Legacy

by Susan Kay

“Come,” he said gallantly, “I cannot believe that.”

  She smiled at him coyly. “I would never dream of touching a man’s beliefs.”

  “Nor anything else, madam?”

  She slapped his cheek lightly with her fan and drew away. If de Noailles were not her enemy she would find him an amusing companion. All the same it was becoming as hard to avoid him as it was to avoid Courtenay; it was hardly safe to step outside the palace without one of them pouncing on her. She retreated strategically out of reach and he attended to the ruffs at his wrist while he murmured pleasantly, “You may speak freely with me, madam. I understand the Queen does not display the kindness towards you that might be expected.”

  She looked at him with the blank innocence of a child.

  “The Queen is my good sister, sir.”

  De Noailles smiled faintly, showing a row of discoloured teeth.

  “I understand your good sister has transferred Your Grace’s right of precedence to the Countess of Lennox and the Duchess of Suffolk? Madam, it is unseemly that you should be forced to walk out of rooms after these ladies. It is shameful that you should be so coldly treated that only the youngest and most daring members of the court visit your apartments.”

  She looked away angrily and he was aware that he was rubbing a very sore point. The two sisters had just had their first public quarrel on the subject and Elizabeth was now almost entirely isolated from all except the younger, male faction. She had already demanded leave to retire from court and been coldly refused. Her position was becoming an intolerably humiliating strain and de Noailles privately admired the self-control with which she masked her temper.

  “Only the young and the daring,” de Noailles repeated softly, “are willing to be your friends. But the King of France is constant in his affection for you, madam.”

  She smiled contemptuously.

  “Your King has a spacious heart. It has already embraced the Queen of Scots, who will soon be his daughter-in-law.”

  “The Queen of Scots is a mere child, and our beloved Dauphin is not strong. There might after all be no marriage between them.”

  “Your king has other sons.”

  “My king,” said de Noailles smoothly, “is concerned at this time only with Your Grace’s marriage.”

  “Mine?” He saw her turn pale.

  “With Edward Courtenay. He has powerful friends in Devon, madam, friends who are reluctant to see the Spaniards set foot in England, who would see a younger queen grace the throne of England.”

  “I will hear no talk which tends to treason! You may tell your master—and Courtenay!—that with my blessing.”

  With no further pretence at civility she swung round and returned in the direction of the palace, followed by a flustered lady-in-waiting. De Noailles lounged against a tree and watched her go, admiring the swift grace of her carriage. He was a connoisseur of women, but he had never seen anyone carry herself with such unconscious majesty, like a well-bred cat. There was something about her which made her stand out in any crowd, a unique ability to make every other woman look colourless that owed almost nothing to beauty, something she would possess even in unlovely old age. No one remained indifferent to Elizabeth; she engendered violent feelings of love or hate among her associates. And he was beginning to see the effect of her allure in the uneasy, half-concealed glances of the young men at court, drawn towards her in spite of their common sense, as though to a siren or a mermaid. Yes, a mermaid, he decided, with a cool enchantment drawn from borders just beyond humanity. What else could be expected of the daughter of a witch and the old Devil himself?

  Naturally, she was too clever to commit herself irretrievably to his plans, but he was confident that he would be able to count on her furtive support. She wanted the crown of England more desperately than anything else in this world; he’d swear to that!

  And he did not see why she should be too squeamish as to how it came her way.

  * * *

  “Madam, I beseech you! Send her to the Tower.”

  “I cannot! I have no evidence.”

  “Then send her from the court, madam, and I swear you will soon have it!”

  Candlelight glinted on the blue lights in Renard’s neat moustache and reflected in his brilliant black eyes. Behind him the portrait of Philip stared down with wide-eyed gravity as Mary paced beneath it.

  She stopped suddenly, fingering her crucifix nervously.

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “Let her return to the country believing she has your trust and we will watch her every move.”

  “You think she will betray me?”

  “Madam, it is inevitable. Her Protestant friends are waiting for this very opportunity. But she must not suspect your motives. Send her kindly, promise anything she asks. It is your turn to dissemble with her now.”

  The Queen wandered sadly to the portrait and stared at the smooth, bland face. He was so young! Without looking round she muttered almost inaudibly, “My sister is not alone in her apartments, is she? She is a disgraced outcast but she is not alone.” Mary turned and there was that in her face which pleaded for him to deny it.

  “No, madam.” He paused, then added spitefully, “The young are with her.”

  It was his final thrust and he saw that it had been successful. The small lined face shut into a hard little mask.

  “I will do as you say,” she muttered grimly and returned to her restless pacing.

  * * *

  It was late in the afternoon of a cold December day when Elizabeth returned from her formal interview with the Queen. She was dressed for travel with a heavy fur cloak over her riding habit and she was wearing a new sable hood and a rope of pearls which Kat had not seen before.

  “New Year’s presents this time,” said Elizabeth in answer to her speculative gaze, “to appease her conscience while Renard stabs me in the back, I suppose.” She sighed suddenly. “No—that’s unjust even for me. She was always generous to me, I’ll never know why.”

  “But what did she say?”

  Elizabeth shrugged and walked to the mirror to admire the softly furred hood.

  “It doesn’t matter what she said—or rather what Renard said through her—he works her like a puppet! As long as I go quietly to Ashridge, say nothing, do nothing, they can’t touch me. Oh Kat, I shall be free of her after all these miserable months. Free! Free!” She pulled off the sable hood and pirouetted round the room. “Free of their hot little hands clutching at my soul—free of God too,” and on a sudden spurt of laughter she added, “anybody’s God.”

  “Shh! Your Grace, for pity’s sake, you will be heard.”

  “Oh, I’ll be heard, always—in my own defence. It was her last promise to me, her word as Queen.”

  “And you trust that?” asked Kat doubtfully.

  Elizabeth turned to look at the governess and her face was suddenly serious.

  “My sister is the only honest human being I have ever known,” she said slowly. “If I can’t trust her word I shall trust nothing in this world again.”

  You may not need to, thought Kat sadly and went in grim silence to fetch her riding crop.

  Chapter 11

  In January, the signing of the marriage treaty between England and Spain sparked off open unrest in the streets of London. There was a spate of physical assaults on priests and a shower of anti-Catholic propaganda found its way even into the palace. On the day after the public announcement, a dead dog was thrown through the window of the Queen’s chamber; its head had been shaved and a label round its neck read: “All priests should be hanged.” Mary stared at the wretched corpse in silence. This then was what Gardiner had meant by opposition from the fickle-hearted mob. It was less than six months since she had ridden in triumph to take possession of this same capital city, which now seethed with hostility against her faith. She could not believe
it was really happening.

  De Noailles, too, was alarmed at the prospect of an imminent alliance which would encircle France with enemies. All that would prevent this marriage now was open rebellion, so rebellion they must have. His network of intrigue spread out all over the country, but was centred in Kent, where Sir Thomas Wyatt was presently rallying and directing his supporters. Jane Grey’s father, the Duke of Suffolk, had sworn to raise the Midland counties. There remained only one serious drawback, the need for a convincing figurehead, and with Jane in the Tower, and Elizabeth secluded at Ashridge, they were left with Courtenay in that role. Not a very happy choice, this last sprig of the White Rose, reflected de Noailles sourly, as he wrote home complaining bitterly of the young man’s “weakness, faintheartedness, and timidity.” But, needs must when the Devil drives, and it was the Ambassador’s lot to rein in this high-born lout and hold him to their course, in itself no mean feat. Years of imprisonment had scattered Courtenay’s powers of concentration to the point where they were virtually nonexistent. After that long period of physical and intellectual deprivation, women and clothes were now the sum total of his interest. And though he was quite willing to be king, he was very unwilling to exert himself in the process of attaining his crown.

  He was posing now in front of a mirror, in his private chamber, impatient as a child for the Ambassador’s approval on his choice of suit.

  “The red is striking—but I suppose the gold would be more becoming to my state. Don’t you agree?”

  “What? Oh yes—um—very becoming.”

  “Of course, there is the green,” Courtenay continued doubtfully.

  De Noailles set his goblet down on the table with an irritable bang.

  “Perhaps we might continue with our more urgent business, my lord.”

  “Oh, urgent is it, now? You ambassadors are all the same, always stirring and meddling, rushing around without a minute to live. There’s nothing like a few years in the Tower for slowing the pulse, you know.”

  If yours slows any more, thought de Noailles irritably, it will stop altogether.

  “Provision for revolt,” he rapped out sharply. “Item: castles all over the country are being stocked with gunpowder—”

  Courtenay gave him a sly glance. “Not at Ashridge I trust, with that bright spark in residence. What a girl, hey? Armoured like a porcupine! I swear her tongue’s stabbed me in more places than a pincushion—splendid bitch, isn’t she?”

  De Noailles forced a smile and began again.

  “As I was saying—castles are being stocked with gunpowder, ammunition and food. We have relays of horses and men waiting for the signal. We have provisions in hand for the capture of the Mint, the Tower and the Queen’s person.”

  Courtenay swung round upon him.

  “But have you got Elizabeth? That’s what I want to know. What’s the good of all this grand plotting when she can still slide through our hands like a slippery fish?”

  “If the Lady Elizabeth refuses to join us she will be taken by force of arms,” said de Noailles shortly.

  Courtenay laughed on a shrill note and clapped the Ambassador on the back with a force that made him spill his wine.

  “God’s death, man, show me the fellow who can take her without it and I’ll take off my cap to him—aye, and my crown with it!”

  * * *

  At Ashridge, Elizabeth sat on a bench in the monks’ garden and stared up at the old stone manor, silhouetted against a dirty blue sky. The house was encircled by a bleak wood of oak, beech, and sycamore and the barren branches were like twisted fingers, reaching down to her with silent menace. She ran her hand across the back of the bench and held the gathered snow against her temple for a second, until contact with the burning skin turned it instantly to water and soaked her satin gloves. She had been taken ill on the journey to Ashridge and she had been ill more or less ever since, with headaches and pains in her back and recurrent bouts of vomiting. When her face and body began to swell, her private physician, fearing a kidney infection, had advised complete bed-rest, but she had perversely resisted his advice. Rumours of spreading unrest were filtering daily into Ashridge and had caused her to briefly consider whether she was being slowly poisoned on Renard’s orders. But whatever it was, she could not afford to give in to it at the very moment when she needed all her faculties about her. Shut away in her bedchamber, she would be unable to question the pedlars and travelling entertainers who gathered in the Great Hall and provided so large a part of her information.

  She knew by now, from several sources, that her own case was growing increasingly desperate. Fear that the rebels would swoop on Ashridge to take her by force had prompted her to place the house in a state of defence. But how bad that would look in London, and how easy for Renard to misrepresent that action to the Queen. And now with Suffolk’s force encamped nearby, she was surrounded by armed men, like an animal in a snare waiting for the hunters to close in for the kill.

  From the rebel leader, Thomas Wyatt, had come an urgent note advising her to move to Donnington without delay and fortify it against siege. Even now, several days since she had returned that letter without reply, she could not rid herself of the paralysing horror born at the sight of his bold signature. Of all the men in England who could have led this revolt, why did it have to be Wyatt, whose father had loved her mother with all-consuming passion and chosen to immortalise it in verses that were still quoted all over Europe?

  Forget not yet, forget not this,

  How long ago hath been, and is,

  The mind that never meant amiss

  Forget not yet!

  The wind which tossed the skeleton trees seemed to whisper the words to her with cruel mockery. For she was not likely to forget, any more than her sister Mary, how the first Thomas Wyatt had gone to the tower, along with five other men, accused of adultery with his cousin Anne Boleyn. And how Wyatt, conceivably more guilty than the rest of them put together, had been the only one to come out again alive and cheat the axe. Was it mere coincidence or perverted fate that now drove his son to challenge his lawful monarch for the sake of Anne Boleyn’s daughter? Perhaps after all, the axe could not be cheated of its client…

  As she sat there shivering, staring at the eerie ring of trees, it seemed to Elizabeth that all her life was twisted by these haunting shadows of a previous existence, shadows reaching out now to join hands with her living enemies and wind the coils of treachery tighter round her own neck.

  “…and I have such a little neck.”

  She could sit still no longer, with Wyatt’s verses for her mother running riot in her head. Chilled to the bone with cold and fear she fled down the icy paths of the monks’ garden, back to the house which brooded against the sheltering woods.

  The armed guards before the door saluted her and stared curiously as she mounted the steps, spent and breathless. One, forgetting himself, took an anxious step towards her, then froze at her furious look and hastily resumed his position, scarlet with shame at his presumption. At the top of the steps she paused to look at him and he stiffened, expecting the curt reprimand which he deserved. But she only smiled a little with pale lips and let her hand touch his sleeve for a fleeting moment. Then she was gone, swallowed up by the cool darkness beyond the great door, leaving him, redder than ever, to face his companions’ jealous twitting.

  In the hallway three greyhounds bounded to greet her and almost knocked her over in her weakened state. She cuffed them down affectionately and they followed her back into her private chamber, settling around her as she sank down on the cushions in front of the log fire and peeled off her gloves. She put her head down on one smooth, short-haired flank and let the warm fire bathe her closed eyelids; a clock ticked steadily on the chimney-piece, lulling her towards sleep.

  Suddenly, all three dogs sat up with one will, pricking their ears and staring at the door. A moment later, it opened to dis
close Mrs. Ashley, white with terror, dithering on the threshold.

  “Your Grace,” she whispered stupidly, “oh, Your Grace,” and became totally incoherent.

  It was sufficient to make Elizabeth leap up from the hearth and snatch the document from Kat’s trembling hand, breaking the seal with her long nails. There was a deathly hush in the room while she read rapidly and supported herself with one hand against the chimney-piece.

  The letter was in the Queen’s own hand and ordered her to London at once, lest danger befall her “either where you are now or about Donnington, whither we understand you are shortly to remove.”

  The paper fluttered to the floor, and Kat pounced on it, reading it quickly with bulging eyes.

  “Donnington,” was all she whispered at last, but it was enough; and they were silent, staring at each other. For there was no way Mary could know of the rebels’ suggestion to move to Donnington unless Wyatt’s letter had been intercepted by spies.

  “What shall we do?” moaned Kat helplessly. “Child, what can we do?”

  Elizabeth said nothing. The room was growing dim around her and a curious sound, like the rushing wind, seemed to drown her panic-ridden thoughts. Kat caught her as she swayed dangerously near the fire, a Kat suddenly restored to the full stature of calm common sense.

  “No more argument, my lady. You are going to bed immediately.”

  Against her shoulder, Elizabeth laughed weakly.

  “Yes,” she said slowly, “that’s it. Put me to bed, Kat, and say I am too ill to travel.” Lifting her head she looked at the shifting shadows on the stone wall and shivered convulsively. “It will gain me a little time—and time is all I have left to hope for.”

  They went out of the room together and slowly up the stairs with the three dogs tumbling gaily around their heels.

  * * *

  “Too ill to travel!” Renard tossed Elizabeth’s letter aside with a gesture of contempt. “Madam, this is a card she has played too often!”

  “This time it would appear she plays it with some justification,” muttered the Queen, refusing to meet his gaze. “They are saying here in London that she has been poisoned, that she is so sick and swollen that her life is despaired of.”