“Your Majesty,” he murmured, kneeling stiffly before her.
Still she avoided receiving him and Walsingham knew full well why. Elizabeth was mistress of the arts of procrastination and delay, a policy that served her well in many instances, but it would no longer do so in the matter of the Queen of Scots.
For her good, for the good of the realm, he had to make her see that and face the grim task ahead of her.
The queen’s voice came softly at last, “Have you heard the latest from Rome?”
Sir Francis shifted uncomfortably on his aching knees.
“No, Your Grace.”
“The Pope is thinking of issuing another bull of excommunication.”
“Against whom?”
“Not whom. Against what. His holiness plans to excommunicate the comet. Do you not find that both amusing and astonishing?”
“Nothing could astonish me regarding the superstitious folly of the papists.”
“It might be a good thing. If it focuses the attention of my enemies on finding a way to destroy the comet, perhaps they might for a while forget about destroying me.”
She flicked an impatient glance his way before turning back to the window. “Get up, before you wear out your knees, old Moor.”
Walsingham rose stiffly to his feet, wincing at the crack of his knees. “Your Grace has—had time to thoroughly peruse the Scottish queen’s letter?”
“Yes, I have perused it. How you must be rejoicing. At long last, that foolish woman has played right into your hands.”
“I assure you I take no pleasure—”
“God’s death!”
Walsingham leaped back at the sudden flare of her anger. The queen was known to cuff and spit upon her courtiers when gripped by the formidable Tudor temper. Once she had even flung her slipper in Walsingham’s face.
He watched warily as Elizabeth’s hand clenched upon the window ledge. But after a tense moment, she appeared to master her rage, going on in a wearied tone.
“Spare me your assurances. Like a most diligent spider, you have woven your webs these past ten years and more, hoping to destroy Mary Stuart.”
“Only because I can see no other way to secure your safety and that of your realm.”
“But I am the one who will have the blood of a kinswoman on my hands. It is an evil precedent to set, taking off the head of a lawful queen.”
Walsingham forbore to remind her that it was one that had already been set by her father. None dared speak the name of Anne Boleyn to the queen. Elizabeth herself never mentioned her mother.
The queen’s hand came up to massage her temples. “I suppose Mary must now be tried.”
“She should be fetched to the Tower—”
“No,” Elizabeth snapped. “I will not have the trial in London, where I shall be obliged—
“No,” she repeated in a lower, equally forceful tone. “You will prepare me a list of other suitable sites for the trial. I will study them at length, give it my due consideration.”
Walsingham grimaced, recognizing another delaying tactic when he heard it. “Your Grace—”
“A list, Sir Francis. Present it to me tomorrow,” the queen said in a tone that brooked no further argument.
Walsingham sighed. “Yes, Your Grace.”
“Now what of the others? The six gentlemen.” The queen laid scornful emphasis upon the word. “Have you uncovered the identity of these bold gallants who have vowed to take my life?”
“That is what I came to tell you,” Walsingham said. “One of my agents waited upon me but an hour ago with new evidence. I now have the means of identifying all the conspirators. I have issued warrants for all of them, including this witch who appears to have been involved in the affair.”
“The Silver Rose creature that you spoke to me of.” Elizabeth gave a disgusted shake of her head. “Plots to attack me with witchcraft. Whatever next?
“Very well, Walsingham. Make your arrests and your damned list. Just leave me in peace. At least for the rest of this night.” Without looking around, the queen dismissed him with a tired wave of her hand.
Walsingham bowed and retreated, hastening to carry out her orders before she changed her mind and found some reason to forbid the Queen of Scots’s trial.
Walsingham knew his diligence was going to cost him dearly. Someone would have to be blamed when the ax separated the Stuart woman’s head from her shoulders. He fully expected most of the royal displeasure to fall on him, and he was prepared to endure it.
As to the arrest of the Silver Rose…Walsingham experienced a prick of conscience. Martin le Loup had done the secretary a great service by uncovering that portrait and bringing it so promptly to Walsingham’s attention.
The death of the witch would be poor repayment for Martin’s bold actions. Walsingham feared that Martin would take it very hard and he was sorry for that.
But Walsingham could not allow any partiality for Martin to sway him. As always, Sir Francis saw his duty clearly, and was prepared to do it. No matter the cost.
Chapter Nineteen
THE LATE AFTERNOON SUN SLANTED WARM RAYS OVER THE rough-hewn kitchen table where Maude peeled apples, the fruit red and glossy in the wicker basket. A haunch of venison roasted on a spit over the fire, the mouthwatering aroma mingling with the fragrance of stalks of dried herbs suspended from the ceiling.
Sights and scents that were familiar to Cat, but they seemed almost disconcertingly normal after last night’s adventure. The theft of the painting, the narrow escape, the storm, and those stolen hours in Martin’s embrace all felt like a dream.
But one had to sleep in order to dream and Cat had done very little of that upon her return to the Angel. She had been relieved to discover Meg sound asleep despite the storm. The girl was far too good at reading eyes, and it would have been both embarrassing and awkward for Cat to explain her absence.
But Meg had not even roused when Cat crept into their bedchamber. The girl had slumbered on while Cat spent the remaining hours of the night upon the window seat marveling at her own folly in giving way to her love for a man who would never return the emotion. She could not bring herself to regret it though, and such conflict of thought and feeling had not been conducive to sleep.
Knuckling her tired eyes, Cat hunkered down near the lanky young man writhing on a pallet in the corner. If Cat had spent a restless night, she was obliged to concede that Jem had endured a worse one. Lank strands of dirty blond hair straggled across the manservant’s angular face as he gazed at Cat with misery-rimmed eyes, his hand clasped to his swollen jaw.
“Open up, lad, and let me have a look,” Cat coaxed for the third time.
When Jem persisted in shaking his head and shrinking away from her, Cat gave a vexed sigh. Lack of sleep and fighting to subdue heartache did little for one’s patience.
Although Jem was more than twice her size, all gangly legs and sinewy arms, Cat seized him by his shirt strings and growled, “Open your mouth unless you want me to kneel on your chest and pry your jaws apart.”
Jem moaned but parted his lips a fraction. Cat cupped his chin, obliging him to open wider. She examined the reddened gum swelling around the tooth browned with decay.
Mistress Butterydoor loomed behind Cat, squinting at the boy. The old woman nodded her head and pronounced sagely, “Hare’s brains. You need to rub them over the sore gum. Works wonders to soothe teething babes.”
Cat bit her tongue to avoid saying exactly what she thought of such an idiotic and disgusting practice. She and Agatha had reached a truce of sorts recently and Cat strove to keep it, at least for Meg’s sake.
“I believe Jem is well past such remedies, Mistress Butterydoor. That tooth is going to have to come out.”
“No,” Jem shrieked.
To Cat’s surprise, Agatha grudgingly agreed with her. “You best have master send for Turner, the barber over on Gunning Street.”
“Mmmph!” Jem shook his head, clamping his hands over his mouth.
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“There, there, m’dear.” Agatha elbowed Cat out of the way as she bent down to brush Jem’s hair from his eyes. “Master Turner’s good at drawing teeth. He does it right quick and he’ll trim that mop of yours as well. I daresay you could use it.”
Jem’s only response was another pathetic moan. Cat left Agatha to comfort the boy as best she could while Cat went to find Martin. He had gone out on an errand earlier and upon his return closeted himself in the study.
Cat encountered Meg hovering on the kitchen threshold. The girl regarded Cat anxiously. “How is Jem? Samuel said he—he was like to die.”
“Samuel is a great gossiping idiot who spreads rumors faster than a tinker.” Cat gave Meg’s shoulder a comforting squeeze. “Jem will be fine as long as that rotten tooth is pulled.”
Meg flinched, rubbing her own jaw in a sympathetic gesture. Stealing a furtive look about her, she beckoned Cat to come closer so that she might whisper.
“There might be something I could do to help Jem. I remember a remedy that I read about in—in a book somewhere.”
Cat tensed. From the way Meg avoided her eyes, Cat had little doubt which book the girl meant.
“There is a potion that you apply to a handkerchief and hold over a person’s nose and they lose consciousness. If I did that for Jem, everyone would merely think he fainted and he would not have to endure the pain. I’d have to be careful because if you use too much of the potion, a person could—”
“No!” Cat whispered back. “That would not be wise, Meggie.”
Meg frowned. “Is it wiser to let Jem suffer?”
“He won’t.”
Another dramatic groan emanated from the kitchen to defy her assurances. Cat grimaced.
“The lad just needs to pluck up his courage. A few good yanks and it will be all over.”
Meg did not look convinced, but when Cat encouraged her to go out in the garden and well out of earshot of Jem’s misery, the girl complied.
Only after Meg had gone did Cat frown, troubled by the girl’s suggestion. It had been a long time since Meg had even hinted at any of the extraordinary knowledge she had gleaned from the Book of Shadows.
Meg seemed so absorbed by her struggles to learn the lute, perfect her stitching, and transform herself into a proper English lady; it was as though she, too, had determined to bury her past. She no longer kept her witch-blade hidden in the pocket of her gown or consulted the unusual spyglass she had fashioned to study the comet.
Cat had almost allowed herself to forget all the girl was capable of. She should have known better. Abilities and knowledge like Meg possessed were not so easily denied, the temptations presented by such power always there.
Whether Meg went to Faire Isle or not, the girl needed to learn to cope with her rare gifts. Somehow Cat would have to find a way to persuade Martin of this.
But when she entered his study, she realized it would not be a propitious moment to broach the subject. His desk was abandoned, quill, ink, tally markers, and ledger books littered across the surface. Martin stared out the window, the cast of his face grim.
His expression lightened as Cat entered the study. Their eyes met and for a moment Cat felt as though the very air between them grew heavy with memories of last night. Accustomed to meet any man’s gaze boldly, she did something she had never done before. She was the first to look away.
“So how is our long-suffering Jem?” he asked.
Cat’s lip curled with scorn. “Carrying on like a wee babe. Mistress Butterydoor says we’d best send for Master Turner and I agree. Before Jem provokes me into solving his problem after my own fashion.”
When Cat struck her fist into the palm of her hand, Martin smiled. “Poor Jem. Very well. Send Samuel to fetch the barber.”
Cat nodded. It cost her great effort to be at ease with Martin, to pretend that last night had been nothing more than a casual encounter, a passionate ache that had been cured by a heated tumble between the sheets.
Never mind that their embrace had only deepened her longing for him, strengthened the love she felt. She comforted herself that at least she still had her pride. Martin would never know of her folly.
When he turned back to the window, Cat studied the rigid line of his back. Martin’s ready smile and light tone might fool the rest of the world, but Cat knew the man too well to be deceived.
Joining him at the window, she had to resist the urge to massage the tension from his neck. Given how easily her desire for him could ignite, she had best start learning to keep her hands to herself.
Folding her hands in her apron instead, she asked, “What’s amiss? I expected a little more swagger after your meeting with Walsingham. You assured me that all had gone well.”
Martin shrugged. “Well enough. Sir Francis seemed very pleased with me. He promised me I shall be amply rewarded for finding that portrait and that I may consider my part in this affair at an end. I need involve myself no further.”
He admitted reluctantly, “But this morning, I risked going back to Poley’s house.”
“Martin!” Cat vented her alarm and frustration by punching his arm.
“I know.” He winced, rubbing the place where she had jabbed him. “I know it was a damned fool thing to do. But after all the risks and dangers of the past week, I had to know the outcome.
“I watched from a distance when they arrested Ballard. He had come looking for Babington and they seized the priest in Poley’s garden. Babington managed to escape in the nick of time.”
“Ah, so that is what has you so tense.”
“No, I confess part of me actually hopes the young fool might avoid the horrors of a traitor’s death.” Martin sighed. “But when the queen’s soldiers raided the house, they arrested Robert Poley.”
“Poley? But he is one of Walsingham’s men, the same as you.”
“The dangers of being a spy, my dear. It is all too easy to be mistaken for one of the conspirators. Walsingham warned me to stand clear when the arrests were made.”
“And you should have listened to him!” Cat said fiercely.
“I realized that as I watched that poor devil Poley being dragged away. There but for the grace of God…” Martin trailed off, leaving the sobering thought unfinished.
“It felt so strange as I made my way back home, unscathed. The rumors had already begun to spread through the streets of a plot to assassinate the queen, a Catholic conspiracy to overthrow the kingdom. Everywhere I went I heard exclamations of horror and prayers for the safety of the queen and all her loyal subjects.
“God deliver us from the devil, the Pope, and the comet,” Martin quoted wryly. “And then everyone simply went on about their everyday affairs.”
“It is how people survive, Martin,” Cat said. “Life is made up more of smaller things and ordinary moments than great events or cataclysmic happenstances and we should all thank the good Mother Earth for that.”
“I suppose so. Although last night was far from ordinary.” Martin startled her by entwining his fingers with hers. Her heartbeat quickened. She had to remind herself it was but a casual gesture on his part. After all, they had been friends before they had become lovers.
“Cat…” Martin began.
“Yes?”
When Cat regarded him with that cool, clear gaze of hers, he was unable to continue. Martin had never been a silent man or a stoic one. It seemed damned unnatural to him to hold his peace, to feel the depth of love that he did for this woman and not tell her so.
He suddenly realized it was not the rest of London going calmly about its business today that disturbed him. It was Cat. After the kind of passion they had shared last night, how could the woman look so—so blasé and completely untouched? It irritated him to the point of wanting to haul her into his arms and kiss her until she pleaded for mercy. The devil take whoever might walk in upon them.
He was spared the folly of such an action by the sound of someone hammering at the front door, clamoring for admittance.
Cat hastened from the study, only lowering her guard as she headed to the front door. It was one of the most damned disconcerting things about Martin le Loup, how the man could make a woman feel ravaged just with one sweep of his wolfish green eyes.
Flushed with warmth, Cat had to resist the urge to fan herself with her apron. She took a moment to compose herself into the guise of a proper maidservant. She swung open the door, catching the person on the threshold in mid-knock.
Alexander Naismith lowered his fist. The boy appeared to be in quite a state, his blond hair disheveled, his face streaked with sweat as though he had run all the way from Southwark to Cheapside.
He swept off his cap, panting. “M-master Wolfe. N-need to see him at once.”
Before Cat could reply, Naismith shoved past her. Martin must have heard the commotion because he emerged from his study, his brow furrowed with concern.
“Sander? What’s wrong, lad? Is something amiss at the theater?”
The boy doubled over, clutching his side as he sought to catch his breath. “N-not the theater. Strand House. The queen’s soldiers s-stormed the Lambert place. They had an arrest warrant, Master Wolfe. You must go, t-try to help.”
Martin and Cat exchanged a stunned look.
“But surely that is impossible,” Cat said. “Didn’t Walsingham assure you—”
But Martin silenced her with a slight shake of his head, warning her to take care what she revealed in front of Sander.
Martin rested one hand bracingly on the boy’s shoulder. “Are you telling me his lordship has been arrested?”
“N-no. I have no idea where Ned is. It’s his sister who—who has been accused of treason.”
Sander straightened, announcing in dismayed tones, “Lady Danvers has been taken to the Tower.”
Martin’s face drained with shock and consternation. He paced the hall, dragging his hand down his face, his inner turmoil all too apparent.
He came to an abrupt halt as though he’d reached some decision and Cat was very much afraid she knew what it was. Turning to Sander, he thanked the boy for bringing him the tidings.
The Huntress: A Novel (Dark Queen) Page 32
