by Jodi Taylor
The French Ambassador stepped forward with Ronan a pace behind.
‘Your Grace, if you remember, it was decided you would not receive my Lord …’
She didn’t even bother to look at him. Her eyes flashed with something. Anger? Fear? Guilt? Her voice effortlessly carried around the suddenly silent room.
‘I gave explicit instructions that Lord Bothwell is not to be admitted and yet, here he is. Again. God’s Blood, I would know why I am so ill served in this. Send him hence. With all speed.’
A man Schiller later identified as Lord Seton, stepped forward. ‘Your Grace, I beseech you …’
She said through clenched teeth, ‘I will not see him.’
‘But Your Grace,’ he murmured, placating, ‘the Earl of Bothwell was acquitted. Lord Lennox accused the Earl of murdering your hus – his son, but subsequently failed to appear at the hearing, and therefore …’
He was a brave man, but sadly, she was having none of it.
‘Enough!’
Her voice rang round the room like a pistol shot. Seton stepped back immediately and took good care to be lost in the crowd. There was a very careful silence. No one even moved until de Castelnau said quietly, ‘If Your Grace will give me leave, I will gladly convey Your Grace’s message to the Earl. Again.’
Bloody hell, this could be nasty. I had a very good idea of how that message might be conveyed. Especially with Ronan behind him whispering in his ear. Somehow, we had to get this back on track.
She nodded curtly, not looking at him. He bowed and backed from the room. Ronan went with him. So, he was working through the French Ambassador. This was going to be tougher than I thought. But at least Bothwell was here, somewhere. And under the protection of the powerful Lord Seton, who would be one of the few supporters of Bothwell’s marriage to the queen. Should that ever occur.
Back in this chamber, still no one had moved. Had all our good work gone for nothing? She was in a shitty mood and we had nothing left. Yes, we had spices and perfumes but the fabrics were our star turn. If they didn’t impress her, she was unlikely to be excited by a bunch of dried sticks and leaves. There was nothing I could do. Stuck on the fringe of things, I fretted inwardly and tried to think.
However, I didn’t have to. Farrell already had the situation well in hand.
She was saying pettishly, ‘So, my masters, spices and perfumes? How easily did you think I could be bought?’
‘I expressed myself badly,’ he said calmly and it might have been a good idea to bow and scrape a little, not look her in the eye, grinning as if he knew something and she didn’t. This was my first royal personage and certainly my first case of royal mood-swing. I had felt the blast of it standing all the way back here and I suspected this one was comparatively mild in the scheme of things. Over the border, Elizabeth’s courtiers had been known to wet themselves in fright under her vicious tongue.
I resurfaced from that mental picture to find her in no way returning his smile.
‘How so?’
‘All this –’ he gestured dismissively around the room. ‘These are gifts from my masters in Istanbul. Tokens of goodwill and respect.’ He paused. ‘What will come tomorrow …’ he paused again, ‘is something quite different.’
He stopped speaking.
She waited, but he said nothing.
She tapped a foot.
He said nothing.
She played with a pomander hanging from her waist.
He said nothing.
At last, she said quietly and with beautifully understated menace, ‘I’m waiting.’
‘Your Grace would like me to spoil the surprise?’
She hunched a shoulder and said flatly, ‘I don’t like surprises. Tell me.’
It was a command.
‘What will come tomorrow is a personal gift. From me to the Queen of Scotland.’
‘You could not have brought it today?’
‘But Your Grace, if I present you with everything all at once then there will be no reason for Your Grace to grant me further audiences – and that would be a great sadness.’
‘How so?’
‘Your Grace has only to look in the mirror to answer that question.’
I was gobsmacked. He was leaning in very close, smiling directly into her eyes, his voice low and intimate. He was flirting. She was lapping it up. I’d had to work my way through years of his stifled inarticulacy and here he was now, practically sitting on her lap.
A long moment passed and then she laughed and slapped his hand. A long exhalation of relief ran around the room.
Her good humour apparently restored, she said, ‘Tell me of this gift.’
There was no doubt that was a command.
‘Jade, Your Grace. Carved and shaped especially for you.’
She raised her heavily plucked eyebrows.
‘A chess set, Your Grace. One set of players fashioned from exquisite green jade, the most expensive there is, and the other from lavender jade, rare and precious. The board is black and white, set with gold and mother of pearl and most cunningly hinged. The only example of its kind in the whole of the Christendom and beyond. Carried by caravan across mountains, deserts and oceans, to delight the most beautiful queen in the world.’
He paused and eyed her challengingly. ‘It will be my pleasure to instruct Your Grace in the intricacies of – the game.’
‘If you refer to chess, Sir Richard, I should tell you now that I am more than proficient.’
It was said with something of a snap. I tensed. Had he blown it?
No, of course he hadn’t. He was in no way dismayed.
Holding her gaze, he said, in French, ‘But no, Your Grace, I most definitely did not mean – chess.’
There was another long moment.
Suddenly, she stood. The court snapped to attention.
She cast him a long, enigmatic glance from under her lashes and swept from the room. Hastily, we all bowed. It was a magnificent exit, leaving as it did, so much unsaid. Her ladies followed her out. Their ladies followed them. Margaret sent me a swift smile over her shoulder.
People sighed and stretched and began to congregate around the glittering pile of fabrics in the room. Chamberlains appeared to supervise its removal. I was suddenly conscious of wobbly legs, a splitting headache, and an overwhelming desire to pee.
‘Let’s go home,’ I said.
Chapter Nineteen
I let everyone have a drink that night. God knows, we’d earned it.
Weller lit every fire in the house, every lamp, every candle. We changed from our finery, locked the doors, shuttered the windows, and sat down in the kitchen. He’d even had the sense to order in from the inn round the corner. We dined very snugly on boiled fowl, a really good broth, roasted beef and frumenty. Look it up.
We discussed the events of the day, running through our own individual perceptions, speculating on what might happen next. The appearance of Clive Ronan, bold, brazen, and unconcerned was a shock to us all. We knew he was here somewhere, but this close to the queen …
And what of the queen herself?
‘She’ll send for us,’ I said, confidently.
‘She might not send for all of us,’ grinned Peterson. ‘She certainly preferred some of us over others.’
‘And rightly so,’ said Farrell calmly, mopping up the last of his sauce with a piece of bread. ‘At last, the technical section comes into its own.’
‘About bloody time,’ said Guthrie. ‘I think all of us have wondered, at one time or another, just what exactly you do all day down in Hawking.’
‘The mysteries of the technical section are not for lesser minds. Suffice to say we have, once more, saved the day.’
‘Depressing, isn’t it?’ said Schiller. ‘That we should live to be grateful to the technical section. Who’d have thought?’
‘She will send for us,’ I said, dragging them back on track. ‘It’s just a case of when.’
‘First thing tomorrow morning?’ s
uggested Randall. ‘She did seem a bit – keen.’
Schiller shook her head.
‘It’s a game,’ she said. ‘She’ll make us wait.’
I nodded. We had only just over two weeks. If she decided to play hard to get, we could have a problem.
Farrell looked at Peterson. ‘We might be called to discuss business. Maybe an opening will present itself. Something will happen.’
It didn’t.
We stayed at home the next day, just in case. And the day after. We used the time to discuss our biggest problem – what to do with Ronan.
Typically, the security team were still all for executing him on sight. We had some difficulty explaining why this would be A Bad Thing.
‘We’d be wrecking our own past,’ said Schiller again. ‘If we kill him now, he won’t go on to attack us in his future. Changing his future means we wouldn’t be here today to kill him. Paradox.’
‘So what do we do with him?’
I was at a bit of a loss. We couldn’t leave him here, free to screw up the timeline. And we couldn’t kill him.
Farrell pushed his plate away.
‘Once again, and not for the first time, the technical section will save the day. We have enough on our plate. We must unite the queen and Bothwell. If we don’t do that then everything else is immaterial. I suggest we concentrate on that. If the opportunity presents itself and it well might, we follow Ronan, wait until he’s alone, render him helpless in an efficient but painful manner, and get him back to St Mary’s for Dr Bairstow to decide. Removing him from this time will solve our immediate problems. He’s done – or will do – so much damage to the timeline that I think dealing with him ourselves is a bit above our pay grades. This should be decided at Director level, I think. And maybe by more than one Director.’
Round the table, heads nodded in agreement.
He caught my eye. It would give Dr Bairstow the opportunity and satisfaction of dealing personally with the man who had caused the death of his Annie, crippled him, and murdered members of St Mary’s past, present, and future. An admirable solution, not least because it left us free to concentrate on the queen up the road and wait for the summons.
Which didn’t come.
After four days, I was stressed and even Farrell was looking tense.
‘Relax,’ I said, trying to ignore my own jiggling left knee. ‘You weren’t that bad. She’s just playing hard to get.’
He sighed. ‘If she plays much harder, we’ll miss her completely.’
I wasn’t anywhere near as confident as I sounded. Time wasn’t just ticking on – it was flying by. The silence from the palace was deafening. Had it really been just an afternoon’s flirtation for her? Why wasn’t she impressed by our show? Did the proposed trade deal not tempt her at all? Had we overestimated her desire to put one over on Elizabeth? What was going on up there? Had she forgotten all about us? And the vitally important question – had Ronan, working through Castelnau, persuaded her to send Bothwell away? Or worse, execute him? Guthrie and his security team were scouring the streets daily, looking for Ronan but there was no sign of him anywhere. We suspected he spent his time with de Castlenau and we couldn’t get to him there.
Typically, when it did come, the summons gave us only one hour’s warning. We scrambled to be ready in time. More mind games. Randall couldn’t remember where he’d put the chess set for safekeeping. Schiller fumbled getting me laced into my dress. Neither of us could get our hair right. Markham fell down the stairs. Sometimes, the word ‘shambles’ just doesn’t even begin to describe us …
Never mind opening with ‘It was a dark and stormy night …,’ it was a dark and stormy day. Early summer time in Scotland. It wasn’t raining yet, but it would soon – the clouds were so low that even I was nearly banging my head on them.
We were dressed to kill. I wore the heavy black and gold dress, which weighed a ton, and stupid little jewelled slippers that weren’t going to keep my feet warm at all. Farrell, Guthrie, and Peterson wore boots. In this century, as in any other, men wore the comfortable, practical stuff, and the women wandered round expiring underneath over-decorated tea-cosies and with inadequate footwear. I was wearing only the bare minimum of undergarments necessary and it had still taken Schiller nearly an hour to get me into them. Consequently, I was not in a good mood.
We checked each other over.
‘Have you got it?’ I asked. Peterson flourished the jade chess set we were presenting to the queen.
She’d sent a closed coach. We were conveyed in style if not comfort as we jolted and bounced our way to the palace. It would have been quicker to walk. We sat in silence except for the odd curse as Peterson or Guthrie, both tall men, banged their heads on the roof. Which put me in a much better mood.
Our second visit was low-key, but we got in much more quickly this time. We stood tightly together in a stiff little group, facing outwards. I had my back to the doors but felt Peterson stiffen.
‘Carefully. Look over towards the fireplace. On my right.’
We turned our heads casually. Talking to the French Ambassador and a group of other men and slowly moving towards the doors was Ronan. Where was he off to?
I felt a strange tingle in the air.
Something was happening.
Again.
Words came out of my mouth.
‘Right, change of plan. Major, you, Chief Farrell, and Markham – go after Ronan. That’s your priority. We must get him back to St Mary’s so the Boss can decide what to do with him.
‘Peterson and Schiller, you get back to the house. Lock all the doors. Get everything ready for emergency extraction. If we do get Ronan, we may have to leave quickly. Go back to the pods and wait there.’
‘What about you?’ said Peterson.
‘I’ll concentrate on our original plan and try to see the queen. I doubt it on my own, but you never know your luck and we still have to point her at Bothwell. I’ll make Sir Richard’s apologies – sudden indisposition – whatever – and try to smooth over any difficulties, Maybe, since we’re actually trying to put things right, History will cut us a break for once. Give me the chess set and I’ll see what I can do.’
‘She’ll be furious.’
‘Can’t help that. It’s more important to get Ronan out of here before he does any serious damage and, since we’ve been summoned, we can’t all disappear.’
Farrell said, ‘I think I should be the one to stay.’
‘Excellent idea,’ I said, ‘and I’ll get out on the streets after Ronan.’
There was a thoughtful pause.
They weren’t happy, but as far as I could see, I was in the safest place here. And I would be out of the rain. And I was the boss. And seriously, no one, least of all me, anticipated what was coming. They quietly disappeared and I stayed put.
There is a huge advantage to living in a masculine world. It is very, very easy to make yourself inconspicuous, if not almost completely invisible. Without a gaggle of men around me to give me status, I practically disappeared into the woodwork. I drifted around the room, paused vaguely at the head of a passageway, took a step backwards, then again, ostensibly admiring a small tapestry. Another step backwards and the hum of voices behind me grew fainter.
It couldn’t be that easy, of course. There were guards everywhere. I took off my cloak, folded it over my arm and carried the chess set carefully before me. Now I was an indoor lady, carrying something precious, maybe at the queen’s behest. Palaces are very much like hives. Both have a queen and both assume that if you’re inside then you’re meant to be there. That someone, somewhere, has run the checks and you’ve passed muster. Confidence is the key.
I swept up and down corridors, passageways, and the occasional staircase with measured steps, bearing my precious burden carefully before me. It seemed to work. One guard actually opened a door for me. I nodded and gave him a small smile. Nothing too effusive, but acknowledging his courtesy. Always smile at the man with the big gun/spear/s
word/tank/clipboard/whatever. If this afternoon went badly, he could be the one arresting me later on and I’d need a friendly face.
From what I could remember of the building plans we’d studied, and given the increase in guards, the decrease in foot traffic, and the general air of hushed reverence and luxury, I was near the queen’s private apartments on the second floor. She was here somewhere, anticipating the arrival of the charming Sir Richard, but making him wait, nonetheless.
I tried to breathe slowly, swallowing down my heart-hammering fear. My hindbrain was telling me to be careful – it was all far too easy so far.
Which just goes to show we should all listen to our hindbrains far more often, because, at that moment, I turned a corner and walked smash into the other person surreptitiously prowling the building that afternoon. That man-shaped collection of testosterone – sex-on-legs himself – James Hepburn, 4thEarl of Bothwell.
There was no mistaking him. Even if I hadn’t spent the last weeks studying his portrait, I would have guessed instantly from his behaviour. Whom else but the opportunist Bothwell would be wandering, unescorted, around the Queen’s private quarters?
Speaking of opportunist … Instead of pushing me away, or even just steadying me, he gripped my arms tightly, and boldly and openly scrutinised me from top to toe. I was suddenly thankful for the truly enormous number of clothes I was wearing. Obviously, he liked what he saw – female and with a pulse – because he pulled me close and crushed himself against me. I could feel his mounting excitement. I don’t think he could help himself. It was just instinct. He moved on anything wearing a dress. He backed me against a door. I could feel the handle hard in the small of my back.
‘Ouch!’ I said, indignantly.
He stopped and looked down, actually seeing me for the first time. Brown-green eyes, thickly fringed with black lashes laughed down at me and a rakishly broken nose only added to the charm. I could certainly see what all the fuss was about, and I was pretty sure that Mary Stuart could, as well. No wonder she kept him at arm’s length. Lady Caroline Lamb once described Lord Byron as, ‘Mad, bad, and dangerous to know,’ but Bothwell was the prototype; the original. If he was ever in the same room as the queen …
