Barbara Kyle - [Thornleigh 05]

by Blood Between Queens

  He carried on, still in French, the language they always used. “My lady.” He made a courtly bow. “I thank God to find you so hale.” Hale, and beautiful. She wore a silver silk gown, its bodice encrusted with seed pearls that shimmered through the gauzy shawl wrapped around her shoulders like a Scottish mist. The last time he had seen her was over a year ago, in Edinburgh. He had taken a letter from her to France, to her uncle the Duc de Guise. Neither could have imagined then that she would soon lose her kingdom.

  “You are wrong, sir. I suffer.”

  That alarmed him. “Do they abuse you?”

  “No riding, no hunting, and only a paltry pair of attendants as if I were some petty gentlewoman. That’s abuse enough.” With a wounded, angry look she smoothed the skirt folds of her gown. “I have had to send Lord Herries to borrow from the local merchants just to hire pantry servants.”

  He relaxed, glad to see she had not changed. Mary, the haughty, wronged beauty. Almost smiling, he asked, indulging her, “Is Lord Scrope so spiteful?”

  “Scrope, no, he was biddable enough, until his handlers brought him to task for it. Now he makes no move without permission from Elizabeth, not so much as allowing me to purchase a pair of shoes. I swear, when I fled my captors I came into England in good faith, trusting in Elizabeth’s friendship. And what have I found? Contempt. Hardship. I have exchanged one prison for another.”

  Her anger was real and raw—and no doubt merited, Christopher thought. Yet there was much of the child in her. Impetuous and angry when she wanted something, but vacillating when political decisions were needed. Passionate about friendships, but disinterested in affairs of state and therefore an easy victim for a cunning, determined adversary like her half brother Moray. As a ruler, Mary was often out of her depth.

  Yet she had been kind to him, a man adrift, in exile from his homeland, and he would never forget that. They had met when she was the young Queen of France, just seventeen. He had been drifting on the fringes of the French court, unwilling to draw attention to himself since the English presumed him dead. Then members of Mary’s circle had brought him to her attention, for although the rebellion he had planned had not come to pass he had proved himself an enemy of Elizabeth of England. Mary had welcomed him. And what a dazzling young queen she was! Lively, amusing, generous—a blaze of beauty and high spirits and glittering fashion. But when her sickly teenage husband King François died, Mary’s status at the court of his brother, the new King Charles, shrank overnight to nothing. Suddenly adrift herself, a dowager queen with little power, she had turned to Christopher for comfort. He saw his opportunity, a nubile widow of eighteen, hungry for a strong man’s hand. He took it, and took her.

  That single night together had forged a bond that had remained strong through the next six years, though they had spent them mostly apart. She had left France to take up the Scottish crown that was her birthright and had remarried—the wastrel, Lord Darnley—while Christopher had remained in Paris managing some of her property interests. He had traveled often to Edinburgh to carry her messages back to France. Then came the debacle of her downfall, and Christopher had despaired, sure she was lost, and his own prospects, too. But she had escaped, and the moment he heard she had taken sanctuary in England he praised God and pledged himself to her cause. Helping her was the only way he might one day reclaim his own birthright, his English property.

  Now that seemed thrillingly possible.

  “You shall not be a prisoner for long, my lady. I bring news.”

  She clapped her hands, eager for it. “Ah! Am I to be rescued?”

  He glanced around to make absolutely sure they were alone, then gestured for her to take a seat on the nearest chapel bench. They sat down together, close enough that Christopher could keep his voice low. “I have come from Alnwick, and I bring you the pledge of my lord Northumberland.” Though he was saddle sore and bone-weary from his journeying, seeing Mary’s excitement energized him afresh. Thomas Percy, Earl of Northumberland, thirty-eight, was the most powerful lord in the north and devoutly Catholic. Christopher had met with him at Alnwick Castle, the ancient seat of the Percy family, where they were joined by the Earl of Westmorland. It was a secret meeting behind closed doors in a long-unused gatehouse apartment, for they were talking treason. “These lords are with you, my lady. To the ends of the earth.”

  Her eyes glowed. “Good men, and true!”

  Christopher did not tell her how nervous the two nobles had been, at first, to plan sedition with him. Not that they lacked the desire to depose Elizabeth. Eight years ago Northumberland had worked closely with Christopher on the uprising they had eventually been forced to abort. Now, the earl was cautiously eager to try again. Together, both earls could raise several thousand men among their followers. But they lacked the stomach to act on their own. To motivate them, Christopher had told them of the rumor gaining strength in France that the pope, at the urging of the King of Spain, was considering excommunicating Elizabeth and condoning her overthrow. That had fired up Northumberland and Westmorland. If they took action in the name of the pope, God’s representative on earth, and successfully overthrew the heretic English queen, they would be cheered by all the Catholics of Europe.

  He told Mary the same thing now.

  She beamed. “The pope? It is the answer to my prayers!”

  “God has not forsaken you, my lady. Though Elizabeth has.”

  “But, oh, the waiting,” she groaned. “It will take forever for the pope to act. While I wither here.” She grabbed Christopher’s elbow with a fierce determination. “Ride back to Northumberland. Now, this very night. Tell him he must gather his men-at-arms immediately and descend on this place and free me!”

  He could not hide a disapproving frown. Were they to snatch her like the local border raiders who stole cattle?

  “Do you doubt me, sir?” she challenged. “I am ready to hazard all, I swear it. I can ride as hard as any man, and you know it!”

  “I do indeed, my lady,” he said with genuine admiration. “And your loyal followers would gladly fight for you to the death. But this is no way to proceed. Where would Northumberland take you? To what end? You cannot go back to Scotland to be in Moray’s power.” No, it served Christopher’s purposes far better if she remained Elizabeth’s prisoner, making her plight irresistible to her followers: Mary, the innocent victim of her cruel cousin. It would help fire them to action. “I beg you to be patient, my lady. There are plans afoot.” He added in a keyed-up whisper, pleased to tantalize her, “When you leave here, it will be to ride to your new capital. London.”

  She gasped. “London?”

  “You know it is yours by right. Elizabeth is a bastard and a heretic. She holds the crown in sin. You are England’s rightful monarch.”

  She stared at him, taking it in, clearly enthralled. Her claim to the English throne was one she had publicly stated for years. “But Elizabeth’s hold is strong. Are you saying Northumberland and Westmorland will march against her? When? When will they strike?”

  “They stand willing now, but they have sent me to warn you that their strength is not yet sufficient, and I agree. They can raise five thousand men, perhaps six. An impressive army, to be sure, but Elizabeth can best it. Before we can move, we need an ally. One with muscle.”

  She did not flinch at the idea. It was as though she had been waiting for this opportunity.

  “France?” she suggested. “My Guise uncles keep urging Charles to back us, but—”

  “No, forget France.” King Charles was too beset with strangling the many-headed monster of heresy in his own realm. Huguenot factions kept erupting throughout the country, enlisting thousands of French men and women to their ranks. The King had neither the forces nor the inclination to adventure against England. “The ally we need is Spain.”

  “Philip? Bah! He is maddening. The most Catholic prince in Christendom they call him, but what good is his pious talk if he will not commit to my cause? They say he believes the slande
rs against me. Believes the vermin who call me adulteress and murderer.” Tears glistened in her eyes. She raised her chin with a look of furious pride.

  A fine show, Christopher thought. Quite convincing. He did not know if she had been complicit with the Earl of Bothwell in her husband’s murder or not. Darnley, an arrogant drunken fool by all accounts, had apparently deserved it. As for adultery with Bothwell, Christopher knew Mary’s appetites and knew Bothwell’s reputation for womanizing and violence, so he was inclined to believe that the two had been lovers before Darnley’s death and had worked together to kill him. But Mary had vehemently denied all of it, and Bothwell, who had fled to Denmark at her downfall, wasn’t talking.

  None of it mattered to Christopher. “Philip’s reluctance,” he said dryly, “has more to do with trade between Spain and England. He wants no disruption of it, which Elizabeth might threaten if he were to back you.”

  “I wish I could turn him! I shall write to his wife. I know her, she is pious. I shall tell her that if I were Queen of England I would restore the one true church in this land.”

  “Pious she is, but I doubt she has the ear of her husband.”

  Mary frowned at this, acknowledging the truth of it.

  “There is another, though, who does,” Christopher said. “Philip’s representative in London. Ambassador de Spes is fervent in his faith, and in his support of your rights.”

  “That is true, he is! And he has sway with Philip.”

  “Let me go and speak with him, urge him to stiffen the King’s backbone.”

  She seemed moved. “A dangerous venture for you, though. London. If anyone should recognize you . . .”

  She did not need to finish. They both knew the terrible consequences. If arrested for treason he would be hanged until almost dead, then disemboweled and quartered. If I’m not arrested first about that Yeavering girl. It shook him, remembering the figure running through the churchyard. What had the fellow seen? But he could not let such thoughts distract him now. Mary knew nothing of that misadventure, and he had no intention of telling her. He needed her absolute trust in his ability to succeed for her.

  “I will be careful,” he assured her. “I’ll start for London tomorrow. Will you give me a letter for Ambassador de Spes, proof that I am your emissary?”

  “Yes, yes, of course.” Her thoughts seemed to have strayed elsewhere. She got to her feet and began to pace, her agitation plain. “There is something else. You may not have heard.”

  “What is it? What’s wrong?”

  “Elizabeth. She has ordered an official inquiry. About me.”

  “What?”

  She explained as she paced, and Christopher listened, appalled. Elizabeth’s councilors about to make a public spectacle of Mary. The Earl of Moray invited to England to make his case against her. It was horrifying. He jumped up and stopped her in her tracks. “Why in God’s name did you agree?”

  “It was the condition for her help,” she said, as plaintive as a child. “Her emissary came to make the offer.”

  “Help in what?”

  “Restoring me to my throne. And I just received a letter from her that goes even further. She says that if the inquiry finds there is no truth to the charges she will restore me by force if necessary. But only if . . .”

  “If what?” Dear God, what had Mary given away?

  “If I will renounce my claim to the English throne.”

  He could have slapped her. “Tell me that you have not done so.”

  “No, never! But, oh, I am beset with enemies.” She hugged herself as if her plight had iced the air, and she tugged the gauzy shawl tightly to her. “Cecil, that devil who advises her. Moray, on his way to slander me before all the world. My fate is in Elizabeth’s hands. I must trust her.”

  “It is her trap. She is lying. She will never restore you. It would shatter the alliance she and Cecil have created with Moray.” Cold sweat chilled Christopher’s back. He fought to keep his mind focused, find a way to deal with the crisis. “Oh, she is clever. This inquiry will light a fire under Moray. He will be desperate to prove you guilty, because if they find you innocent his position as Scotland’s legitimate authority will be untenable.”

  “It is untenable! And criminal. He ruined me and tried to kill me. Once I am restored he will pay!”

  “Don’t you see? That is the very reason he will do anything to prove you guilty. Because if you return as queen he knows he will face your vengeance.”

  “And so he would! I would have his head!” She raised her hand like an axe and chopped.

  He caught her wrist. “Stop it. You must keep your heart and mind set on the true goal. Not the throne of Scotland. The throne of England.”

  She blinked at him like a sleepwalker jolted awake. “England. Yes. It is my right.”

  “The whole world, even the Protestants, acknowledge you as Elizabeth’s heir. That is what she is trying to undermine.”

  “Never. I will never renounce my claim.”

  Dread slithered into Christopher’s heart like a snake. “Even if you don’t, she has set this inquiry in motion so that you cannot win. She is your true enemy.”

  He saw in her face that the awful truth of his words was sinking in. She grabbed both his arms as though for support. “You mean . . . they could find me . . . guilty?”

  His mind was thrashing through the possibilities. “There is no action she can legitimately take against you. She has no jurisdiction.”

  “But the blot on my reputation. I would seem a monster. People would hate me!” Tears sprang to her eyes.

  He groaned inside. Why could she never see farther than her own emotions! People’s smiles or frowns did not matter, only whether they would rally behind her or forsake her. That was the crisis here.

  She was crying outright now, tears wetting her pale cheeks. Her helplessness stirred him despite himself. For one wild moment he imagined licking those salty tears. She laid her forehead on his shoulder and wept. It was her way to move men to action; always had been. He knew that. And knew he was not immune. But her very need for a strong man to guide her gave him a surging sense of power. His pulse gave a sudden thump as he realized the course that lay ahead. Simple. Bold. Terrifying.

  Thrilling.

  He slipped his arm around her waist. “They shall not find you guilty. I promise you.”

  Her head came up. “How can you make such a promise? Elizabeth’s commissioners will do what she wants.”

  “Not if she is dead.”

  Her body went rigid. Eyes fixed on his, she repeated the word, her voice thrumming with excitement, “Dead?”

  “Then you become queen of England. It is your due. No one disputes it.”

  They stared at one another, and he saw she was as gripped as he was by the terrible splendor of the solution.

  She whispered, “You would do this . . . for me?”

  “It must be done before they reach a verdict.”

  “But how? How can you get close enough to her?”

  He had no idea. His elation crashed. The challenges were fierce. Even if he could get close enough to Elizabeth and did the deed, the Earl of Northumberland would still have to take London to forestall a rush by force of arms from other ambitious nobles eager to fill the void of power. But Northumberland would not make a move until he knew he had foreign backing as powerful as Spain’s, and that required collaborating with the Spanish ambassador, a man Christopher had not yet met. He would have to weave all these strands of the plan, and do so while skulking around with a price on his head. It seemed impossible.

  Mary was looking at him, her eyes shining with wonder. “Do this,” she whispered, “and you shall reap a vast reward when I am queen.”

  Suddenly, the impossibility vanished. He felt he could move mountains.

  Smiling, she raised both her hands to caress his face. At the motion, her diaphanous shawl slipped off her shoulders, revealing her white neck. He kissed the smooth skin at her throat. She shivered with
pleasure. He pushed the shawl aside, about to kiss the naked half-moon of her breast above her bodice, but halted, seeing a pendant that hung from a gold necklace, hidden before by the gauze. A thick golden crucifix. Christopher stared at it in disbelief. The rough cross. The smooth Christ. Rubies as the blood of His wounds.

  It was a bolt to his heart. He lurched back a step. “Where did you get this?”

  She shrugged. “A gift.”

  He gripped the pendant, warm from her body’s heat. “Who gave it to you?”

  She looked perplexed at his tone. “A girl.”

  He grabbed her arm. “Who?”

  “She came with the emissary Elizabeth sent.”

  “The emissary, who was he?”

  “Baron Thornleigh.”

  Christopher was so shocked, he could hardly find breath. “Richard Thornleigh?”

  “Yes. Why?”

  “The girl . . .” His heart pummeled his chest. “Her name?”

  “I told you, Thorn—”

  “Her Christian name.”

  “Justine . . . I think. She is his ward. He brought her to attend me as lady-in-waiting.”

  Christopher twisted around. Justine was here? In the castle? He snatched Mary’s hand and yanked her, heading for the door. “Take me to her.”

  “No, stop.” She jerked her hand free. “I sent her away, sent her back with him. Anyone could see she was Elizabeth’s spy.”

  Christopher gaped at her. Justine had been here . . . but now was gone! He felt his legs go spongy. He lurched for the bench and thudded down on it.

  Mary came to him. “What’s wrong? What is this girl to you?”

  He looked up at her. “She’s . . .” He felt helpless. Naked. Sick. “She is . . . my daughter.”

  They stared at each other, she uncomprehending, he trying to hold his brain together. My child . . . with Thornleigh!