The Fugitive Queen (28 page)

“I know. Here in the north, marriage by capture is still winked at,” I said bitterly.

“Yes. I am sorry, Ursula, but Pen Mason
cannot
be my first concern and shouldn't be yours, either. What if Mary were forcibly restored to her throne by a French army? They'd have to invade Scotland to do it. What would happen next? If the said French army were then to go meekly home like a bunch of farm laborers after a good day's harvesting, then I am the King of Cathay. They'd be over the Scottish border in no time, annexing pieces of England, gathering support among the Catholics here in the north, and fomenting a rising to put Mary where Elizabeth
is now. I'm not leaving these conspirators at large. I want to net them all.”

“You mean you want to grant her wish and let her come to Tyesdale?”

“And we will have men on watch so that whoever comes to fetch her will walk straight into a trap. A far better trap than any we could set at Fernthorpe. They'll try to get her out through that window, sure as sunrise. I'll send an official request to Tyesdale this morning, asking if you will receive her tomorrow. You can ride back as part of my deputation.”

“I've got to get back unseen,” I said.

“You can borrow a set of breeches and a helmet, and ride astride, looking like a young soldier. That dappled mare of yours is a trifle distinctive; I'll find you another horse. You can travel in the middle of the group. The men who came with you can stay here until tomorrow and then accompany the escort that brings Mary to Tyesdale. I'll have them helmeted to avoid recognition, too. I'll keep the mare until it's all over.”

“I understand. But . . .”

“Yes, Mistress Stannard, I know. Penelope! But once we have these traitors in our hands, they will tell us where she is. I can assure you,” said Sir Francis, “that they
will
tell us. Within half an hour of their capture, we will have the information.”

I was silent again, thinking of the fatherly and reliable Ryder, who last night had shown a very different aspect of his nature, and thinking too of things I had heard Cecil say. Ryder, Cecil, Knollys. The three of them were similar in many ways: civilized and essentially good-hearted. When they revealed their capacity for ruthlessness, it was astonishingly chilling.

At length I said: “I would like to borrow one of your couriers and send a letter to Pen's eldest brother George, at Lockhill, asking him to come at once to Tyesdale. Just that, no more. That way, her mother won't be alarmed. But I think her brother should be fetched to Yorkshire.”

“By all means. I can have a man ready to go within the hour, if you will write the letter and provide him with directions. I will protect your ward as far as I can. If she has been forcibly married
before we reach her, no doubt a way can be found to annul it. She will have had a distressing experience, very likely, but Mistress Stannard, the danger, if Mary Stuart gets away to France, is so great . . .”

“I know. Penelope may have to be sacrificed. I understand,” I said wearily, and hoped to heaven that whatever scheme for her protection Brockley had in mind, he would carry through successfully.

We spent a little more time on the details, but I was back at Tyesdale by midday, wearing borrowed man's clothing and accompanied by four men-at-arms and a captain. Knowing that Feeb and Bess Clipclop were probably in the house and might not be trustworthy, I waited, still in the saddle, among the men-at-arms until I had sent the captain in to fetch Sybil. She hurried out and came to my stirrup.

“I'm so glad to see you. We've been worrying ourselves to death. Dale was afraid the maidservants would notice you weren't here. She's making them clean the chapel again. They've been told not to go near your room—you're supposed to be in bed with another migraine and I said that the noise of their clogs might make you feel worse.”

“Bless you all,” I said. “Now, if I can get up to my room unseen, I can emerge in a few minutes' time, looking normal but wan, which shouldn't be difficult, as I've been up all night, riding to Bolton, and I've just ridden the fifteen miles back. In the meantime, you can be the hostess and look after this deputation from Sir Francis. Where's Dale now?”

But Dale was already at the top of the steps. I swung out of the saddle and ran up to meet her. Within a few minutes I was safe in my bedchamber and Dale was helping me out of my boots
and breeches. I seized the chance to say: “Is there any word from Brockley?” but she only shook her head dolefully.

“Nothing, ma'am, nothing and I'm worried as I can be. I can't abide this waiting, not hearing, not knowing, but what else can I do?”

“Brockley is capable; he'll look after himself.” My heart was as heavy for Pen as hers was for Brockley but I tried to encourage us both. “He only left last night. Give him time. Now, be quick. I want to be seen as soon as possible, by Feeb and Bess, looking like myself.”

Soon, dressed in housewifely fashion, I was making my way down to the hall, declaring that my head was better and I was ready to “receive my visitors.” Sybil had called the maidservants from the chapel to attend to the refreshments and in their interested presence, I pretended to learn (to my flustered surprise, of course) that Sir Francis Knollys wished to dine with me on the morrow and would be bringing his illustrious guest Lady Mary Stuart. Under heavy guard, naturally, and I would have to be prepared to feed numerous extra mouths.

Sir Francis's men, who knew all about it, thought the whole thing as amusing as a masque, and their captain, who was young, slightly foppish, and regrettably mischievous, grinned so outrageously that I feared that even Feeb, let alone the much brighter Bess, would notice and become suspicious. I frowned at him fiercely and also vainly, for all he did was pretend to look frightened.

Fortunately, Tom Smith had come into the hall to listen and was sharp enough to distract Bess with a flirtatious remark, which made her giggle, while Feeb was luckily preoccupied with pouring ale and not dribbling it. They noticed nothing and, mercifully, the rest of the Bolton men had the good sense to remove the grins from their faces.

The captain and his men went off after dinner, ostensibly to carry my acceptance back to Bolton. I announced that my headache had returned and retired to bed for some sleep. Sybil and Agnes told our two maids that they weren't needed next day, as Sir Francis would bring his own servants. Before dinner the following morning, he arrived, with Mary.

 • • • 

As promised, the party was accompanied by a whole squad of armed men, but no ladies. “Seton decided not to come in case this turned out to be another hot day, as indeed it has,” Sir Francis said to me expressionlessly, preceding the others up the steps to where I stood waiting to welcome the arrivals, “and Lady Mary herself said that she did not need attendants, just to ride out and visit a friend informally. She sounded,” he added with a sigh, “as innocent as a baby.”

“Mary Seton knows what's afoot?” I asked in an undertone.

“One would imagine so.”

“Well, she can't be blamed. Her loyalty is with her mistress, as one would expect. Please come in.”

Mary Stuart followed him up, lifted me as usual from my polite curtsy, and put her arm about me as we went into the hall. “This is so kind of you, dear Ursula. I have been so far from well with that wearisome pain in my side, for which there is never any explanation, except that it often comes when I am unhappy. To live in a cage is unbearable to me.”

And then, as we moved across the hall and into the parlor, she turned me a little so as to look into my face. “I believe,” she whispered, “that you know the plan. Tobias said that if you agreed to receive me here, it would mean that you did. Oh, my dearest Ursula, you can never know how grateful I am for such a friend. One day, when I am a queen again, I will show my gratitude, believe me.”

Her charm was like a sweet scent or a touching melody. It still moved me, despite the knowledge I now had. “Your Majesty,” I said solemnly, aware of being a hypocrite, and not liking it.

“Dear, dear Ursula. I so much miss even being addressed as I should be. Queen of France and Scotland—and all I get from Sir Francis is a miserable ‘my lady.' Is this your parlor? What a delightful room.”

It was nothing of the kind, though it was better than it had been. Cecily Moss had told us where to buy new tapestries, but so far we hadn't had time to see to it. Two of the least motheaten
hangings had been put on the walls in the meantime and I had had the scratched old settles polished and found some respectable cushions for them. There were fresh rushes on the floor. “It's not luxurious, but we haven't been here long enough to do more,” I said. “I hope the dinner will please you, however.”

Feeding so many mouths at short notice could have been difficult, but fortunately, Agnes had onions and cabbages enough in her vegetable patch and Sir Francis had had the forethought to help me out. The escort had brought some useful supplies, loaded onto a packhorse. I didn't have to slaughter Tyesdale chickens or make drastic inroads into its limited supply of hams or its modest stores of flour and sugar and raisins.

Except for a minor contretemps when Agnes caught the dog Gambol in the kitchen, trying to steal a capon, and chased him out into the hall, calling him names and brandishing a broom, the dinner was all it should be and was conducted with the decorum befitting a royal guest.

It was as the meal was finishing, when a sweet white wine (provided by Sir Francis) was being served as an accompaniment to a marchpane confection shaped (by Sybil, who was good with her fingers) to look like a little manor house, that Mary put her hand to her side and said in a weak voice: “I am sorry. I feel unwell again. I must withdraw. Please, you are all to finish dining. This is no time for ceremony, or for me to say that because I can eat no more, no one else must take a mouthful either. I am not so royal as that. Dear Mistress Stannard, if I might rest upstairs for a while . . .?”

I showed her to my own room. She lay down on the bed and Dale came to help me loosen her stays and remove her shoes. She appeared to sleep and I left her with Fran Dale to watch over her. “I'll bring the rest of your dinner up to you, Dale,” I said.

I went back to the hall to finish my own meal. When it was over, Sir Francis and I exchanged glances and he said: “I had better see her. It will be the next scene in our pretty play.”

I took him upstairs. We found Mary awake again, tossing restlessly in my four-poster and complaining to Dale that her
pain was worse and that she felt feverish and could not face the long ride back to Bolton.

Sir Francis stood by the bed, looking thoughtfully down at her. His face bore exactly the right expression of worry and responsibility. He had no mandate to allow Mary to spend a night away from Bolton, he said sternly. He had in fact allowed her far more latitude than he should. She must make an effort, for it was his duty to see that she returned to the castle that same night. Mary allowed a few tears to fall—I noticed with admiration that she could apparently cry at will—and obediently rose from the bed, only to stumble with her hand to her head, complaining that she felt giddy, that the whole room was going around and around . . . she was so very sorry; she was embarrassing good Sir Francis, but . . .

“You have men enough with you,” I said helpfully. “Surely she can be as well guarded here as at Bolton. It will only be for one night, I trust. If Her Grace is still unwell tomorrow, we will fetch a physician.”

Sir Francis appeared to hesitate. Mary lay down on the bed again and moaned artistically. “Well . . .” said Sir Francis slowly.

“What else can you do?” I asked in reasonable tones. “What if she were to collapse altogether on the way back to Bolton? It's a long way, even if she were carried in a litter, and we haven't got a litter.”

Leaving Dale to watch the invalid, he drew me outside and out of hearing. “I can't keep this performance up for long. We must let her assume that you have talked me into it. We'll go back presently and say so. Meanwhile, show me the room that Whitely wants her to have.”

I did so. He examined the width of the window, and leaning out of the casement, he studied the surroundings and the moat below with a knowledgeable eye. “I think we've guessed right,” he said, drawing his head in again at last. “It could be done. We'll take them in the act of doing it. You are sure you can impersonate Mary by standing at the window to encourage them to proceed?”

“I'll hide my hair. I've a hooded cloak that will shadow my face, too. I think I can look convincing.”

“Very well. We'll go back to her and tell her that she can stay the night—but not in the room she expects. She presumably knows the details of the plot. I hope she doesn't make a great outcry.”

“Even if she does, there's no one in the house who might betray us,” I said. “The maidservants were the likeliest for that and we made them stay at home today.”

 • • • 

We returned to Mary, who was now lying on her back with her eyes closed. As I went to her bedside and looked at her, I thought that her claim of ill-health was probably not altogether false. She was much too pale and there were violet shadows beneath those lidded eyes.

A surge of the old sympathy overtook me. She was still only in her mid-twenties, and she had been through experiences for which nothing in her petted, luxurious life as a princess and then a royal bride in France could have prepared her. She had not expected to find herself coping in person with the rough Scots nobility; still less had she expected to fall into the hands of a dissolute husband who arranged for a murder to take place virtually in front of her.

I remembered David Riccio very well, as harmless a fellow as ever I saw. She had heard his terrified pleas for his life and his screams as they stabbed him. She had ridden headlong for safety although she was six months gone with child. Perhaps she had believed herself justified in leaving Darnley to the mercy of her nobles. God knew, she had suffered for it since; vilified and threatened by angry mobs, cast from her throne, imprisoned, hunted . . .