The Fugitive Queen

by FIONA BUCKLEY

  “You may be asked to testify before the court of inquiry, and to allow yourself to be questioned. Queen Elizabeth says you must not, that you are an anointed queen and cannot be treated like a subject. She says it would set a perilous precedent and begs you to refuse either to testify or to answer questions.”

  “Well, well. So my cousin respects my title, at least, though apparently not to the point of lending me an army.” Mary sighed. “I must be grateful for even small considerations, and so I am. When you go back to London, tell her that I have received her message and agree with it—though how I am ever to defend myself against the lies . . .”

  Her voice died away. I saw an opportunity, loathed myself for taking it, but knew that I must. “Lies?” I said, and waited, wondering if she would go on, would say something to point toward the guilt or innocence that Cecil wished to establish. She said nothing, however. At length, forcing the words out, I said: “There have been many lies, madam?”

  “Piled one on another, into a mountain,” said Mary. “And what is one poor young woman to do, faced with such an edifice of calumny? I did my best, but everything I did was wrong. I trusted James Bothwell and learned too late that I should not have done. Oh well. Let us not talk of these things. They can be of no interest to you.”

  I couldn’t force the conversation and didn’t want to anyway. Indeed, I could hardly think how to do so. Hugh had pointed out the principal difficulty when he said that Cecil could hardly write to Mary saying Most honored lady, would you be kind enough to tell me whether you did or did not have gunpowder planted in the basement of Kirk o’ Field on the night of ninth of February, 1567? Quite. Some questions can’t be asked directly, and even they are, one would never get a reliable answer. The truth could not be reached that way. I must depend on encouraging her to talk, hoping it would emerge of itself, but if she didn’t wish to discuss the subject, I had no means of insisting. Perhaps she might be more forthcoming another time.

  I wished I could stop feeling afraid of what I might learn. Surely, surely, it would be an assurance of her innocence. Cecil wanted to be sure of her guilt, but a woman as gracious as Mary could not—could she?—have either blood or gunpowder on her hands.

  For the moment, the subject was clearly closed. Mary led us back to our seats and once more took up her embroidery, remarking that she had been overwhelmed with joy to see her dear Seton again.

  “Though I would like to see her married. All my other Maries are, and it is right that they should be. Seton, though, seems to have no desire for the married state. I think she would have done well as a nun! When Tobias Littleton joined Sir Francis’s household—he has only just done so; he comes of a Bolton family—I did wonder. I thought he might come of good stock. Such young men often serve people like Sir Francis Knollys as part of their education. But I have since learned that Littleton, though well educated, has a humble background. His father is just a small cloth merchant in Bolton and Tobias himself is only a second son, at that. He has been equipped with good schooling to help him make his way, but make it he must. My dear Marie is the daughter of Lord Seton, one of Scotland’s most noble families. It wouldn’t do.”

  “Quite apart,” I said, “from the religious matter. Tobias is an Anglican, I suppose.”

  “Unlike Sir Francis, Tobias never discusses such things,” said Mary. “Tell me, Ursula—I know you are something of a needle-woman yourself—what do you think of this pattern which Seton has designed? It is for a cushion cover. I feel the silks should be chosen with great care, or some of these greens and blues will clash . . .”

  Tobias, reappearing at that moment, having presumably decided that we had had long enough to discuss feminine problems, found us deep in a discussion about the delicate difference between colors that tone and colors that swear at each other. Nothing could have been more innocent.

  • • •

  I spent the whole of the next day at Bolton hoping to learn what Cecil wanted to know. I also asked to speak to Sir Francis and reported Harry’s death and Meg’s kidnapping to him.

  Both projects failed dismally. Mary vouchsafed nothing of use; and Sir Francis, though gravely shocked by the attack on a party of innocent travelers, had no idea who could have been responsible and said that local law enforcement was not his task. He was Lady Mary’s custodian and nothing else. If I had complained to the local constable and he had not found any clues that might lead to the perpetrators, then he did not see what else could be done. I could of course complain to the sheriff in York, but the scent of the quarry would be old by now in any case. The north was wild compared to the south and . . .

  “I know that,” I said grimly.

  All this dimmed what would otherwise have been a pleasant Sunday, most of which Pen and I spent with Mary, whose company, as ever, was like warm sunshine. We were away from her only when I was talking to Sir Francis, attending the Anglican service held by the chaplain in the morning, and at meals.

  Mary took hers in her quarters, but I and my party dined in the main hall, and here I met and talked with two amiable young men called Will and George Douglas, who had accompanied her from Scotland, and who were presumably among the friends Mary had mentioned.

  I wondered if I might obtain information from them but I did not. They were good-natured, handsome, and devoted to Mary, but I soon realized that they knew no more than I did about Kirk o’ Field and what had really happened there.

  When we went back to Mary after dinner, Pen, with the frankness of youth, did actually ask a direct question about Kirk o’ Field. But Mary only shook her head and said that some matters were too distressing to discuss. Tears came into her eyes as she spoke, and seeing them, I felt so uncomfortable that instead of encouraging Pen or following the subject up myself, as I should have done, I nudged my ward as a signal to be quiet.

  Wiping her eyes, Mary said that in the end she had had to escape—yes, escape, from her own country! Then she told us how she had got away from where she was being held in a castle on an island called Lochleven, in the midst of a loch; how supporters had rallied to her but been defeated in a battle against her half brother James Stewart, Earl of Moray.

  “He calls himself the Regent of Scotland and claims to be ruling in my son’s name. I suppose it’s one degree better than claiming the crown for himself,” said Mary.

  On Lochleven she had been in the charge of the Douglas family to which Will and George, the two young men I had met at dinner, belonged. “I admit it,” she said contritely. “I used all my wiles and powers of persuasion to coax the Douglases into helping me. But what else could I do? I had only myself to rely on. I persuaded and smiled; I pleaded and cajoled; I wept aloud and sometimes I let myself be found weeping, and tried to hide my tears but not too quickly . . .”

  She gave me a wry look. “Do I sound like a deceiver, a woman full of cunning tricks? I expect I do, but what other weapons did I have? I hope that those who helped me will not suffer for it in time to come.”

  “I can only admire your determination and your courage,” I said. I could imagine the loneliness of which she spoke, and I understood what she meant when she said she had only used what weapons she had. I knew about loneliness, too. I knew what it was to be forced, in self-defense, to go to lengths that once I would have said I would never go to. In my time, I had slept with a man I did not want; I had helped men to their deaths.

  “One can’t help but sympathize,” I said to Pen, at the end of that day, when we had retired to our chamber. “Tell me, what do you think of the Queen of Scotland?”

  This time to my surprise, Pen was the one who was not inclined to lose her head in the clouds. “She is very beautiful,” she said. “She looks like a tired angel. I fancy that those two Douglases think she’s really an angel! But I don’t think she is.”

  I was on the whole relieved by the contempt in her voice when she spoke of the Douglases. They were probably too young to appeal to her, I thought, and a good thing, too. But I was startled by
the way she had dismissed Mary.

  Something of this must have shown in my face, for Pen said: “I keep thinking about that story that she tried to have her husband blown up. Everyone says he was very unpleasant, but all the same, that’s a dreadful thing to do, and when I was at court, I heard that someone had been posted to keep watch in case he was somehow warned and tried to escape, and that he actually did, and was caught running away and strangled!”

  “That’s horrible!” Dale was with us, blending the water from an ewer of hot and an ewer of cold, so that we could wash before we went to bed. “I hadn’t heard that. I thought—he just died in an explosion. I’d heard that much, no more. Is this true, ma’am?”

  “Yes. Pen has the story correctly,” I said. “And she’s right. It was a dreadful plot.”

  “If she really ordered that . . .!” Pen said. “Well, how is one to know? She says the things that I would say in her place, and they all sound very innocent, but there’s no way to be sure.”

  Then she startled me further by adding: “Have you got a private reason for wanting to talk to her? You used to do secret work for Queen Elizabeth, didn’t you? Do you still? Is that really why we’re here?”

  “Now, then.” Dale was disapproving. “That’s not the way to talk to Mistress Stannard. Her business is her own.”

  “It was supposed to be confidential,” I said. I hesitated and then decided that it might be wiser after all to admit some of it and make light of it, rather than let Pen imagine all kinds of dramatic secret missions and thus create curiosity and an unhealthy excitement.

  “Since I was coming north,” I said carefully, “both the queen and Cecil asked me to visit Mary Stuart and charged me with certain private messages for her. Not even Sir Francis is privy to them. He was asked to let me see Queen Mary, that’s all. I’ve managed to deliver one but I still need to talk further to Mary. Sir Francis has only offered us lodgings for two nights, though, and I don’t see how I can prolong it without making him wonder why. I may try to arrange a further visit later on.”

  “May I come too?” Pen asked. “I won’t speak of your business to anyone—here or anywhere else; I promise.”

  “Do you want to visit Bolton again?”

  “Oh yes, please!”

  I think that at the time I wondered why she was so eager, but supposed that she found Bolton Castle and Mary interesting. I was quite sure that the attraction wasn’t either of the Douglases.

  The truth looks obvious now, by hindsight.

  9

  Accounting for Silken Velvet

  I had still not written to Hugh. I knew I must tell him of our safe arrival at Tyesdale, but what was I to say of Harry’s loss and our own failure to do anything about it? Also, I was worried about sending any of our men away. I felt we needed them. At Bolton, however, I seized the opportunity of asking to borrow one of Knollys’s couriers and sent off a short letter, saying that we had arrived, that there was a good deal of news, but that I would write in more detail later. For the moment, it was all I could bring myself to say.

  We reached Tyesdale in time for dinner on Monday. Meg, who looked much more like her usual lively self, greeted us with an air of suppressed excitement, and Sybil said that as soon as we had eaten, they would have something to show us. The moment dinner was over, they led me up to my chamber. Once there, Meg at once ran to pull some sheets of paper from concealment under the coverlet. She brandished them at me eagerly.

  “Mother, you will never guess what we’ve got here! I thought I would burst, waiting all through dinner, but Mistress Jester said you would be tired and hungry and we must wait to tell you. But look at these!”

  Sybil placed a hand on Meg’s shoulder. “Gently, now. Let us begin at the beginning. Mistress Stannard, while you were away, I gave Meg lessons in bookkeeping, as you asked, and used the ledger that Master Whitely gave you. We remembered what you had said about looking out for anything amiss, but we couldn’t find anything definite at first, though some of the figures seemed odd—too high or too low . . .”

  I nodded. “Pen and I noticed that.”

  “Yes. But with nothing to check them against, we couldn’t be sure that anything was wrong with them. However, we were working in the parlor and it happened that I glanced out and saw those two Thwaites, father and son, riding in.”

  “The Thwaites? Again?”

  “Yes. Well, you were not here, but I had the feeling,” said Sybil, “that you and Pen didn’t greatly care for them.”

  “You were quite right. And so?” I said, wondering where all this was going.

  “So I decided that Tyesdale should be, not inhospitable, but not effusively welcoming either,” said Sybil. “I took Meg up to her room and then went in search of Whitely to tell him that I was not available and that I wished him to look after the guests and make our apologies. I met him straightaway, coming out of his own room, and while I was explaining to him—well, I suppose it was the first time I had ever really looked at him—I noticed his clothes. They’re in dull colors—brown and dun and black, but the materials are too rich for a steward in a place like this.”

  “Ah. I’ve been thinking the same myself,” I said.

  “His shirt was silk, and he had a gold chain,” said Sybil. “And his doublet was brown velvet—silken velvet. I know what it looks like. When I had sent him down to meet the Thwaites, I came back to Meg, and I spoke of it. And then Meg said . . . well, your turn has come, Meg. Tell your mother what you said. You spoke very intelligently.”

  “Mother,” said Meg eagerly, still clutching the papers, “it just seemed to me to prove that Master Whitely was making extra money somewhere. I said to Mistress Jester, ‘If he is wearing silk and gold, how can he afford it? His salary is in the accounts and it surely wouldn’t stretch so far.’ ”

  “I said that I agreed,” Sybil said, “but that we couldn’t be sure unless we could find other documents, bills, and receipts, to put against the figures in the ledger but then . . . go on, Meg.”

  “I suddenly thought,” said my daughter, “that if I were falsifying accounts, I might still keep a note somewhere of the real figures in case I needed them. I might want to remind myself what was really paid for last year’s wool clip, so that I could compare it with what I was offered this year. It would be easy to get muddled otherwise—and then people could cheat you. You might not be able to steal so much next time!”

  “I’ve seen his office,” Sybil said to me. “I was with you when you went to collect the ledger we’ve been studying, if you recall. I couldn’t see anywhere there to hide anything, but if he has kept a separate record anywhere, he would take good care to hide it, I fancy. I said as much to Meg, thinking aloud, and . . .”

  Once more, she paused to let Meg speak and my daughter said: “Well, if I was him, I’d keep it in my room.” Her brown eyes, so luminous, so much the eyes of her father, my first husband, Gerald, were sparkling. “So,” she said simply, “I said to Mistress Jester: ‘He’s downstairs talking to the Thwaites. I can hear him, and Mistress Appletree is offering meat pasties. They’re busy. Why don’t we look?’ ”

  “So I told Meg to keep guard at the top of the stairs,” said Sybil, “and I slipped into Whitely’s room. I found what I wanted straightaway. He keeps a box under his bed. There’s a lock but it wasn’t fastened. Well, I don’t suppose he expected us to search his room! Anyway, looking inside was easy. I found several bags of money and two bundles of papers. One seemed to be Tyesdale’s copies of its invoices for last year’s sales of wool and produce. The other bundle was receipted bills for things Tyesdale had bought.”

  “You mean that Tyesdale really does make purchases now and then?” I asked dryly. “Judging by the state of the furnishings . . .”

  “Condiments, candles, sewing thread for Agnes, the services of a smith to shoe Whitely’s cob,” said Sybil briefly. “Even Whitely can’t entirely avoid some household expenditures. I snatched up both bundles and ran back here with them and Meg
and I compared some of them with the figures in the ledger. We were nervous and in a hurry so we could only check a few but the documents were in date order so it wasn’t hard to trace the matching ledger entries. We worked for about half an hour—with our ears cocked for what was happening downstairs—and we made notes. Those are what Meg is holding. When I thought we’d done enough, I put the documents back. The Thwaites were still here at that time, talking to Whitely. He and they seem very friendly. He has no idea that his box has been found. He may well have locked it again by now, of course.”

  “I can open his lock if I need to,” I said. In the course of my strange career as one of Elizabeth’s agents, I had at times had to open other people’s document boxes. I possessed a set of pick-locks, knew how to use them, and had never lost the habit of carrying them about with me. I had brought them to Tyesdale. “Let me see those papers.”

  Meg handed them to me. There were two sheets. Sybil came to my elbow to explain them. “This page has the income from some of the things Tyesdale has sold over the last two years, and for cottage rents; the other shows payments for things brought in. We’ve put the dates, and the amounts earned or spent according to the documents in Whitely’s box, and according to the ledger. Most of the documents had some figures scribbled on the back. We didn’t understand those at first, until Meg—Mistress Stannard, you really have a very bright-minded daughter.”

  I looked at Meg questioningly and also lovingly. With every year that passed, I thought, her resemblance to her father Gerald increased. Gerald had been employed by Elizabeth’s financier, Sir Thomas Gresham, in the Netherlands, and Sir Thomas had had a brief to raise money for Elizabeth’s coffers, by whatever means he could, which—since the Netherlands were controlled by England’s archenemy Spain—didn’t necessarily mean legal ones.