He looked delighted. “Superb.”
She laughed. “Mediocre. But all the time I was making it I thought of you, which made me happy. It’s the tree of life.”
“My love,” he said, moved. “I shall hang it by my desk. Right above this.” He picked up a black ebony box so small it fit into the palm of his hand. He opened its domed lid to show Justine the contents. A lock of her hair! She had given it to him after pledging their betrothal vows. It lay starkly blond against the ebony black. It almost made her cry.
“I hate this inquiry,” she said, unable to hide the tumult in her heart. “It keeps us apart, me with Mary, you here.”
“Ah, Justine, it won’t last much longer.”
“Oh? Has something happened?”
“I feel we’re nearing the end. Her Majesty is moving the inquiry to London.”
London! For one piercing moment she thought, I can look for Rigaud. Then instantly she realized that Mary would stay in Bolton; she had refused to attend any part of the inquiry. Justine would have to stay with her. “But why move the proceedings?” she asked.
“She wants to include her whole council in the deliberations. So, along with the Duke of Norfolk, who will continue to preside, there’ll be the Earl of Leicester, Admiral Clinton, the Marquis of Northampton, Sir Nicholas Bacon, and all the rest. Most significantly, she’s invited the northern earls, Northumberland and Westmorland. The Catholics, you see? She’s heard the rumors about northern gentlemen grumbling at her treatment of Mary, so she’s seeking to defuse their discontent.” He set the embroidered tree of life beside the locket, propping the frame against a candlestick, and went on with enthusiasm, “It’s a fascinating lesson in statecraft and it highlights a difference between the two queens. Elizabeth involves her nobles in decision making, even the dangerous ones, whereas Mary never learned this kind of prudent politicking. By consulting her lords, Elizabeth achieves two things. First, they feel valued and respected. Second,” he added with a wink, “it allows her to keep a close eye on them.”
Justine felt only indignation at this further affront to Mary. She was sure Mary had not yet been told that the inquiry was moving to the capital, leaving her even more distanced from its doings. They meant to find her guilty, Justine was convinced of it, and equally convinced that a guilty verdict would be the worst outcome. The best for everyone, she was sure, was for Mary to settle in France. Her French friends were offering her a haven where she could live in luxury and ease, her reputation intact, and Elizabeth would no longer be encumbered by her. But if the inquiry branded Mary an adulteress and murderess, her French friends might withdraw their offer. No, Mary needed to fight the accusations and be declared innocent by the inquiry, and then Elizabeth could graciously allow her to retire to France. Why can no one see this? Justine thought, her frustration boiling. Well, she meant to hasten the right outcome by getting the letters for Mary. There would be no thanks from Justine’s own people, of course; the Thornleighs would never know. Mary alone would be aware of it. And Father? she suddenly wondered. Will Mary tell him? She was surprised to find that she hoped for it. He, at least, would applaud what she was doing.
“So, Sir William has called me back to London,” Will went on. “We’ll reconvene at Westminster. I’m glad you came when you did. Two days hence you would have found me gone.” He took Justine’s hand. Affectionately, he ran the back of his finger gently down her cheek. “It’s good news for you and me. I’ll be home, and as soon as you’re done with Mary, you’ll be home, too. Then we can be married.”
Home. Jarringly, she thought of Yeavering Hall, her first home. Had Lord Thornleigh stolen it? Had he really murdered her grandfather as her father said? Thornleighs . . . Grenvilles. Would she ever know the truth about the feud? “That’s all I want, Will,” she managed. “But what about your mother?”
“She’ll come round. Uncle Richard convinced me it’s best to tell her we’re betrothed. He said he’d tell her himself, smooth the way for us. So she’ll know by now. Don’t worry, Justine, it’ll be fine.”
She did worry. Will didn’t know that her father was Christopher Grenville, but his mother did. Still, his confidence gave her hope. All she could do was take one step at a time.
“What a lot of papers,” she said, indicating the stacked documents and books. She forced a laugh. “You’ll have a task packing up all this for Westminster. And do the commissioners still have you copying the letters Mary wrote? You said you were sick of reading them.”
“Thankfully, that task is over.”
“Oh?” He sounded so definitive. Was Mary already doomed? “You mean they’ve established that the letters are authentic?”
“Not conclusively. The originals are still being examined for the handwriting. There’s little doubt, though.” He shook his head, muttering, “What a degenerate woman.”
The slur on Mary stiffened Justine’s determination. “Do you still have copies here? Maybe I can be of help. I’ve gotten to know Mary quite well—her habits, her ways of thinking. Perhaps I could spot some references in the letters that would establish her guilt.”
He stared at her. It made her so nervous her heart thumped.
“A good idea,” he said, clearly intrigued. “But unfortunately not feasible. I cannot let anyone see the letters. But thank you for offering.” He smiled. “You are clever.”
She scarcely heard the last words, excited by what he had implied. He did have copies. Otherwise, why say he could not show them?
A church bell clanged somewhere across the city. Will heard it and frowned, looking torn. “Justine, forgive me, but I must get to the morning session. I hate to leave you, but—” He shrugged with a stoic look. “Duty calls.” He grabbed his cloak off a hook and draped it over his arm, then took her elbow. “Come,” he said more cheerfully, “I’ll walk you to George Street first. We can talk on the way. And not about dry matters of state. About us.”
She didn’t move. “Oh, I don’t mind staying. They must let you leave at noon for dinner. Come back then and we can eat together.” She whirled her cloak off her shoulders and tossed it on the bed.
He frowned. “That’s no good. You’d be alone for hours.”
“Really, I’ll be fine.” She added lightly, nodding at the volume of Caesar on his desk, “I’ll reacquaint myself with the conquest of Gaul.”
He looked uncomfortable. “I mean, it wouldn’t look good. You staying in my room. There are fellows here who would see it the wrong way.”
“They won’t know. I’ll keep the door closed. And be as quiet as a mouse.”
He shook his head. “It’s not what I want for you. Nor for me, for that matter, because . . . well, there are documents here that I’m responsible for.”
The letters, she was sure! “Come, come, Will, this is me.”
“I know that. But the other fellows don’t. No, come along now and I’ll walk you to your lodging.”
He sounded adamant, though he was smiling. Justine’s thoughts tripped, trying to find a way to stay. Delay him? Keep him here until he was late for the session? Then he would have no time to walk her to George Street. It was her only hope. “Oh, Will, please don’t go yet. We’ve only just said hello.”
“Believe me, I don’t want to. But I must.”
She stepped close to him. “I’ve missed you so much.” It was the truth, and so was the emotion that made her voice waver. “That day we were betrothed we were so happy. But happiness was snatched from us. It’s been awful, not seeing you for months.” She brought her lips so close to his she could smell a hint of cloves on his breath. “All I want is for us to be together.”
His eyes were on her mouth. “So do I,” he said with feeling. “And we shall be.”
“But when?” She caressed his cheek, the stubble of his beard rough on her fingertips. “We’re almost married. Yet so far apart.”
“Not for long, I promise you.”
“Oh, Will, what I’m trying to tell you is . . .” She looked down,
shook her head. “I’m no good at this. I’m no coquette.” She looked him in the eye. “I can only show you straight out.” She took his cloak from his arm and tossed it on the bed beside hers. She kissed him. A deep, needy kiss. The need was not a lie, for the moment his lips pressed hers, desire sparked through her.
He pulled back his head to look at her in wonder. “I want no coquette. Only you.” He kissed her with longing. “You are my love, my life. You know that, don’t you?”
“I know I want to be your wife,” she whispered. “Isn’t that what you want?”
He swallowed hard. “Nothing more.”
“I don’t want to wait. Do you?”
“I want . . .” He pulled her away to arm’s length as though forcing himself. “To get you to your lodging. Come.” He made a move for their cloaks.
She stopped him, kissing his cheek, his chin, his throat, his lips. “No. Stay. Please.”
He resisted for one moment more, then suddenly wrapped his arms around her and pulled her to him with a groan. His hardness against her made her take a small gasp. The strength in his arms as he held so tightly her made her breathless. She tried to keep her mind detached enough to think ahead to the task she had come to do, but as he held her, pressing her to him, this was all she wanted to do. Everything in her yearned for him for his own wonderful self, his warm, hard body.
She caressed his face with both hands. He bent his head and kissed her throat. His hands were on her hips, clasping her close, then sliding up the front of her bodice and over her breasts. He tugged loose the strings of her chemise at her throat, and his lips and tongue slid over the skin of her bosom, making her shiver.
She tugged off the pearled hair band that held back her hair, and he slid his hands through her hair, all the while kissing her mouth. She fumbled to unfasten the lacings of his doublet. He wrenched the doublet off and dropped it, and she opened his shirt and spread her hands on his chest, kissing his warm skin. He unfastened the ties of her bodice and she wriggled out of her heavy garments and let them fall. Standing in her chemise, she tingled at the sudden lightness, the freedom. Her fingers brushed his erection and at her surprise and wonder he gave a quick, excited laugh. She laughed, too, knowing her inexperience made her clumsy, but wanting him so much she didn’t care. She opened her mouth to his and grabbed his hair to get more of him, and to steady her weakening legs.
He took her in his arms, lifting her, and carried her to the bed. They lay looking at each other, wide-eyed, hungry to see, to touch, to taste. His kisses were fast on her bare shoulder, her arm, her neck, his hand on her breast. Her nipple under the chemise was hard against his palm. His mouth was hot on her throat. His stubbled chin roughed her cheek. Heat surged through her.
He shoved up her chemise, cool air sweeping her thighs. His hot hand slid up the inside of her thigh. She gasped . . . could not catch her breath. The swirl of heat was all she felt, and the craving for more of him. She wriggled to get his hand higher, get his fingers to her wetness. Her mouth opened and her legs opened, every part of her spreading from the pulsing heat in her belly. She groped for his erection, which strained at his codpiece. He wrenched the codpiece aside and entered her. Fire shot into her and she gave a small cry, a sound that made him stop, his breathing hard, a glassy gleam of mastery in his eyes. At his stopping, fire licked through her, a torture of yearning for his hardness again. He thrust into her. Again and again and again. She arched and wrapped her leg around his to hold him tight, her body beyond her control. With his next thrust, the hot wave inside her crested and she clung to his back as pulses quivered through her.
After, they lay on their backs, dazzled, catching their breath. She felt him turn his head to her and she turned to look at him. Love shone in his eyes. His chest heaved, gradually calming. Justine could not speak for holding on to the thrill, her body atingle, her heart choked with love.
He ran his hand gently over her cheek. “Justine, did I . . . hurt you?”
“No. It was . . . wonderful.”
He grinned. “You. You are wonderful.” His face gentled. He said soberly, quietly, “Now, we are man and wife in the eyes of God.”
She could not hold back tears of joy. She had loved Will from the moment she saw him as a child of eight. The truth rose to her lips. “It’s all I ever wanted.”
He kissed her softly. “My love.”
Bells clanged. Will, startled, flopped onto his back. “Oh, Lord,” he said with a blink of dismay, “I’m late.” He bounded to his feet and turned away, fastening his codpiece, jamming his shirt into his breeches. “Justine, I’m so sorry . . . I must go. The session.”
She sat up quickly in her rucked-up chemise, throwing her bare legs over the bed’s edge. “Yes, of course you must. I understand.”
“Oh, God,” he groaned, “it’s awful to leave you like this. I’ll have to go straight to the hall.” He grabbed his doublet from the floor and thrust his arms in, turning back to her. “Can you make your way to George Street?”
“Of course. Don’t worry about me.”
“I’m sorry. I meant to take you, but—”
“I think, my love, you just did.”
He laughed, happily flustered. He bent and kissed her, still tying the last lacing of his doublet. He ran his hand lovingly over her bare knee. “I’ll come to your lodging after the session. All right? We can have supper together. Where’s the house?”
She told him and gave him the name of her host. The church bells kept clanging. Will grabbed his cloak. Justine felt suddenly shy, sitting in just her chemise. She tugged it down over her knees. “I’ll let myself out.” She indicated her garments in a heap on the floor. “It will take a little time to make myself presentable.”
He looked at her as if his heart was too full to speak. He kissed her again, a lingering kiss that told her everything he could not put into words. “Until this evening,” he whispered.
Then he was gone.
Alone in the silence, Justine felt a rush of shame. She had got what she wanted—she was free now to search for the letters—but at what cost? She had used Will. Pretended and contrived and maneuvered so that he would have no choice but to leave her alone here. And she had bargained her maidenhead to do it. Her first union with Will, which should have been a moment of pure and open trust, she had degraded.
She stood up abruptly. What’s done was done. And Will, thank God, would never know. She steeled herself for her task. Idiotic not to go through with it after she had paid such a price for it. She made a vow that from that moment on, she would never dissemble to Will again.
She quickly dressed. Smoothing her hair, she looked around the room. Where to start? The desk. Shoving aside the volumes of Caesar and Aurelius, she examined the scatter of papers. Most were in Will’s handwriting. Lists of names, witnesses perhaps. There was a memorandum to himself in the form of questions and answers about the various potential conclusions of the inquiry. Many scrawled notes, apparently about witnesses’ depositions. Other papers were letters of instruction from Sir William Cecil. She unfurled a scroll. The cramped handwriting that covered it, neither Will’s nor Cecil’s, was in Latin, and though she had some knowledge of the language this was legal terminology, all but incomprehensible to her. Another scroll was the same. She opened a ledger. Accounts: money Will had spent on his room, meals, paper and ink, candles, stabling, oats for his horse.
There were two drawers. She pulled open the one on the left. More notes in Will’s hand, these in Latin. A small volume of Cicero, bristling with scraps of paper. A broken quill pen. Some walnuts. She suddenly remembered the strongbox under the bed. The most secure place for important documents.
She went down on her knees and dragged out the green leather-clad box bound with bands of iron. It wasn’t large, not much bigger than one of Will’s law books, but it was heavy. She examined the lock, feeling around it, prodding the lid, thinking there must be a key somewhere, or perhaps she could somehow break it, when the lid lifted. A laugh
of surprise escaped her. It hadn’t been locked! She raised the top. Inside were three seals of brass, the marks of Cecil’s office, each one the size of a goblet’s diameter. And there was a leather pouch. She tugged it open. Gold coins. Nothing else lay on the bare base of the box. No documents. No papers of any kind.
She shoved the strongbox back under the bed and pulled out the luggage, two leather satchels, and opened both. Linen shirts, breeches, hose, a pair of boots. It felt distasteful to be rooting around in Will’s things. And foolish. He was too orderly to cram important papers in with his shirts and hose.
She tried the trunk in the corner. More books. Would he put the letters inside a book? She opened the top volume and leafed through it. No papers. In any case there were eight letters, so at least that many sheets, probably more, too many to stuff inside a book.
The right-hand drawer in the desk. She had not tried it. She went back to open it and was surprised to find it locked. Excitement jolted through her. Where would he keep the key? She pawed through the items in the other drawer. No key. She looked under every document and book on top of the desk. Did he keep the key with him? She could only hope not. She jiggled the drawer, angry at its immovability, and tried to force it open, jerking it so roughly that her framed embroidery that he had propped against the candle trembled and fell. The tree of life. She felt a dart of shame and set it back in place. Her eyes fell on the little ebony box beside it. Her heartbeat quickened. She lifted the domed lid. With her fingertip she moved aside the thick lock of her hair. A key lay nestled beneath. Excited, she slid the key into the drawer’s lock and turned. It clicked. She opened the drawer.
Creamy vellum pages lay in a neat, shallow stack. On the top page, handwriting in sloping, orderly loops. Will’s handwriting.
Justine read: I have not seen him this night for ending your bracelet. Her heart lurched. Mary made bracelets for people she liked, men as well as women. Send me word whether your will have it, and more money, and how far I may speak. She scanned to the end. Burn this letter, for it is too dangerous. Hand trembling, she lifted the page and read on the next one, I remit myself wholly to your will, and send me word what I shall do, and whatsoever happens to me, I will obey you. Further on, He has great suspicion, but nevertheless trusts upon my word.
Barbara Kyle - [Thornleigh 05] Page 27
