The Fugitive Queen

by FIONA BUCKLEY

  “Yes. Yes, they will. I agree. Don’t worry, Mistress Stannard—we won’t forget Penelope.”

  “Sir Francis, I’ve . . . taken chances like this before.”

  “As a matter of fact,” he said, “I was aware of that, Mistress Stannard. It has never been officially said; indeed, there is an understanding that it should not be discussed, but it is quite widely known at court. If I had thought you were simply an . . . an ordinary young woman, do you think I would consider this mad scheme for a single moment? But as things are . . .”

  “Just say, and God go with you,” I said.

  He inclined his head. “You have the sedative in your baggage?” he said.

  • • •

  The warm day was followed by another fine night. The sky was clear and the moon was three-quarters full, blanching out the stars around it.

  Since Mary was in the room that Sybil and I had shared, Sybil went in with Meg for the night. Meg, who knew some of the plan, though not its latest addition, was nervous at the idea of violence breaking out around the house and was upset by the noise Mary was making. I let her stay up later than usual, until the time came to prepare Mary’s doctored drink. Then I poured out a small dose for Meg as well. She would sleep, and when she woke, I hoped the night’s adventures would all be over.

  Mary’s drink consisted of a caudle of hot red wine, with an egg and some melted honey beaten into it along with a good spoonful of my sedative. I didn’t want to see her again, and Sir Francis took the caudle to her himself, along with a dish of food and a book of devotional essays.

  He had to shout and pound on the door, because Mary was still hammering at it from within. When at last he induced her to step back and let him enter, he found her not only distraught but also exhausted, so white and tearstained that he was alarmed.

  “I recommended her to pray and to calm her mind with reading,” he told me afterward. “At least she took the food and the caudle. She wept into them—wailed into them—but she took them.”

  Sybil and Dale went to her after a while and found her quieter. She let them put her back to bed. Judging from the silence as darkness fell, the dose had worked and she was asleep.

  The quiet alone was a blessing. If I had had to listen to much more of Mary’s lamentations, I thought, I would become as upset as Meg and might even develop a headache and that wouldn’t do. I had other things on my mind.

  Such as keeping vigil by an open window, cloaked and hooded in black, with a dark scarf over my hair beneath the hood, a masculine outfit of jerkin, shirt, and breeches under the cloak, and high-heeled boots on my feet, waiting for something to happen. I had a candle burning on the sill. At the front of the house, a guard was obtrusively on the watch, but here at the back, all was hushed. There was nothing to show that saddled horses were waiting in the stable or dogs tied in the yard, ready to be taken out at a moment’s notice.

  Or that Sir Francis was sitting behind me, waiting to see me leave before hurrying off to set the riders and dogs in motion.

  I had my lockpicks with me, along with a small dagger, in a pouch fastened to my belt and pushed inside my breeches. Also, tied at my waist, under my cloak, were three small leather bags of tiny pebbles that had been rolled in a mix of manure, mint, and crushed garlic.

  We had been careful about it. The cloak and the leather kept the odor of the pebbles from being too noticeable, though dogs would detect it easily when the pebbles were dropped. We had introduced them to it and given them a practice run along a trail of the same scent, using long leashes in the hands of horsemen, and they had followed it with ease, tails blithely wagging. They evidently took it for a new game.

  All that remained now was for Mary’s rescuers to arrive.

  I was both tired and scared. Though I had slept after dinner the previous day and had also slept well enough the following night, I still felt weary, and ahead of me was a long and nerve-racking ordeal.

  Which would presumably begin with a long and nerve-racking descent down some sort of ladder, to the fetid moat below. Until I was actually at my post, I hadn’t realized how high the window really was. The drop below was terrifying. I couldn’t imagine how I would ever negotiate it.

  I sat staring tensely into the night. For a while, a faint candlelight had burned in one of the laborers’ cottages in the distance, but this had now been snuffed. Except for my own candle burning on the sill, there was nothing to be seen but the moonlight on the pasture and the moorland beyond. Nothing moved except, here and there, the pale forms of sheep. Nothing . . .

  They came so quietly that they were near the house before I was aware of them. Horses. Five or six of them, in single file, approaching the rear of Tyesdale just as we had foreseen. They came at a walk, and their bridle rings must have been muffled, for even when they drew up just beyond the moat, I did not hear the faintest chink.

  Picking up the candle, I leaned out of the window and moved it to and fro. A dim figure dismounted from the foremost horse and raised a hand in answer. Others then got down and began to unload things from what at first looked like a weirdly misshapen creature but which I now saw was a packhorse with a curious burden on its back.

  The first figure unslung something from his shoulder, stooped over one of the bundles taken from the packhorse, and then, straightening up, made a keep back gesture at me. I drew aside from the window, leaving the light there as a mark and signaling to Sir Francis to get himself out of the way as well. He moved quickly back into a corner. A moment later, an arrow whizzed past the candle and landed on the floor. I crouched, found the line attached to it, stood up, and hauled it in. Sir Francis had been completely right. The thin line led to a cord, the cord to a length of rope, and the rope to a rope ladder. Opening a second casement, I fastened the line around a mullion.

  The moment to begin the descent was almost here. My heart pounded. The ladder seemed horridly frail. Below, our silent visitors were carrying something to the moat and putting it on the water. Yes, a little boat. That was why the load on the packhorse had been such an extraordinary shape. Someone was getting into it. Someone else was handing him a paddle. Very softly, he began to scull across the moat.

  I glanced over my shoulder and gave Sir Francis a nod. Below, the nose of the dinghy grated faintly as it touched the ledge between the wall and the water. I looked at the drop, took a deep breath, and without stopping to think too much, hitched my cloak up, put a knee on the sill, and twisted awkwardly around, so as to reach down behind me with a foot and grope for the first rung.

  I hadn’t foreseen that my boot heels would make this awkward. I almost panicked, swaying at the top of the ladder, until I felt someone on the ladder below me, and a hand, gripping my ankle, guided my foot to the springy rope tread. I hoped to heaven that he hadn’t paid any attention to the heels of my boots.

  Whispering my thanks, I slid my second foot down and mercifully put it straight onto the tread. Once I had the feel of the ladder, I found that I could manage. I was going down backward, which meant that I couldn’t see the drop, although I couldn’t stop imagining it. Now that I was on it, I realized that the ladder was sturdier than it looked. It was made of thick, rough rope, which gave a firm grip for my fingers, while the rungs, if difficult to detect through my boots, were at regular intervals and the guiding hand was always there to help me and to hold the next tread away from the wall to give me a better foothold and keep my boot toes from scraping against the wall.

  I went down safely if nervously and finally stepped onto the ledge beside my helper, who at once gripped my arm and guided me into the boat. In the moonlight, I recognized Tobias.

  “Your Majesty!” he breathed, as I sat down.

  I put my finger to my lips, fearing any kind of lengthy exchange, even in whispers, in case I didn’t sound enough like Mary. I was glad of the hood, which concealed the outline of my face and shadowed my eyes. I pretended to be untangling my cloak from my feet, which allowed me to drop my eyes and turn my head a little a
way from him, before he had a chance to study me too closely.

  The boat was tiny, and unlike the ladder, it really was insubstantial. It seemed to be made partly of lightweight wood and partly of some kind of fabric—leather or canvas, perhaps. There was barely room in it for the two of us. However, it seemed to be watertight. It had been borrowed or stolen, I supposed, from someone who used it for trips on a river or a pool.

  We moved back across the moat. The rope ladder, presumably, was just being abandoned. As we reached the farther bank, there were further helpful hands. My rescuers, like me, were all swathed in dark cloaks but the moonlight showed me two faces that I knew. The farmer Grimsdale and his surviving son were there. I felt sorry for his wife. I had thought she was essentially a good-hearted woman and it was more than likely that she would lose all her menfolk before long. I hoped that her mother would be of some comfort to her.

  A horse was led up to me. I put a foot in the stirrup and swung myself up, glad to be on something I was used to. I sincerely hoped that my first experience of a rope ladder would be my last.

  The boat was abandoned just like the ladder. Someone adjusted my girth and stirrups for me. He patted my horse and murmured: “Welcome, Your Majesty,” to me. To be addressed as Your Majesty felt very strange and had a curious effect. I felt as though I had actually been elevated in some way, hoisted up onto a pedestal. Monarchs, I thought, must be faced with temptations of which their subjects knew nothing. To fill the position of queen without having one’s head turned must need remarkable strength of mind. I wondered if Mary possessed it.

  For the moment, however, I must be Mary, and queenly. I bowed toward my well-wisher and for the second time that evening risked a word or two of thanks, and had the happy thought of extending my hand to be kissed. I had removed all my rings, since Mary had been wearing none when she arrived.

  Then there was a low-toned order from Tobias, who by now had mounted his own horse, and we were turning and moving off, slowly at first, so that we might melt into the night unheard and unseen.

  I settled into my saddle. There were certainly advantages to riding astride. One was a firmer balance over the horse’s spine; with its body between one’s knees, it was easier to use one’s legs to steer. The high pommel in front of me gave an added sense of security. The night air smelled sweet and I would have liked to push back my hood and feel the cool breeze in my hair.

  I would have been able to hear better that way, too. It was likely that the dogs would give a bark or two before they were hushed and I would have liked to hear that. As it was, I thought I did hear it, faint and far away. It sounded like Gambol. My guardians would be following by now. I visualized them, giving the dogs a piece of cloth, scented like my pebbles, to sniff, mounting and riding their horses out across the bridge, with the dogs pulling at their leashes. I fumbled under my cloak, found one of the bags of pebbles, eased the drawstring and drew out a handful of stones. I let one or two of them fall. The dogs must not lose the scent and leave me alone among enemies. Even as it was, I was afraid. Nothing would have made me take such a risk, except that I was going to Pen, and Pen had need of me.

  • • •

  We rode slowly for quite a long time though I could feel the impatience in my escort. It transmitted itself to the horses, which jogged and threw their heads about. The farmer Grimsdale swore. Neither he nor his son were accomplished horsemen; they bumped in their saddles and jagged their horses’ mouths. The moonlight showed us the track ahead and at length, when we had put some space between ourselves and the house, we broke into a trot and then into a canter, with the Grimsdales clearly struggling to hold their mounts back. I hoped one of them would fall off and delay us, but unfortunately, neither did.

  The track divided here and there and whenever it did so, I let some pebbles fall to guide the dogs aright. At one point, I was startled to hear a dog barking excitedly somewhere behind us, though I thought it was also well over to the right. Grimsdale said something in a sharp, questioning tone, but Tobias laughed. “That’s a dog in one of the farm cottages. We heard it bark on the way here. Nothing to worry about.”

  We rode on in silence for a few more minutes. The path we were on left the fields and pastures of Tyesdale behind and began to climb a moorland slope. Tobias pushed his horse to the front and suddenly turned off the path, to take a line across a stretch of heather. Anxiously, I dropped pebbles to mark the place where we abandoned the path. I was beginning to fear that my supply wouldn’t hold out. I had brought as many as I thought I could carry without attracting attention, using three small bags rather than one bigger one so that, for instance, someone who chivalrously helped me on or off a horse, wouldn’t easily notice them. I was already on to the second bag and I didn’t know how far we had to go.

  I wanted to ask but I must speak as little as possible, for Tobias at least must know Mary’s voice very well. We went over the shoulder of the moor, broke into a canter along a path that slanted downward to the left, and in a few moments were riding into what Clem Moss would have called a beck and what I called a stream.

  We didn’t ford it, but instead, waded our mounts along it farther to the left. After going for some way upstream, with the current foaming round the horses’ knees, we left the water on the same side as we had entered it. It had evidently occurred to Mary’s rescuers that they might be followed by our scent. I dedicated more of my small store of pebbles to mark the place where we emerged from the water again, and hoped to heaven that Sir Francis’s men would make the dogs cast far enough along the bank and in the right direction.

  A few more minutes brought us once more over a hump of moorland, and back onto a track that presently forked. We swung to the left. I dropped some more pebbles. I had started the third bag by now. The change of direction gave me a chance to turn my head and look about me in a natural manner, as though simply glancing at the landscape.

  I could see quite a long way. There was no mist tonight. The moon was high and clear, whitening the world around us. Dawn could not be far off. I could make out, far away, the thin white scar of the track we had ridden on before we turned off to ride over the heath, and I could see the long shoulder of moorland that we had now crossed twice. Nothing stirred anywhere. There were no tiny, moving dots in the distance, no friendly glint of moonlight on pikes far away but following. The silvered world was empty of life.

  My guardians might still be behind me. They might be out of sight behind the moorland, casting along the river. They might . . .

  I do not know quite why I was so sickeningly sure that they were not, but I did know it. I felt as though I were reaching out with my mind, trying to make contact with them, and failing. They were not there. They had lost me. I was on my own, and I was finally about to run out of pebbles.

  22

  The Camp of the Enemy

  We were nearing the end of the journey. We had settled into a purposeful canter and I heard someone murmur Come on now, your stable’s not far away, to his horse. I wondered frantically what I should do when we arrived. Tobias would recognize me as soon as he got a good look at me. So, very likely, would the Grimsdales. In any case, they’d know at once that I wasn’t Mary Stuart. If only Knollys’s men had been where they should be, which was hard behind me. As things were . . .

  It was just barely possible that if I could get out of their sight quickly enough, I might keep up the deception with someone who had never seen either Ursula Stannard or Mary Stuart. I was a woman. Could I use that? If there was a woman to greet us, perhaps I could whisper to her, Madam, forgive me, but I have such need of the necessary house . . .

  She would show me the way and I would be separated at once from my male escort. After that, I must snatch whatever opportunities arose. If I could get back to the horses and seize one . . .

  Pen would suffer. But I could not save her now that I had mislaid the men who were to have rescued us both. I had made a complete pig’s ear of this. God alone knew what would happen to us no
w.

  I had wanted to retrieve Pen before she had to endure a honeymoon with Andrew Thwaite. Sir Francis had not understood what it would mean for her. I must escape from my escort if I could. Suppose I were to veer off now, immediately, and ride headlong? But even if I did, I thought, falling back into despondency, I had no idea where I was or which way to gallop. I had long since lost my sense of direction. I would find myself hopelessly lost on the moors.

  I peered about me, seeking for a helpful landmark. A clump of trees and a rocky outcrop did have a vague familiarity. How far had we come from Tyesdale? We had taken a circuitous route, but I didn’t think that as the crow flew, we had traveled a great distance. Looking at the moon, I tried to estimate our direction. Northeast, I thought. I ran feverishly over the position of the main houses in the district. Surely . . .

  Oh no. Oh no, please, no. Because if we were going where I suddenly feared we were going, I would have no chance of pretending to the lady of the house, no chance at all of escape. She would know me at once, just as Tobias would. She . . .

  A black and white timbered gatehouse loomed up on our right, appearing as suddenly as if it had been conjured by enchantment. I looked at it in despair, recognizing it instantly. I had been right. Lapwings. Oh, dear God, Lapwings. Whose late master, Thomas Holme, had been on Mary Stuart’s list of English supporters. His wife must be keeping up the tradition after all.

  We were expected and the gate was set wide. We were through it and in the courtyard. An elderly man with a dark gown flapping around his ankles scurried down the steps from the main door to greet us, holding up a flaring torch. Behind him were candlelit windows. Before we had drawn rein, grooms had come to take the bridles and the Holme daughters were coming down the steps as well, also bearing torches.