A Symphony of Echoes

by Jodi Taylor

  ‘Ouch?’ he said, laughing.

  I resisted the urge to fan myself violently.

  Obviously feeling he had wasted enough time on foreplay, he started fishing down my bosom again. I took a deep breath, which on reflection probably wasn’t my best move. He buried his head down there and began to tug at my clothing.

  ‘No,’ I said firmly, pulling things back into place. ‘No.’

  He ignored me. I had a brainwave, ground myself against him and blew down his ear.

  Now I had his attention. He raised his head.

  ‘In here.’

  I groped behind me for the latch. The door opened and we both fell in. My faint hope that the room might be occupied died away.

  He lay on the floor, laughing, while I hung on to my cloak and chess set as if they were my lifelines – which they were. Because I’d had an idea. A really, really, bad idea, but also a really, really, good idea. If it worked. I felt a sudden deep conviction. It would work. It was opportunity seized. It was inspiration. History had nodded. It was up to me now.

  I had Bothwell. Now I needed to keep him here.

  He was grabbing for my ankles. I stepped back, smartly.

  ‘Wine!’ I said.

  ‘What?’

  I was right. He was already well away. Wine was definitely the way to go. I swerved towards the door.

  ‘I’ll fetch some wine.’

  ‘We have no need of wine.’

  He moved more quickly than I expected, pulled my feet out from underneath me, and down I went. He caught me neatly. Obviously, he’d had a lot of practice. It was probably one of his best moves. Sadly marred only by the chess box falling on his head.

  He cursed. ‘Are you trying to murder me, woman?’

  I pulled away to a safe distance and said again, ‘Wine.’

  He smiled up at me from the floor. He was easily the most sexually attractive man I’d ever met. Women must fall for him by the shedload.

  I opened the door, peered cautiously out into the passageway and carefully pulled out the key, concealing it in my hand. He got up and, to my huge relief, threw himself on the bed, linking his hands behind his head. Then he sat up suddenly.

  ‘I’ll come with you.’

  ‘No! I mean, you stay here and – prepare yourself.’

  God knows what I meant by that. Sometimes words just fall out of my mouth, but he took this for encouragement and began to unlace himself.

  I fled.

  I’m not proud of what I did that day, but up to that moment, I was reasonably OK. I’d had a wild idea and I never really thought it would come to anything, but it did. I can blame History all I want, but it was me. I did it. And if it means anything, I’m sorry.

  I’d managed to drag my cloak out with me, but the chess set was gone for good. There was no way I was ever going back in there again. The next woman who walked through that door wouldn’t stand a chance …

  Shoving my cloak into a nearby chest, I smoothed my hair, straightened myself as best I could, and keeping the key tight in my hand, set off again.

  Straight into Mary Stuart, Queen of Scotland, Dowager Queen of France and self-styled Queen of England. Only a single lady-in-waiting, the very young girl, Margaret, accompanied her.

  Oh yes, History was with me that day.

  ‘Mistress Hampton. They told me you were in the outer chamber.’ She looked over my shoulder for the charming Sir Richard.

  I backed against the wall and sank to a deep curtsey. ‘Your Grace, we have been given a room, whilst we awaited your pleasure.’

  ‘You have been well attended to?’

  ‘Oh, yes, Your Grace. We have been playing chess to pass the time.’

  She smiled. ‘I have eagerly awaited the chance to pit my skills against your brother.’

  I smiled back.

  ‘I wish you would, Your Grace. Three straight games have I lost to him. You can imagine how he crows.’

  She laughed. ‘Indeed I can.’

  ‘We have a snug room along here, Your Grace, and a good fire to await your pleasure.

  I could see the idea pleased her. An intimate evening with a personable man. A peaceful interlude with fire and wine. A little gentle flirting. A chance to display her talents. She had only one lady with her. She’d planned for this … It all hung in the balance. If she dismissed her woman then I would go for it. If she didn’t … I don’t know. I’d think of something. Some other opportunity would present itself. No it wouldn’t. It was this or nothing. I could feel History at my shoulder.

  She was speaking to her lady-in-waiting, sending her away. I was passing the point of no return. My heart-rate picked up and my palms were clammy. I could hardly believe my luck. Bothwell, alone, in a room nearby. The Queen, unattended. What were the odds? This was what happened when History was with you. I gripped the key until it hurt and worked hard at keeping my face neutral.

  She walked slowly before me, chattering gaily, excited and happy. I never heard a word. There was still so much that could go wrong. I half hoped it would. That someone could come along and see us, that a door would open somewhere, that guards would suddenly appear. Nothing irrevocable had yet happened. I could still walk away from this. A pulse was beating hard in my throat. I swallowed, but there was no relief.

  Because once she was inside that room, her life would never be the same again.

  Ten paces to go.

  Then six.

  Then three.

  I murmured, ‘Just here, Your Grace,’ took a painful breath – and opened the door.

  I stood back to let her go in first.

  She paused on the threshold and peered into the dimly lit room. Second thoughts? A premonition of danger? We will never know. I put my hand in the small of her back and pushed as hard as I could. She was a tall woman and I was worried I might not be strong enough but – whether she was off-balance or I found the strength from somewhere – I don’t know. I only know that I pushed her into that room and everything that happened to her subsequently was my fault.

  No time for that now. I pulled the door shut, fumbled for desperate seconds trying to get the key in the lock and eventually it turned.

  I knelt on trembling legs and pushed the key under the door. So much for any protestations of innocence. They – the world – would say the door had been locked on the inside and the key had simply fallen out of the lock. I leaned my forehead against the cold, hard door and tried not to think about what I had just done.

  From inside the room came a very faint sound.

  Then silence.

  I had taken a woman, a decent, intelligent woman who had never done me any harm and betrayed her in the worst possible way one woman could do to another. I had deliberately pushed her into a room containing a man who was, under his superficial charm, an unstable, violent rapist. And then I had locked the door and walked away. There was no way she would get out of that room unscathed. I had ruined her life. The events of tonight would alienate her court, her nobles, everyone. Her reputation would be in shreds and not in any way redeemed by her subsequent marriage to Bothwell. All her years of careful, patient work undone in one single night. By me. She was only twenty-five. Younger than me. Her life was over. This was not something of which to be proud.

  But now I had to get out. I had no idea how long I would have before someone raised the alarm. I had to move. Retrieving my cloak, I called up Peterson.

  Anxiety sharpened his voice. ‘What’s happening?’

  ‘The queen is with Bothwell,’ I said, suddenly very tired. ‘And we need to go. Now.’

  ‘We have a problem.’

  I stopped. ‘What?’

  ‘We still don’t have Ronan. They all split up when they went after him and Guthrie’s not back yet.’

  ‘Can you raise him?’

  ‘No, he said he’d call us. He was very definite.’ He would be. If he was stalking Ronan through the dark alleyways of Edinburgh, he wouldn’t want us yammering away in his ear.

  I
said, ‘Major, this is Max. Abort. Get back to the pod or the house. We’re in trouble and we have to go now. Abort Ronan. Confirm please.’

  Nothing.

  Shit. This is what happens if you try to combine two missions. But we weren’t finished yet.

  ‘Tim, get everyone away. Non-essential personnel to go now. Strip the house and get to the pods. Don’t wait for me. That’s an order.

  ‘Chief, keep trying Guthrie. Find him. I’m not kidding, guys. If we’re still alive in half an hour, it’ll only be by some miracle. Get out now. I’m on my way back, but don’t wait for me. Maxwell out.’

  Right, that was them sorted. Now to get myself out safely. I paused at the head of the stairs and looked back over my shoulder. Silence. Not a sound. What was going on in there? Did she still think she was with Sir Richard Hampton? Had Bothwell knocked her unconscious before raping her? Were they going at it like mink? Was she struggling for her life and the screaming could start any minute now? How long before she was missed? How long before she was discovered?

  I can’t tell you how it felt to walk slowly and carefully down the stairs. I had folded my cloak again and carried it carefully in front of me across my arms like some precious relic. Everyone had seen me presented to the queen. I hoped to God they would think I was conveying her garment somewhere with all the care and reverence such a task warranted. They had to. It was going to be my way out.

  But not if I ran. Not if I gave way to the all-consuming urge to run. To run like hell. To pick up my skirts and bolt along corridors and down stairways, past groups of chattering courtiers, past stony-faced guards, to erupt into the cool evening air and run for my life to Canongate, friends, and safety.

  I made myself walk even more slowly, my face calm and pleasant, telling myself that each step took me further away from that chamber and nearer to escape. Every passageway seemed endless. Every dark corner held some nameless danger. Every shadow concealed a threat. The afternoon had darkened as the weather worsened. To me, the palace had taken on an air of menace and I was wandering an enormous labyrinth. Ariadne without her thread.

  A door slammed behind me and a voice was raised in reproof. I stopped dead and waited for my heart to catch up with me. It had leapt from my chest and was over by the wall somewhere.

  I took a precious moment to slow my breathing, lifted my chin and continued the slow, self-important walk of a lady carrying out an important task for the queen. I threaded my way carefully through the groups of people. I looked down my nose, careful not to catch anyone’s eye but not avoiding eye contact either. It was taking a long time to get out. In fact, it seemed to be taking for ever, but I’d taken the long route, through more private areas of the palace, and hoped to come out somewhere quiet, from where I could easily slip away.

  It seemed to be working. I could feel cool, damp air in my face. I was nearly there. I shook out the cloak, swung it around my shoulders and walked slowly towards the open doors.

  At last, I was outside. Where my luck immediately ran out. The storm was upon us. It was hurling down rain; great sheets of it plummeting out of the darkness, slanting through weak beams of light and bouncing off the cobbles to knee height. The noise was deafening. I looked around the packed and heaving courtyard. Steaming horses were being led away. Anxious, drenched, impatient messengers ran back and forth, shouting as they went. It seemed chaotic but there was order when you observed closely. Bad weather notwithstanding, enormous numbers of people were being shunted to where they needed to be.

  Trying to be as inconspicuous as possible, I stood back, swallowed down my anxiety and considered. I was almost the only woman there and certainly the only one not a maidservant. Soon, I would be drawing attention and even if I managed to get away, people would remember me. I needed to be gone as soon as possible and every instinct I possessed was shrieking to get out of there, but it was vital I did not draw attention to myself. There were whole platoons of guards around the place whose sole responsibility was the safety of the queen and one false move from me would set them off.

  I was looking out at the courtyard, but all my attention was behind me. I couldn’t believe the screaming hadn’t started yet. At every second, I expected to hear voices raised in urgent command, clattering feet, slamming doors. I had to go. Rain or no rain, I had to go now. Running would attract attention. Even going out in this downpour would attract attention, but I had no choice. The alarm could be raised any minute now and I must not be trapped here.

  Pulling my hood over my head, I eased my way through the waiting crowds in the doorway and stepped outside. I kept to the shelter of the walls and picked my way across slippery paving and around piles of horse dung. Keeping a horse between me and the only guard I could see, I hurried away.

  The first thing that happened was that I went blind. Even in Whitechapel they had streetlights. Obviously here they didn’t, but there were usually flaming torches or lanterns outside the more important houses, or light spilling from windows and open doorways. Or failing any of that, moonlight. But not tonight. Tonight, because I needed to move quickly and quietly, the universe had decreed absolute bloody darkness. If I’d been able to get my hand out from under my cloak, I wouldn’t have been able to see it in front of my face.

  The second thing that happened was that I fell over. I didn’t trip – I slid. My stupid little indoor slippers had no grip whatsoever, and I went down with a crash, straight down on my left knee. Hot pain jolted through my leg as I somehow pulled myself upright, getting yards of wet velvet twisted around me and threatening to trip me up again.

  So, there I was, two minutes outside the palace, and I’d travelled about six feet. At this rate, it was going to take me about two and a half years to get to Canongate.

  And I was deaf. I couldn’t hear a thing over the sound of rain drumming on my hood, splashing off the rooftops and gurgling its way down the street. A whole army could come up behind me at any time and I wouldn’t know a thing about it. And if I turned my head to check behind me, the hood stayed pointing forwards and all I got was a face full of cloth. With regret, I pushed it back on my shoulders. The rain streamed down my face and stung my eyes. I could drown any minute.

  More carefully now, I began to inch my way forwards. Inching was all I could do. My heavy skirts were soaking up the rainfall running down the street. My feet in their stupid, sodden, well-named slippers were frozen, and I could feel every single rough stone through their thin soles. I stretched one hand in front of me, both to avoid walking into walls and to break my fall if I went down again. I could deal with a sprained wrist but a damaged ankle would be fatal. I took half a dozen steps forward, checked over my shoulder, half a dozen more and check again. Don’t panic. Keep calm and carry on. Just keep going. Don’t stop. Don’t think about what’s going on behind you. Don’t waste time imagining the worst. Keep moving.

  I used my free hand to bunch up my skirts, which were heavy and wet and wanted nothing more than to wrap themselves around my legs. Every few steps I had to let go, wipe the water from my eyes, push my hair back, pick up my skirts again, take another half dozen steps, check behind me, and just keep bloody going.

  I had no idea how far I’d gone. I suspected about twenty feet. And all my attention, which should have been on finding my way forwards was behind me, waiting for the inevitable hand on my shoulder. I pictured being dragged back before a queen who would want every last ounce of revenge. Who could blame her?

  And what of the others? If they left me here, they stood a fair chance of getting out of the city and away. They needed to get out before the gates, or Ports as they were known, were closed. And the pods were outside the city gates.

  I was lifting my com to tell them to get away, that I’d join them later when I slipped again. Same bloody knee, obviously. I was sitting in the rain, tangled in skirts, cloak, petticoats and cursing buckets when I saw the light coming up behind me. Coming fast.

  Shit, shit, shit.

  I scrambled up and took t
wo long steps to the left, bumping into something hard. A wall. I pulled my hood over my face and crouched painfully, hoping if I was below their eye-line they’d miss me.

  They did. They weren’t soldiers, but three young nobles, come from God knows where, on their way to God knows where, and concerned only to get themselves there as quickly as possible. Two of them held lanterns in the shelter of their cloaks, and alternately laughing and cursing, they splashed their way down the middle of the street.

  As soon as they passed me, I stood up and began to follow them. The light was dim and mostly ahead of them, but, after the pitch-blackness I’d been groping my way through, it seemed like a sound and light show to me. Best of all, I thought I knew where I was. If I carried on down here, then I would come out near Canongate and there were any number of alleys and snickets I could hide in when the alarm was raised. As it would be. I couldn’t believe I’d come this far without hearing the sounds of pursuit behind me. Maybe I would make it after all. Maybe History would nod again and get me home, safe and sound.

  Fat chance! The young men, suitably attired for the prevailing weather conditions, moved much more quickly than I ever could. They reached a corner and disappeared. I was back in the dark. And still the rain came down.

  A soft voice spoke in my ear. Farrell.

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘Never mind that for the moment. Did you get Ronan? Are you all out of the house?

  ‘No. And yes. Markham, Schiller, Weller, and Randall have already jumped. Peterson’s with Number Five, waiting for me. I’m waiting for you. Where are you?’

  ‘What about Guthrie?’

  A pause.

  I said more urgently, ‘What about Guthrie?’

  ‘He hasn’t come back and I can’t raise him.’

  My heart slid sideways. He was dead. And that bastard Ronan was still out there.

  I could hear the strain in his voice.

  ‘Where the hell are you? Tell me.’

  ‘Not sure. Somewhere between the palace and the house.’

  ‘I’m coming.’