The Spymaster's Daughter (49 page)

The barge came alongside the Barn Elms pier and he leaped to the landing with a mere trifle of stiffness, not waiting for the men to ship their oars. He knelt at once and bowed his head. “It is ever good to see you well, my lady.” He looked up, seeking to read her face, to see in it what he had seen that last day at Fotheringhay: the desire, but more, the desperate hope that fed his own. Until he saw that face, he would not embarrass himself by assuming that her feelings had not changed in the two months of her mourning. And
with Essex lurking nearby…Oh, it was the talk of the palace that the earl hoped to bring the young Lady Sidney to love him, if not immediately to his bed. Some malicious enemy of the earl's had informed the queen and she was furious, raging or crying, whichever suited the moment, demanding his return to her side, though he pleaded an ailing back related to much riding on bad horses in his country's wars abroad.

“You have grown a small beard, Robert.”

“Aye, I sought to hide my scar, but hair will not grow on it. Howsomever, I hope to distract the eye of the ladies.” His mouth teased.

“You have succeeded in that last particular. Yet I like it. It gives you authority, if you needed it.”

He grinned, then sobered. “Madam,” he said softly, and shivered, “with you, I am always in need of the last word. May we go near to a fire? I will show my beard to you in light so you can judge for yourself how well it suits me.”

“Indeed, sir, I will be happy to advise.” She smiled fully. “Come this way.”

I
n the hall, where a huge fire was roaring and the scents of clove and cinnamon were strong, the servants were busy hanging berries and holly to add good winter cheer.

Frances ordered mulled wine and led Robert to cushioned settles by the fire.

While they waited, she was amazed that she had not remembered his every plane and muscle, which were so obvious to her now as she took in his features. How could she have forgotten? Or was it a tender God giving her possible happiness in forgetting?

“Frances, you are wondering why I am here.”

“Not so, Robert. I am wondering why you did not come sooner.”

He lowered his voice. Servants were always eager to know what their masters said. “It was impossible to come without official reason. And the queen made certain that your father gave me every long trip possible.”

“The queen?”

“Aye, did you say aught to her?”

“Robert, no one needs to tell Elizabeth anything. Her eyes see through you and into your heart.”

“Not every heart. She could not see into Leicester's when he hid his marriage to Lettice Knollys for longer than a year.”

“She did not want to see; Robin had always been hers…and still is. Her eyes are not closed to us.”

“Perhaps that is the reason she has not seen fit to reward me.”

“With nothing?”

“Nothing.”

Frances asked the question that plagued her. “Robert, has Her Majesty decided the fate of Mary Stuart?”

“She has signed the order for execution, but she cannot bring herself to dispatch it.”

“Will Mary escape?”

“Your father and my lord Burghley will manage to bring this to an end. If Mary lives, Elizabeth dies, and with her all who serve her…and they know it. So does our sovereign.”

She nodded. Now her eyes begged him to agree, though her voice was loud enough to satisfy the servants. “You must dine and rest the night before returning to Whitehall, Master Pauley.”

His gaze was on her face. “My lady, I am yours…to command. And I bring greetings and a letter from your father. He awaits your answer.”

“Yes,” she said, trying to keep from showing a too obvious joy. “I will need time to compose my reply. There will be a chamber made ready for your rest this night.”

“My thanks.” She could tell that he wanted to reach across the space and touch her, take her hand, pull her to him; she wanted it, too.

He stood and bowed as she left for her chamber, telling Meg to arrange food and accommodation for Sir Walsingham's courier.

Meg dipped into a saucy curtsy.

Later, Frances and Robert were served supper in her father's library, with Will in livery attending.

“What will Mr. Secretary's servants think if we sup as equals?” Robert asked.

“You work closely with their master, and they know to treat you well.”

While Will carried in dishes to a table before the hearth, Robert walked about, looking at the chests of books and manuscripts, wanting to open them. “My father had many books when I was a lad. I don't know what happened to them. My half brother did not love them as I did.”

Robert sat down and relaxed, winking at Will, who was fast growing out of his new livery and had a hint of beard on his chin. “You have grown to near manhood since the Falcon and Dove.”

The lad answered with a grin. “Aye, sir, in many ways.” He bowed and served the hot boar soup and a coffin of partridge stuffed with wrens. Soon they were ready for their gingered bread and a steaming minced pie smelling of currants and spiced meats.

Frances dismissed Will to wait outside, and as soon as the door closed, she asked, “Robert, do you know what my father wrote?”

“Do you wish to tell me?” he asked, his eyes dark and unreadable now that the candles had burned low.

“I do not wish it, but there is no avoiding it.” She pulled the letter from her bodice, the wax seal hanging loose, and handed the paper to Robert with a slightly shaking hand.

He opened it and read aloud: “‘Daughter, I have wonderful news. My lord Essex has asked for you to be his wife….'”

Robert's voice caught on an indrawn breath. He paused, looked at her, though she turned away. He began again:

Robert refolded the letter, pushed it toward her, and looked up, his face as blank as he could make it, though his heart thundered in his ears. His voice was low, dull. “Your father has the right by law to give you in marriage to Essex.”

“None can give my heart. I
will not
marry Essex. Two loveless marriages in one lifetime! It is too much to ask of any daughter. I love you…only you.” She rose, her body straining forward as if ready to run. “We could escape to France, the Palatine, Italy!”

He went to her and clasped her arms without pulling her body to his. If he did, he knew he would agree to anything to be with her, his better self surrendering to desire. “Frances”—and, God forgive him, he shook her slightly—“we would be hunted down and it would go the worse for us. There is no country where your father could not reach us and have me murdered. Then you would be given to a man you had humiliated before the world, if he
would yet have you. What life would that be?” He shook her again. “Dearest, you know how quickly word of Essex's offer will spread about the court. Walsingham would never recover from disgrace if you refused the earl.”

She was shaking her head, blindly denying his words. “There must…must be a way.”

“Have you forgotten the queen? It could be the Tower for us. Remember the queen's lady Katherine Grey, and my lord Hertford, who married against Elizabeth's will. They were kept in the Tower, then banished to the countryside…never to see each other again. I mind not for myself, but for you….”

She opened her mouth in protest, but he could not listen. She was pleading for what he wanted with all of his being. All his strength of will had gone into that one denial. He could not make another. He dropped her arms and went blindly to the door, leaving it open behind him.

T
hat night, Frances, knowing well how to walk the shadows, went to the chamber that had been given to her father's courier, opening and closing the door in complete silence.

“Are you awake?” she whispered as she bent over the narrow rope bed on which he lay.

“Think you that I could sleep, knowing you are above me in your chamber?”

“I did not know for a certainty that where I slept would trouble you.”

He laughed softly and pulled her down atop his body, aroused even before she came to him. “You knew, Frances. You have always known. It was yourself that you had to overcome, not Robert Pauley.”

Laughing lightly with him, she asked, though with a tremor in her voice, “Will this night change our circumstance?”

“No.”

“The days of the troubadour are very much…over,” she murmured, her tone rueful, breaking. “You are…too honest to be a lady's lover.”

“My lady, you have discovered my fatal flaw, which I promise in every way to overcome…but not until after this night.” His hands found her breasts and she bent to press her mouth to his, stretching atop his long body, and he, increasing his pressure on her lips, sent his tongue searching inside. She felt her face blaze and the fire make a searing trail down her belly and below, to where he was ready for her.

Holding her tight, he turned her onto her side in the narrow bed, the ropes creaking, and pulled her leg over his hip, moving ever slower and stiffer, deeper inside her until she stuffed a hand into her mouth to keep from screaming out her craving for him to go deeper still.

Again, he reached to her melting core, as only he had before or ever would. Irresistible love was the only fuel that could feed a fire so deep. She knew that she would endure another man's love, but never this way…never this….

R
obert woke Frances before dawn and shook her gently. “Go to your bed now, my sweetest.”

“How will I ever sleep again without your love?” she whispered, putting a foot on the cold floor, her body bent in anguish.

“Know this,” he said. “My love will always be with you in your dreams, and during the mornings in your garden. Even when you are an elder countess sitting at your embroidery, you will remember your youth when you realized who you were. Know then that I have been with you forever. Sweetest, love can never be conquered. Never.” He drew in a shuddering breath. “Now go from me while I still have reason enough to save you from yourself…and from me.”

Still, she could not move.

“Quickly, Frances, while I can send you away from the certain ruin of your life.”

She did not turn to look at him as she fled. And later, at dawn, when she heard the barge oarlocks creak, the drum begin and fade to nothing, and knew he'd gone, she buried her face in the bolster to hide from the emptiness and silence of her world.

L
ONDON

F
rances pulled her fur-lined cloak tight against her body as an icy winter wind howled from the Thames down the east London streets. Holding her Bible against her breast, she nodded to the crowds as the queen's open carriage came into a new street in the Minories on the way to St. Paul's for Philip's funeral. Silent crowds, their heads bowed, lined the way to mourn their newest hero, the brightest flower of English knighthood.

Essex and Sir Walter Raleigh marched beside the royal carriage horses, leading the long procession of London notables. Leicester, who had returned from Holland before Christmastide, now strode on the queen's side with little left of the young gallant he had once been.

Elizabeth Regina continued to acknowledge her people,
speaking to Frances without looking her way. “I must warn you, my lady…” she began, but paused.