I think I have smoothed matters away for the time being but I am worried. There is a good deal of local feeling. I am sending Gladys back to your home at Withysham for the time being, but, Ursula, I pray that you come home soon.
In any case, you have been so long away that the house seems to echo with emptiness. Come back, my love, and put us all to rights.
Your most loving husband,
Hugh Stannard.
And so, in the end, I did not see my ward, Penelope Mason, go to the altar in her gown of blue velvet and her lace-edged ruff, though she wrote to me, telling me what a happy affair her wedding had been; how the sun had shone and her mother had wept and smiled both together; and how smart Clem had looked; and how Cecily Moss had boomed at everyone all through the marriage feast; and how Clem was the most kind and delightful husband any girl could wish for; and how the mining work was soon to begin, and new wall hangings bought for Tyesdale, and how Agnes Appletree had made all the furniture shine with polish, and Father Robinson—who had been released and had returned to Lapwings—had come privately to say the Catholic Mass for Clem and herself in the Tyesdale chapel . . .
She wrote, too, of the smaller, simpler ceremony that took place on the same day and united Bess Clipclop to Tom Smith. Tom stayed in Yorkshire with Bess, whom he didn’t think would settle happily in the south. He was a strong lad and proposed to become a miner and work in the Tyesdale coal mine when it was started.
I was glad for them all, but I had left Tyesdale the day after Hugh’s letter arrived. I had missed Hugh so much, and I had always been afraid that Gladys would get herself into trouble again and I knew I must go south at once, to look after them both.
I knew I would have to go to court on the way, to make my report to Cecil on the errands I had performed. The inquiry into Darnley’s death might not be until October but I would be expected to make my report as soon as I reached the south and I would also be expected to make it by word of mouth and not in writing. I fretted at the delay, but hoped it would be a matter only of one day.
I also accepted a further day’s delay by going out of my way to visit Bolton. I felt obliged to let Sir Francis Knollys know of my departure, in case my testimony was needed for the trial of Tobias Littleton and Magnus Whitely, and indeed, while I was there, I made a witnessed statement that could be used if required, describing how they had attempted to force my hand by kidnapping my ward.
I did not ask to see Mary, nor did she ask to see me. Perhaps she didn’t know I had arrived. She knew when I left, however, for the next morning, when I and my companions were mounting in the courtyard, I saw her watching me out of an open window overhead.
She did not call out to me or even raise a hand in farewell; nor did I acknowledge her. Her face was very sad. It was so very much the face of the prisoner, left behind in captivity. It was a captivity that would last for nearly twenty years, and though neither of us could have known that at the time, I think she had already begun to despair.
The end of enchantment is a sorry business. It’s like awaking from a beautiful dream, the kind of dream you don’t want to leave. But if you try to fall asleep again, to recapture it, you never can. You may still remember it, its beauty and its magic, but memory is all it is.
I would remember the enchantment of Mary Stuart for the rest of my life but never again would I experience it. I knew the truth of her now. I could feel her eyes on the back of my head as I turned my horse away and finished saying farewell to Sir Francis, and rode out of the gate, but I would not, could not, look around.
Before I was a mile from Bolton Castle, my thoughts had fixed themselves once more on Hugh and Gladys, neither of whom possessed any magic. Dear Hugh was down-to-earth and practical, and as for poor old Gladys, she was always her own worst enemy, with her brown fangs and bad temper and useless curses. She positively invited accusations of witchcraft, though in fact she had as much power of enchantment, for good or evil, as an old, ill-natured, spavined horse or a broken plow, rusting in a barley field.
But Hugh was my rock and my windbreak and Gladys was my responsibility. I was going home, to be sheltered by the one and to give shelter to the other. I intended to press on at the best possible speed, to make up for having to go to Bolton and to the royal court, and all my mind was fixed on the journey ahead and what I would find at the end of it.
A mile, just one mile from the gates of Bolton Castle and I had forgotten Mary Stuart.
FIONA BUCKLEY is the author of six previous novels in her critically acclaimed historical mystery series featuring Ursula Blanchard: To Shield the Queen, The Doublet Affair, Queen’s Ransom, To Ruin a Queen, Queen of Ambition, and A Pawn for a Queen. She lives in North Surrey, England.
ALSO BY FIONA BUCKLEY
A Pawn for a Queen
Queen of Ambition
To Ruin a Queen
Queen’s Ransom
The Doublet Affair
To Shield the Queen
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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the authr’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2003 by Fiona Buckley
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The Library of Congress has cataloged the Scribner hardcover edition as follows:
Buckley, Fiona.
The fugitive queen: an Ursula Blanchard mystery at Queen Elizabeth I’s court / Fiona Buckley.
p. cm.
1. Blanchard, Ursula (Fictitious character)—Fiction. 2. Great Britain—History—Elizabeth, 1558–1603—Fiction. 3. Elizabeth I, Queen of England, 1533–1603—Fiction. 4. Mary, Queen of Scots, 1542–1587—Fiction. 5. Women detectives—England—Fiction. 6. Courts and courtiers—Fiction. 7. Queens—Fiction. I. Title.
PR6052.U266F84 2003
823'.914—dc21
2003045736
ISBN 0-7432-3751-X
0-7434-5748-X (Pbk)
978-1-4391-3927-1 (eBook)
First Scribner trade paperback edition December 2004
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Cover illustration by Harry Bliss
Author photograph courtesy of the author
The Fugitive Queen Page 29
