The Fugitive Queen (14 page)

“I am sorry to hear it. I find open spaces pleasant, I confess, after being so lately at Elizabeth's court. Sometimes, in her palaces, I feel very enclosed. May I go over and look out at the vista?”

Despite the small size of the room, moving us to the window would give us a semblance of privacy. I would have to speak softly and hoped I could make it seem natural and not suspicious. As I said the words
Elizabeth's court,
I gazed very intently into Mary's eyes, which were so like Elizabeth's in color though their setting was different, and where Elizabeth's eyes were enigmatic, Mary's every thought and emotion could be seen in hers like the shadows of clouds passing across a hillside.

I kept up that hard, meaningful stare as I asked to go over to the window. Mary smiled at me and said: “But of course. Sometimes I stand there myself, for half an hour at a time, looking out at freedom.”

There was nothing to do but go to the window, which I obediently
did, thinking that she had not understood that I wished to speak to her apart. I had underestimated her, however. As I stood contemplating the pastures beyond the castle walls, she remarked: “Marie, you have had no breath of air at all today. Mistress Penelope is interested in falconry, it seems. Why not show her the mews? Master Littleton, please attend them—yes, yes, you are supposed to listen to all my conversations but the one I am about to have with Mistress Stannard will embarrass you. We are not going to brew sedition the moment your back is turned! Mistress Stannard is one of my royal cousin Elizabeth's own ladies and Sir Francis himself has welcomed her here! I have been much plagued of late by a pain in my side, as you know, and wish to ask Mistress Stannard's advice. I know that she is experienced in matters of women's health, and I suspect that my pain may have something to do with the miscarriage I suffered before I left Scotland. A young unmarried man should not overhear such details. And while I think of it, would you also return this book to Sir Francis?”

She had risen gracefully once more and picked up the book, which was lying on the table. “I have read it carefully, but I fear the arguments of the Reformers do not, to my mind, hold good.”

Littleton, who had turned bright pink at the mention of obstetrics, looked from one of us to the other, visibly wobbled between obeying orders and outraging his sense of modesty, concluded that the orders couldn't really apply to anyone so definitely attached to Elizabeth's service as myself, took the book, and without further demur left the room at once with Mary Seton and Pen. Laughing softly, Mary Stuart came to join me at the window.

“It is true about the pain in my side,” she said. “It happens now and then; it has done so all my life. I feel unwell when it comes, but then it leaves me again and I recover. It has nothing to do with the loss of my babies—I lost twins, did you know?”

“No. I'm so sorry!”

“They were my lord Bothwell's sons,” said Mary. “Ah well. He is out of my life now, I fear, for good or ill. He abandoned me at the last and fled. I have been unlucky in my husbands, Ursula.
One too sickly to live, one—unkind; let us say no more about that—and one, to whom I looked for strength and protection, has proved false and left me to face my enemies alone. Is there any word from Elizabeth?”

“Yes, ma'am,” I said. “A very private one.”

“Ah. I
thought
that you wished to speak to me privily. This room is too small for the exchange of secrets if any third party is present. What is the message? Will she lend me an army to replace me on my throne? She is my cousin, after all, and a queen herself. She must surely understand . . . well, tell me!”

“It's nothing like that,” I said compassionately. The eager hunger in her face was distressing. “I am sorry,” I told her. “But no. It's a warning. Queen Elizabeth commanded me to deliver it to you privately, by word of mouth only. There is to be an inquiry into . . . into what happened to Lord Darnley.”

“I know. I am not quite shut off from all news,” said Mary. “Sir Francis tries to keep me so, but I am thankful to say that I have a few friends here. Some of them came with me from Scotland. I only see them now and then and we are always watched and spied upon, but they hear news from Scotland and they find ways to get information to me. My brother Moray has demanded the inquiry, and I know he wants to blacken my name. Go on.”

“You may be asked to testify before the court of inquiry, and to allow yourself to be questioned. Queen Elizabeth says you must not, that you are an anointed queen and cannot be treated like a subject. She says it would set a perilous precedent and begs you to refuse either to testify or to answer questions.”

“Well, well. So my cousin respects my title, at least, though apparently not to the point of lending me an army.” Mary sighed. “I must be grateful for even small considerations, and so I am. When you go back to London, tell her that I have received her message and agree with it—though how I am ever to defend myself against the lies . . .”

Her voice died away. I saw an opportunity, loathed myself for taking it, but knew that I must. “Lies?” I said, and waited, wondering if she would go on, would say something to point toward the guilt or innocence that Cecil wished to establish. She said
nothing, however. At length, forcing the words out, I said: “There have been many lies, madam?”

“Piled one on another, into a mountain,” said Mary. “And what is one poor young woman to do, faced with such an edifice of calumny? I did my best, but everything I did was wrong. I trusted James Bothwell and learned too late that I should not have done. Oh well. Let us not talk of these things. They can be of no interest to you.”

I couldn't force the conversation and didn't want to anyway. Indeed, I could hardly think how to do so. Hugh had pointed out the principal difficulty when he said that Cecil could hardly write to Mary saying
Most honored lady, would you be kind enough to tell me whether you did or did not have gunpowder planted in the basement of Kirk o' Field on the night of ninth of February, 1567?
Quite. Some questions can't be asked directly, and even they are, one would never get a reliable answer. The truth could not be reached that way. I must depend on encouraging her to talk, hoping it would emerge of itself, but if she didn't wish to discuss the subject, I had no means of insisting. Perhaps she might be more forthcoming another time.

I wished I could stop feeling afraid of what I might learn. Surely, surely, it would be an assurance of her innocence. Cecil wanted to be sure of her guilt, but a woman as gracious as Mary could not—could she?—have either blood or gunpowder on her hands.

For the moment, the subject was clearly closed. Mary led us back to our seats and once more took up her embroidery, remarking that she had been overwhelmed with joy to see her dear Seton again.

“Though I would like to see her married. All my other Maries are, and it is right that they should be. Seton, though, seems to have no desire for the married state. I think she would have done well as a nun! When Tobias Littleton joined Sir Francis's household—he has only just done so; he comes of a Bolton family—I did wonder. I thought he might come of good stock. Such young men often serve people like Sir Francis Knollys as part of their education. But I have since learned that Littleton,
though well educated, has a humble background. His father is just a small cloth merchant in Bolton and Tobias himself is only a second son, at that. He has been equipped with good schooling to help him make his way, but make it he must. My dear Marie is the daughter of Lord Seton, one of Scotland's most noble families. It wouldn't do.”

“Quite apart,” I said, “from the religious matter. Tobias is an Anglican, I suppose.”

“Unlike Sir Francis, Tobias never discusses such things,” said Mary. “Tell me, Ursula—I know you are something of a needle-woman yourself—what do you think of this pattern which Seton has designed? It is for a cushion cover. I feel the silks should be chosen with great care, or some of these greens and blues will clash . . .”

Tobias, reappearing at that moment, having presumably decided that we had had long enough to discuss feminine problems, found us deep in a discussion about the delicate difference between colors that tone and colors that swear at each other. Nothing could have been more innocent.

 • • • 

I spent the whole of the next day at Bolton hoping to learn what Cecil wanted to know. I also asked to speak to Sir Francis and reported Harry's death and Meg's kidnapping to him.

Both projects failed dismally. Mary vouchsafed nothing of use; and Sir Francis, though gravely shocked by the attack on a party of innocent travelers, had no idea who could have been responsible and said that local law enforcement was not his task. He was Lady Mary's custodian and nothing else. If I had complained to the local constable and he had not found any clues that might lead to the perpetrators, then he did not see what else could be done. I could of course complain to the sheriff in York, but the scent of the quarry would be old by now in any case. The north was wild compared to the south and . . .

“I know
that,
” I said grimly.

All this dimmed what would otherwise have been a pleasant Sunday, most of which Pen and I spent with Mary, whose company,
as ever, was like warm sunshine. We were away from her only when I was talking to Sir Francis, attending the Anglican service held by the chaplain in the morning, and at meals.

Mary took hers in her quarters, but I and my party dined in the main hall, and here I met and talked with two amiable young men called Will and George Douglas, who had accompanied her from Scotland, and who were presumably among the friends Mary had mentioned.

I wondered if I might obtain information from them but I did not. They were good-natured, handsome, and devoted to Mary, but I soon realized that they knew no more than I did about Kirk o' Field and what had really happened there.

When we went back to Mary after dinner, Pen, with the frankness of youth, did actually ask a direct question about Kirk o' Field. But Mary only shook her head and said that some matters were too distressing to discuss. Tears came into her eyes as she spoke, and seeing them, I felt so uncomfortable that instead of encouraging Pen or following the subject up myself, as I should have done, I nudged my ward as a signal to be quiet.

Wiping her eyes, Mary said that in the end she had had to escape—yes,
escape,
from her own country! Then she told us how she had got away from where she was being held in a castle on an island called Lochleven, in the midst of a loch; how supporters had rallied to her but been defeated in a battle against her half brother James Stewart, Earl of Moray.

“He calls himself the Regent of Scotland and claims to be ruling in my son's name. I suppose it's one degree better than claiming the crown for himself,” said Mary.

On Lochleven she had been in the charge of the Douglas family to which Will and George, the two young men I had met at dinner, belonged. “I admit it,” she said contritely. “I used all my wiles and powers of persuasion to coax the Douglases into helping me. But what else could I do? I had only myself to rely on. I persuaded and smiled; I pleaded and cajoled; I wept aloud and sometimes I let myself be found weeping, and tried to hide my tears but not too quickly . . .”

She gave me a wry look. “Do I sound like a deceiver, a
woman full of cunning tricks? I expect I do, but what other weapons did I have? I hope that those who helped me will not suffer for it in time to come.”

“I can only admire your determination and your courage,” I said. I could imagine the loneliness of which she spoke, and I understood what she meant when she said she had only used what weapons she had. I knew about loneliness, too. I knew what it was to be forced, in self-defense, to go to lengths that once I would have said I would
never
go to. In my time, I had slept with a man I did not want; I had helped men to their deaths.

“One can't help but sympathize,” I said to Pen, at the end of that day, when we had retired to our chamber. “Tell me, what do you think of the Queen of Scotland?”

This time to my surprise, Pen was the one who was not inclined to lose her head in the clouds. “She is very beautiful,” she said. “She looks like a tired angel. I fancy that those two Douglases think she's
really
an angel! But I don't think she is.”

I was on the whole relieved by the contempt in her voice when she spoke of the Douglases. They were probably too young to appeal to her, I thought, and a good thing, too. But I was startled by the way she had dismissed Mary.

Something of this must have shown in my face, for Pen said: “I keep thinking about that story that she tried to have her husband blown up. Everyone says he was very unpleasant, but all the same, that's a dreadful thing to do, and when I was at court, I heard that someone had been posted to keep watch in case he was somehow warned and tried to escape, and that he actually did, and was caught running away and strangled!”

“That's horrible!” Dale was with us, blending the water from an ewer of hot and an ewer of cold, so that we could wash before we went to bed. “I hadn't heard that. I thought—he just died in an explosion. I'd heard that much, no more. Is this true, ma'am?”

“Yes. Pen has the story correctly,” I said. “And she's right. It was a dreadful plot.”

“If she really ordered that . . .!” Pen said. “Well, how is one to know? She says the things that I would say in her place, and they all sound very innocent, but there's no way to be sure.”

Then she startled me further by adding: “Have you got a private reason for wanting to talk to her? You used to do secret work for Queen Elizabeth, didn't you? Do you still? Is that really why we're here?”

“Now, then.” Dale was disapproving. “That's not the way to talk to Mistress Stannard. Her business is her own.”