belonged to the duke’s late wife.”

Hearing this I felt a twinge. Did Thomas imagine that if and when we married, I would inherit his late wife’s possessions—not only her jennet but her servants, her jewels, her wardrobe? And, of course, her husband? Was that how he saw me, as a mere replacement?

Dismissing these unpleasant thoughts, I continued to pet the horse’s soft muzzle.

“Bring a saddle,” I said to the grooms. “I must try her out.”

“Yes, do,” George urged. “The sooner the better.”

The horse was promptly saddled and I put on my riding boots and gloves and mounted her. She stood quietly while I mounted, but responded with instant spirit when I urged her forward. In no time at all we were out of the broad stonework gateway and onto the old wooden bridge that spanned the moat, then off down the dusty road that led to the orchards and the patches of woodland beyond them.

I shall never forget that first ride on Mignonne, the name I decided to give her that very afternoon. Her gait was smooth and rhythmic, she cantered beautifully and had a swift gallop that I longed to measure against one of Jamie’s horses—until I remembered that Jamie no longer had a stable of his own, but was a mere peddler riding a bony nag with a drooping tail.

We flew along, leading my soldier escort a merry chase, Mignonne remaining surefooted even when we crossed streams and rode along narrow, rock-strewn paths where less careful mounts might have stumbled.

After half an hour’s ride I paused by a little brook to let the horse
drink, and to stretch and catch my breath, the soldiers coming alongside and joining me in my respite.

Before long, the sound of pounding hoofbeats made me alert, and I saw, in the distance, a group of riders approaching. As they came closer I realized that the rider in the forefront was Thomas, gorgeously plumed as usual in a scarlet riding coat and velvet cap with a long white feather; even when out for an afternoon’s ride, I noticed, he wore diamond buckles and had the shine of gold at his neck and lace-covered wrists.

On second thought, remembering how Earl George had urged me to try out my new horse, I realized that my meeting with Thomas was no coincidence, and that in fact he had arranged this meeting and had dressed more elaborately than usual because he knew he would be seeing me.

Thomas looked his best on horseback; once he dismounted his short stature and small frame diminished him and reminded me of poor Francis, my ill-fated first husband, except that Thomas was better looking and much more purposeful in everything he did and said.

He smiled, showing yellow chipped teeth.

“I see that my gift is being put to good use.”

“Indeed, and thank you milord. I can tell already that she is a gem among horses. I call her Mignonne.”

“Still a Frenchwoman at heart, aren’t you, giving your horse a French name? Well, that is no bad thing, as it happens.”

“I am attempting to perfect my English, and to lose my French and Scottish lilts and rhythms. Listening to Bess hour after hour helps me—a little.”

“I too have been listening for hours and hours—not to Bess Shrewsbury, but to the dolts and dullards at the court in London—and to Elizabeth, who is no dullard, but who does tend to screech when provoked, as she so often is.”

I had to laugh at this. “I was not aware that the queen screeched.”

Thomas gave a shrug, as if to say, she is a woman, and all women screech, and it is of no consequence whether they do or not.

“Of far greater importance, I have been conferring with others at court—men of the north, most of them—who feel as I do about our present governance. Men who desire change and look to me, as England’s only duke, to lead them.”

His small gray eyes darted about here and there as he spoke, coming to light on my face now and then but never resting there for long. So unlike Jamie, who, when he looked at me, gave me the feeling that he could not take his gaze from my face, my throat, my bosom—as though he were captive to my womanly beauty.

“What sort of change, milord?”

Thomas looked around warily at the soldiers standing nearby before he spoke. “I think we both know what change I mean,” he said in a low tone, adding “Let us walk a ways.”

We strolled along the edge of the brook, stopping when we were safely out of earshot.

There was a new vitality about Thomas, it seemed to me. He had altered since our last conversation. Something had quickened his disposition, he was less inclined to lapse into melancholy than usual, more animated and at the same time more impersonal toward me. I had the feeling that in a way, he wasn’t really talking to me, to the woman he admired and hoped to marry, but to a fellow player in a vast chess game. He was knight, I was rook, and the personage we were speaking of, the powerful queen, was the dominant player but also the one in greatest danger, for whoever toppled the queen won the game.

“Did something happen on your visit to court, Thomas? Something that has changed your expectations?”

He smiled. “You women! You are always jealous. No, my dear, I did not meet anyone else or dally with anyone else.” He reached for my hand and assured himself that his diamond was on my finger. “You alone wear my ring. You are the one I am pledged to.”

“We are not pledged, Thomas,” I reminded him. “You have merely given me a gift, which I wear as a token of our friendship. I forbid you to tell anyone that we are pledged, or that I have given you my promise.”

He made a dismissive sound, and dropped my hand. “As you wish. For the moment.”

“And when I asked whether something had happened to change your expectations, I did not mean to ask whether you had become enamored of another woman.”

He gave me a sharp look, then went on a few steps farther from the soldiers, who continued to watch us but did not follow us. Mignonne stood cropping the grass at the brook’s edge, looking as if she were heedless of all but the sun on her back and the fresh taste of the green blades on her tongue.

“There is something I must tell you,” Thomas was saying. He was addressing his words to me but his eyes never left my guards. “No, two things. First, the pope’s bankers are raising funds to support a rising in the north, which will happen very soon, and second—” He broke off, aware that one of the soldiers was walking toward us.

“If you will pardon me, milady, I have orders to return you to the manor within the hour,” the guardsman said.

“But when your orders were given, I did not know that I would have the pleasure of meeting up with my lord of Norfolk.”

“Nevertheless, your ladyship—”

“I will answer for her lateness,” Thomas said. “Now leave us alone.”

The soldier made no retort, but merely bowed to Thomas and retreated, saying “As you wish, Your Grace.”

“Now then, second,” Thomas said to me after a time, his voice somewhere between a mutter and a whisper, “there is something about Elizabeth that has come to my knowledge. Something that will bring her down, as surely as any army.”

My eyes wide with surprise, I listened.

“The scandal alone could dethrone her—and will, if I have my way.”

“But I thought—”

“Yes, I know. You rely on earning her favor. I have relied on it too—in the past. But we must do what serves our interests best. Elizabeth may fall—and soon.”

Now it was my turn to whisper. I whispered into Thomas’s ear, avoiding being tickled by the white feather that dangled from his cap.

“What is it that you know?”

“She wrote letters. Letters to her paramour Robin Dudley. Letters that prove she knew when and how Dudley’s wife Amy was going to die. And I know where those letters are.”

“Where?”

“In Amy’s casket.”