The fragility of her dream was shattered by the sight of Bess, standing in the corridor, and speaking in low tones with a gentlewoman. Whatever she was saying, she cut it short and sent the woman off towards Mary’s rooms. The countess made to move away, as though intending to ignore Amy entirely. Then she seemed to think better of it.
‘Good morrow, my girl.’
‘And you, my lady.’
‘You’re kept busy? What were you doing?’
‘I … I saw a soiled window.’ She held up a finger that still had a streak of grime on it.
Bess raised an eyebrow. ‘Good girl. You … you have been laundering the Scottish queen’s bedclothes, haven’t you?’
‘Not today, my lady.’
‘No, but it is your duty?’ A note of irritation crept into Bess’s voice, making her sound like a parent addressing a stupid child.
‘Yes, it is.’
Bess inhaled deeply. From her waist hung a scented pomander, and with one hand she began swinging it slowly from side to side like a censer. Occasionally she batted it hard into the palm of her other hand. ‘What do you hear in there, girl?’
‘Hear?’
‘Come now, you’re not stupid. You have ears and no end of a mouth. What does she talk about with her folk when I’m not there and she’s not squawking in my chambers?’
‘I don’t know, my lady – I…’ Amy read the mounting anger on Bess’s face. ‘She talks of the duke of Norfolk,’ she shrugged. ‘She and her ladies used to whisper and gossip about him, before she fell into sickness.’
‘I see. What else?’
‘I can’t say, my lady. They often speak in French and Scots. Very fast. I can’t understand.’ Bess sighed and let the pomander fall. Amy chanced her luck. ‘Will it be much longer that she is with us?’
‘Ha! A fair question. I can’t say. I wish I could. My lord … the earl … he is not a well man himself. These last months …’ Amy thought that tears might be starting in Bess’s eyes. The catch in her throat betrayed them. ‘All my business, my work … and my husband…’ She trailed off, and then coughed hard, shaking her head a little. ‘Not long, let’s hope, eh? It’s a stout courage that can stand some mishaps and hard times.’
‘Yes, my lady.’
‘And … if you should hear anything of interest in your duties. In there, I mean,’ said Bess, nudging her chin in the direction from which Amy had come, ‘you know what you must do?’
‘Tell the earl,’ said Amy.
‘Tell me, lass, tell me.’
As Bess walked away, only knuckling her eyes when she had turned her back, Amy felt a ripple of pity for Queen Mary. No doubt the gentlewoman had been given a similar task: watch, spy, inform. Even in her own bedroom the Scottish queen would never be alone.
***
Moonlight wobbled on a coastal inlet where the River Eden rushed to meet the North Sea. They had come into parklands, somewhere further up the coast than the old cathedral town of St Andrews. The trip from Berwick had taken days, despite the outbreak of good weather. It was not that Heydon had had a multitude of friends to swap plans with – they had been left behind in the north of England – rather, the simple fact of their horses’ exhaustion had required frequents stops. They entered in between the sculpted trees and bushes where the stars couldn’t reach, the warm wind whipping at their coats.
Jack had been surprised to find that Scotland didn’t look all that different to northern England. He had heard somewhere that the air changed north of the border – that it was coarser and bred hardier people. That had made him imagine small, gnarled, hairy men and large, thickset women. But in the town and villages they had stayed in as he and Heydon made their way up the coast and around Edinburgh, he found that all that had really changed was the language. Still there were the ubiquitous taverns, the towns with broad main streets, the wives and their friends gossiping over baskets.
It was when they were in an inn earlier in the evening of their planned raid that another difference struck him. Although he could barely understand what was being said, he realised that the same attitude had been prevalent in almost every stop in Scotland. The people, quite simply, had no respect for their authorities. Occasionally Heydon would translate a joke or a comment. The Scots language, he said, was really just a cross between good English and the sound of someone buggering a mastiff. When a burgess or a baillie – apparently their words for alderman and justices – entered a tavern, he would be met with catcalls and men shouting, ‘chase yersel’ and ‘away ye go an’ shite.’ For their part, the town authorities seemed to be in on the jesting, returning insults with vigour.
More strangely, the places seemed abuzz with political conversation. Men were arguing over the war between the queen’s supporters (whoremasters, apparently, followin’ a daft French murderess) and those calling themselves the king’s party (treacherous basturts who wahnt tae suckle fae England’s teats). Town men seemed to be abreast of what was happening – probably, said Heydon, because that part of the country was so small and its leaders within spitting distance. In London one heard similar discussion – in occasional country inns too – but it was always secretive, furtive. All it took in England was one man to inform that you were speaking sedition and you might find yourself before the queen’s justices.
In every man’s mouth had been the news that the Scottish regent, Mary’s brother Moray, was in the highlands, as Heydon had predicted. Yet still it was well known that Queen Elizabeth had only just threatened him with the return of his sister. Depending on the speaker, it was either a good thing – she could then be executed for murder – or a bad thing – she would breathe life into her harried supporters. Of course, others seemed to say it was a good thing because she could rid the land of her bastard brother, or a bad thing because she would harm the new faith. About the only the leader the men – and often women – seemed to be unanimous in their liking for was their prince-cum-king, James. And that was because he was not yet two years old.
Jack took Heydon’s advice: ignore the ranting Scots. They simply enjoyed arguing amongst themselves.
‘We should be near,’ said Heydon, his voice low. Jack trusted his knowledge. It had, after all, been gleaned from Queen Mary’s inner circle.
The park gave way to a gravelled path, and they rode to one side of it. It wound through the trees in a series of twists and turns. Then, all at once, it gave out onto a wide expanse of gardens. Beyond them, black against the stars, was a stone lodge, a turreted tower on the right and a thatched roof on the lower building to the left. No lights burned; if there were windows, they were shuttered. ‘Right,’ said Heydon. ‘Tie up the horses, mate.’ He slipped down easily, Jack following.
‘Do we go in through the back?’
‘No, we do not.’ Heydon did not trouble to lower his voice. It bounced around between the trees and the house, making Jack shudder. ‘Up there,’ he said, jabbing a finger towards the tower. ‘That’s where the earl will keep office.’ Jack opened his mouth to ask how he could be sure, and Heydon pre-empted him. ‘This place was the old king’s hunting lodge. Claimed by his bastard. He used to use the towers of his houses for secret chambers.’ With that he began crunching over towards the place. Jack went after him, stepping more lightly, aware of every footstep.
The tower was not tall. Now that his eyes had grown used to the light in the clearing, he could see up to the first floor. Its window was made of horn, dyed grey by the darkness. ‘Can you lift me, mate? I’ll stand on your hands and get onto your shoulders.’
Jack nodded, locked his fingers, and leant down, making a hoist for Heydon’s foot. His friend put one foot in and Jack lifted. Thankfully Heydon weighed little, and Jack was able to rise, grunting as quietly as he could. When he was standing, he launched him upwards and, wobbling a little, transferred the foot to his shoulder. Heydon managed to find his other one, knocking his ear as he did. A smooth operation, Jack thought, brushing the caked dirt of his palms and onto the cool stones o
f the tower. He could do nothing but stare ahead, trying not to move, as the vibrations of Heydon’s movements juddered through him. Several hard thumps above threatened to dislodge him. Heydon stilled. ‘I’ve got it,’ he hissed down. ‘Get my feet again, mate. Push me up.’
Jack did, and this time he looked up to see Heydon’s body disappear into the small aperture. His legs followed, jerking madly, a deformed snake in its death throes. Then he was gone. A moment of panic descended, as Jack realised was alone and exposed in front of the Scottish regent’s private home. He looked around, as though expecting to see an army of iron-faced Scotsmen emerging from between the trees. Was Heydon, he wondered, really going to have the nerve to wander through the house and open the front door for him?
‘Here!’ Jack looked up. A rope fell down by his head. It was no makeshift thing, no bedsheet twined up, but a real rope. ‘I’ve got you. Come up.’
Jack grabbed it, glad of his gloves, and planted one foot on the tower. A pain ran through his thigh, the numbness from the ride already wearing off. Gingerly he raised his other foot and hung like a monkey. He started to walk up the building but found he could not bear to move his hands up the rope. Letting go, even for an instant, seemed like an invitation to land on his backside.
He was still screwing up his courage when his whole body shot up a foot, and then another, and the momentum got him moving. Between his tepid climbing and Heydon’s yanking, he reached the height of the window. With one hand still on the rope he reached out, his insides tumbling, and Heydon grasped at his arm. He missed. Grasped again, swearing. And then Jack had gained it; he half-threw himself into it and let Heydon do the rest.
He landed on the floor, his upper body and arms first. ‘That was graceful, mate.’ Heydon’s disembodied voice was close. Jack gathered himself up and stood, wearing his old lopsided grin. It was a good cover, he thought, for nerves.
‘What do we do now?’
‘What’s that?’
‘Where do we look?’ In response, Heydon struck at a tinderbox and, after a few tries, a small pool of light spread around them. He held it high, making the shadows quiver.
The room they were in was part office and part storeroom. A bare desk still stood, though the other furnishings must have been carried elsewhere. Some barrels stood against one wall, making him shiver. Ropes were still tied around the lower halves. Jack guessed his means of ascent must have been one of the liberated upper ones. Heydon moved slowly around, his light moving in arcs. ‘Here,’ he said.
The wall opposite the barrels was dominated by criss-crosses of shelving. It created dozens of small square openings, most of them stuffed with rolled up papers. Some were simply black, and Heydon poked his free hand in, cursing when he found nothing. ‘You could help,’ he said.
Jack moved immediately, bumping the desk. ‘Yes, sorry. It’s – what is it we’re looking for?’
‘A casket – a small coffer. Wood, silver, I don’t know.’
Jack joined him in the search. He noticed that Heydon was pulling out papers and either cramming them back in or tossing them to the floor. For his part, Jack carefully put everything back as he found it. After sliding a roll tied up with ribbon back into its slot, he moved to the next. It looked empty, but when he put his hand in, he stubbed a finger on something hard. He tutted and, more slowly, reached in again. His fingers closed around something hard. Something square. His heart leapt as he slid it out. ‘Is this – this isn’t it, is it?’
Heydon drew closer and held the light over the box. ‘Could be. Well done, mate. Open it.’
The box was made of dark wood. It felt thick. On the front was a little metal catch. ‘It’s locked.’
‘Give it here.’
Heydon took it, shook it, and then handed his tinderbox to Jack. He then tried to prise it open between his fingers. ‘Damn it. Here, you try.’
They reversed their swap, and Jack tried the box. It was locked, but it was so small he felt it shouldn’t hold its secrets for too long. He squatted, putting all his strength into it. A gap opened between the coffer and lid. And then his fingers slipped, and the thing closed tight – tighter, it felt, than it had been at first. ‘So close, fuck it,’ Jack hissed. Before he knew what he was doing he had lost control and smashed the thing off the desk. It fell to the floor, the lid cracking off. ‘Stupid thing – I’m sorry, I’m sorry!’
‘Jesus, Jack,’ said Heydon. ‘That mad temper of yours has just proved its worth.’
On the floor at their feet was a brown, folded square of paper.
Heydon leant down and scooped it up. As he unfolded it, his lips began moving in silent prayer. It was surprisingly large when unfolded. ‘By God,’ whispered Heydon, as though he had uncovered a holy relic. ‘This is it. Here is the proof that Scotland’s kings might rule England.’
‘Or queens,’ said Jack.
‘This is from a time before queens,’ snapped Heydon, making Jack take a step back.
‘Is it real?’
‘Real? Who cares if it’s real? It …’ Heydon seemed to weigh something up. He averted his eyes to the paper and began folding it up. When it was small enough again, he slid it into the lining of his doublet. ‘No. It’s not real. But no less powerful for that. It … it was drawn up at the time of James IV, when he married Margaret Tudor.’
‘Why? Why lie and say that your kingdom is … is not a sovereign land? That its owned by another?’
‘Why?’ spat Heydon. ‘This is why.’ He gestured at the office. ‘This day is why, and tomorrow, and tomorrow. Even Henry VII knew that the Scottish marriage might one day provide an heir to England’s throne. They say Margaret was a clever woman. Well, they say that about all royals, don’t they? Well she knew well enough that if her brother’s line failed, her own children might gain the throne. Or grandchildren. But the English wouldn’t like that. Not being taken over by a foreigner. So this,’ he added, patting his breast, ‘makes the Scottish sovereigns no foreigners, but English subjects. And all looks very ancient.’
‘I see,’ said Jack, his face blank. ‘Why would Moray want it?’
‘He’s the regent,’ shrugged Heydon. ‘And he won’t want Queen Mary to have it. It makes her path to Elizabeth’s throne that wee bit clearer. We should –’
A soft thump.
‘Did you hear –’ began Jack.
A door on the far side of the room opened, a black silhouette framed by the light of the hall behind it. ‘Whit be this, then, a parcel o’ sleekit knaves at thievery?’ said a cool, high woman’s voice. The silhouette stepped forward into the light. In the woman’s hand was a large empty candlestick, held aloft, as though it were a club.
3
Heydon moved towards her, and for a moment Jack feared that he was going to attack. So, it seemed, did the male servant who had followed the woman, lighting her way with a torch. But then something odd happened. Heydon began speaking to her in rapid Scots. It made no sense to Jack, but he thought he heard the word ‘wean’ or ‘wee ane’ several times.
Eventually, Heydon stood back from her, and Jack got a good look. ‘Mr Cole,’ he said, ‘this is the countess of Moray. Lady Agnes Keith.’
She was petite, and pretty in a severe kind of way – but it was her eyes that caught Jack’s attention. They were enormous and dark, two glittering coals. When she spoke, she had dropped the Scots, and spoke in English with a clipped Scottish accent. ‘My husband has taught me your native tongue,’ she said. ‘A good and faithful servant to England, my husband.’ Jack thought he detected an edge of irony in her tone. Humour, at least.
She crossed to the desk and put down the candlestick. Jack noticed her casting curious glances at the shelves, before dropping her gaze to the floor, littered with papers. She said nothing, but tutted.
‘And so,’ Heydon said, ‘the regent will have us on our way, then.’
‘Such a fine man, not wishing me disturbed.’ Again, that note of cynicism. ‘Good of you to let yourselves in.’ Jack cleared
his throat.
‘And you’ll give him my regards when he returns?’
‘Of course. What faithful wife could do otherwise.’ She wheeled back to them and leant her back against the desk. She was wearing a thick nightdress, all in the black that Jack had seen on wealthy reformist women throughout the country. But Lady Agnes had had some silver and white threads and loops sewn into hers. Jack liked it. It was like one small rebellion against the austerity. ‘I suppose you have your papers?’
Heydon stepped towards her and dropped to a knee, fishing in his coat. He brought forth his passport, though for one terrible second Jack thought he would somehow accidentally free the stolen document. She raised a hand and beckoned at the doorway. Her man came in with his torch and stood by her as she made a show of reading. ‘Well this all seems in order,’ she said at last.
Jack relaxed, before making a bow. Heydon did likewise, and they began backing towards the door. ‘Wait!’ she snapped. Both froze. ‘Do you not wish to take what it is that you have come here for?’ Neither spoke. ‘The dresses. My – the queen’s – jewels.’ She eased herself off the desk and began to move around them, making for the door. ‘And I must bid you the welcome of my house. You are welcome to lodge here for the night. If you wish?’
‘No, ma’am. I mean – thank you, my lady. But we are already so late in our business, we have not a moment to lose,’ said Heydon.
‘I see. Well, I am sorry you have given me so little warning of your coming. I will get what I can for you. Yet we might have to see more of each other hereafter. Wait here and I will have my man send you on your way with … something.’ She gave them both a strange smile and left the room, her servant scurrying after her.
A Dangerous Trade: An Elizabethan Spy Thriller Page 13
