Queen & Country

by Shirley McKay

  For the first time, Andrew Wood chose to notice Hew, and they eyed each other, warily. Together in a company, neither showed their thoughts. Once they were alone, Andrew spoke up first, ‘I have come lately from court, where the king finds it strange you should be in Scotland, and yet fail to pay your respects. He has a pardon to give. He marvels that you seem too proud to come and beg it from him. Though I make no offer to dispose your life, it pains me to observe you throw away so carelessly, what has taken others such care to procure.’

  Hew, who was aware that he was overdue at court, was irked to be reminded of it by Sir Andrew Wood. ‘I had thought, sir, you had taken it upon yourself to dispose of my life, freely at your will, with no regard to mine.’

  ‘If you mean, the efforts I engaged to save your stubborn carcass, thriftless though it was, and to protect your family, I accept your thanks,’ the coroner replied.

  ‘I think you mistook my poor life for your own, when you plucked me from Scotland and sent me to Walsingham. Perhaps you did confuse my treachery with yours.’

  Sir Andrew seemed amused at that. ‘Walsingham, in truth, repented for his part; and you and I could never hope to play that trick again.’

  ‘As I assure you, sir, the trick was only yours. And so much should I swear to, if asked, by the king.’

  ‘That will profit little, Hew, You should know, that I have that tract still, I took from the desk in your library. What was it, now? A translation of Buchanan’s book, on the laws of kingship. That work has been banned. Its dissemination is a capital offence.’

  The translation was made by Nicholas Colp, to occupy his fractious mind in his last days on this earth. No earthly harm was meant by it. And yet, by implication in it, Hew might stand accused. The coroner had kept it, as assurance that the king would never come to hear of his pact with Walsingham.

  ‘Touching, was it not?’ he sneered. ‘And dedicat, to you. You may sometime have it back, when the time is right. That is not now, I think.’

  ‘You are, for a traitor, sure of yourself.’ Hew could not deny the force of Sir Andrew’s argument. He felt a vicious pang, that the word against him had been forced from Nicholas, a flagrant violation of an honest friend. It was not fear of death that worked to stay his hand, his will to cut the sheriff from his safety at a stroke, but a fear for Frances, left alone behind. It was not a fear that he had felt before.

  ‘I saw Robert Lachlan,’ the crownar said then, ‘at your stable outside. He gave me a look that he would have cut me there, down to the quick, had I not carried the child. And had I not carried the child, so I had done unto him. I never liked that man. And I do not commend you for your choice of friend.’

  ‘No? When you work for Walsingham, you cannot be particular. All his men are cutthroats, renegats and thieves.’ All but Laurence Tomson, Hew emended privately. ‘Robert is among them the most worthy and most honest, since he does not pretend to be other than he is, a simple man for hire.’

  Sir Andrew did not shrink, but smiled upon his rage. ‘God love and keep you, Hew, can we not be friends? Can you not accept it, in your stubborn heart, I moved to save your life?’

  ‘And you tell me why, then I may consider it,’ said Hew. ‘For I am not so vain, as to think that it was sentiment, or any love for me. Is it that you like to live your life at risk?’

  ‘As to that, I find no solace in it, now that I grow old. Shall we say, perhaps, that you have influential friends? Let the thing rest, or we both shall repent of it. Time has moved on. For myself, I have done with the court. My tenure as comptroller there is coming to an end. And I am worn and spent. The king has squeezed me dry. And I swear to you, I never did betray his purpose or his cause, but with a good intent, to see him safe and sound. Whatever you may think of me, I had his good at heart. And what have I to show for it? My purse is worn to threads, and my dead brother’s too. The king says, for that he kens he cannot ever pay to me the debt, that I have expended to settle his accounts, he will let me keep the lands that were mortgaged in his cause, and graciously bestows upon me, what was mine before. He serves the debt with thanks. The present crisis to our state and country should concern us now. For if he came to know, that either you or I had dared to deal with Walsingham, on any secret terms, we should both hang high. He is greatly perplexed at the death of the queen.’

  Sir Andrew did seem wearied now. And Hew was quite prepared to set aside their feud, to hear this present news, more pressing to his cause. ‘How does it move him?’ he asked.

  ‘That is hard to say. Outwardly, of course, he claims himself much wronged, and grieved at it. He marvels that so strange and unkind a thing was done. Before the loving populace, he wrings out his tears, crying for revenge.’

  ‘You think he does not feel that way, at heart?’

  The coroner confessed, ‘I think he is conflicted in it. He cannot help but feel the slight to him, since she was a mother, since she was a queen, no son nor king could help to feel a pang at that, and shiver at the blade that whistled close to him. He will be anxious too, lest any taint shall fall on him, through an association that was irksome while she lived. He will not wish to enrage, or lose the will of his own people, when they cry out for revenge. He will not wish to seem to them subservient or weak. And on the other hand, why should his Grace weep, for a Catholic mother he neither saw nor loved, who wished to see her own son toppled from his throne? Her death is, at best, a convenience to him. If he can show Elizabeth an honest, proper grief, he may hope to profit from a brave show of his righteousness, and win from her the hope that he has always dreamt of; he sees within his grasp the future English Crown.’

  ‘Has he come so calculating, now?’ This did not match Hew’s picture of the fretful bairn who trembled at the footsteps of his watchful lords.

  ‘He has grown beyond the boy you knew and fled from last. He has a shrewd intelligence, and knows he holds a fragile promise balanced in his hands. For that reason, it seems likely he will bide his time. He has broken off his embassy with England, and the queen’s ambassador is kept at bay at Berwick, for the king protests he cannot keep him safe, nor send to him a passport at this present time, so fervent are the passions of the people in this country, at what they do conceive of as a monstrous crime. He might as well declare embarquements on all Englishmen, for his delay does nought but stir the people’s flame. The borders have been closed, and Sir Francis Walsingham must whistle for his spies. No one dares send news. And you bring none, I doubt?’

  Hew said, ‘Not for you.’ He was encouraged, still, despite the dreadful news. If there was no word from England, Frances might be safe.

  The crownar laughed at that. ‘Still, you do persist, in thinking that our end and purpose cannot be the same. When will you be taught, our hopes are intertwined?’

  Before Hew could retort, Meg returned with Frances and the children by her side. Sir Andrew Wood’s small girl, so desolate of life, had made what seemed to Hew a miraculous recovery. She was walking now, barefoot and unsteadily, holding onto Meg’s hand. Sir Andrew cried, ‘God love you, Mistress Meg! I thought the lass was gone!’ And Hew saw such a feeling flood that uncouth face, that he was startled and amazed, as though it were on Andrew Wood that Meg had worked her miracle, and not his little child.

  ‘There is no wonder in it,’ Meg said with a smile. ‘It happens oft with little ones, that fall into decline, that they come round as quickly. I wish that it might always prove the case. Take this physic for her. In another day or two, she will be quite well.’

  The small girl stumbled to Sir Andrew’s side, holding up her arms. ‘Dada,’ she scolded, ‘Whisht, do not cry.’

  ‘Never, my pet.’ He lifted her, and she settled on his shoulder, sucking at a thumb.

  ‘She is a pretty thing,’ Frances spoke up, in her clear English voice. ‘She is lovely, sir. Is she not pretty, Hew? Such enormous eyes. I should hope to have a little girl like this.’

  Sir Andrew turned towards her, thoughtful in his gaze. ‘I
thank you, mistress. As I do confess to you, she has brought us joy. Forgive my plainness here, but we were not introduced. I am Andrew Wood, crownar and sheriff in Fife. I keep the king’s peace in this place. And while you are here, you may be assured, you will have my protection.’

  ‘Shall I need it, sir?’ Frances asked, bemused.

  ‘As I should suppose. For you are a stranger, in a hostile place. And, as I infer, you have come with him.’ He glanced across at Hew, a clear and frank amusement lighting up his face. Hew glared back at him. He would not, for the world, let Frances understand that they had anything to hide. ‘Frances is my wife,’ he said, ‘and wants no help but mine.’

  ‘Now I understand what kept you from the court. What man would not be stayed by such a fair distraction? You must brace yourself, mistress, and wipe your soft tears, let your husband be torn from your side for a while, or the king will be cross with him. God love you Hew, as I do,’ Sir Andrew answered, laughing, ‘hurry to the court, before the king has wind of it you have an English wife. Else you will find good fortune, even such as yours, will not last for long. Now I must depart, and take this bairn back home, before my wife despairs of her. For, I do confess, she loves her as her own.’

  Hew asked, compelled, ‘Is she not yours?’ He looked upon the child, her cool commanding gaze and hair like linen flax, spun out to a thread, the shadow of a bloom upon her dewy cheek.

  Sir Andrew grinned at Frances, answering to Hew. ‘Can ye not tell? She is Clare’s.’

  Frances had waited all day, until they lay naked in bed. When there was nothing but darkness between them, she asked, ‘Who is Clare?’

  Hew answered her, ‘His brother’s wife. They died in the plague.’

  ‘That is sad. You liked her, I think.’ Her voice sounded small. The curtains were closed, against the night air. He could feel her warmth close, though they did not touch.

  He would not lie to her. ‘I did like her, yes. But she had a husband. Robert Wood was cruel to her.’

  ‘Oh. Did you pity her, then?’

  He answered, ‘I suppose I did,’ and did not understand why she let slip a sigh, sorrowful, deep, in the dark of the bed.

  ‘It is touching, I think, that Sir Andrew Wood cares for his dead brother’s child. For tis clear that he loves her,’ she said.

  ‘What?’ he was listening, half; her words made an impression somewhere in the shadows spilling in his mind. Some vague idea disturbed him; he did not know what it was.

  ‘It is good of him, Hew.’

  ‘It is not goodness. It is . . .’ Before he could grasp what it was – whatever it was there that had escaped him, for he would not admit to goodness in that man – he heard, and understood the reason for her wistfulness, ‘He is not your uncle, my love. They are nothing alike.’

  ‘No.’ Her voice was hollow in the darkness, and he reached across the chasm that had opened up between them, to comfort as he could. Her head rested light on his chest, where she could feel the steady beating of his heart.

  ‘I know you miss your family.’

  Frances whispered, ‘It is not only that. My uncle took me in, when I was very small. I have betrayed his trust, and failed him, in my duty as a child.’

  ‘He failed in his, to you.’

  A small shake of the head. He felt on his skin the ruffling of hair, and stroked it. He knew what she had lost, and felt the burden of his part in it. It was not regret. If they could lie forever in that bed, and keep the curtains closed against the rain and wind, if he could hold her in his arms to weather out that storm, then he could be content. He knew that he could not.

  ‘Dearest, you know that I must go to court. Tomorrow, if I can.’

  She whispered, ‘So soon?’

  ‘The sooner am I gone, the sooner my return. Know that I would take you, if I could.’

  Her skin was light and soft. Her pale hair smelt of camomile.

  ‘I have never yearned to come into the court. I never thought to meet a queen, or king. Besides,’ she spoke bravely, a crack in her voice, ‘I have nothing to wear.’

  She had nothing at all. He had seen her in the gowns lent to her by Meg, thinking little other than how bonny she had looked. He had seen her quite bare, and had liked her just as well. Now he understood, and saw what she had lost.

  ‘Meg will take you to the town. You shall have all that you want. Shoes. Gowns. Clothes. Buy something fine and fit, in popinjay or green.’

  She was quiet a long while, and he did not know what she was thinking. Then she said, ‘Green is not becoming to a pale complexion. For your sister, perhaps.’

  ‘Sea-water, then. What you will think fit, for a wedding gown.’

  ‘Were we not married, Hew?’ she asked him then, tentative and serious. So much he had taken from her, and taken her from.

  ‘Of course we were. An English marriage. But we will have a Scottish one, in a Scottish kirk. Then no man may say, twas not properly done.’

  ‘Will they say that?’

  ‘The kirkmen here are scrupulous, and will say almost anything, to damp down our hopes. We will not give them cause. But you know that we were married lawfully and in sight of God. Since you had no gown nor maiden at your side, and enjoyed no feast, you shall have them here.’

  ‘I do not care for those.’

  ‘Of course you do. You and Meg shall make schemes for it while I am gone. It will keep you amused. Women like such things.’

  ‘Ah, Do they now? I shall show to you what women like. Do not pretend that you know,’ she teased. If words were kept light, a heart could not break.

  ‘What? And you were so innocent, so meek and mild last week. I blame it on Meg. What has she taught you, in that coven of her sisterhood, corrupting you, my sweet?’ he teased her in his turn.

  ‘Ah, you should like to know! I shall put you to school, very strictly, when you return. Let the fear of it hurry you on, and the hope of it hurry you back.’

  Their playfulness made light, and hid the deep disquiet there. When they had made love, and lay still and content, he said to her. ‘Take Robert Lachlan with you, when you go to town.’

  ‘Robert? He does not look like a man with an eye to choose a gown.’

  ‘He will keep you safe.’

  ‘Did you never see the leather markets held at Leadenhall? Are your market places ever quite so wild?’

  ‘I had not thought so, once. But these are troubling times.’

  Frances drifted off, and woke up in the night to find him still awake. She felt for his hand, sensing his absence there, even before he had left. ‘What are you thinking?’ she asked.

  He lay silent still. But his breathing, measured, told her that he heard, and was not asleep.

  ‘I wish that you would tell me,’ she said. ‘I am not afraid, when you speak the truth. When you are close, and secret, like Tom, it fills me with a kind of dread.’

  For a moment, it seemed as though he would not answer her. Then he whispered, ‘Please do not say that.’

  ‘That you are like Tom? It is true, is it not? You have learned to lie, and to keep yourself close.’

  He asked her, ‘When have I lied?’ And knew it was, instead, the things that were not said.

  ‘I do not blame you for it. But if you cannot trust me now, then there is no hope for us. No hope for me,’ she said, in a brittle voice, ‘who have followed to a place where I am a stranger, and perceived a foe, and am bereft of friends. Then cold earth could not shape a colder marriage bed, and it were my grave.’

  Her words were cold indeed, and moved his heart to pity, passion and remorse. ‘Hush, you shall not be . . . Frances, all will be well, I will make it well.’

  ‘How will you do that?’

  ‘I do not know,’ he said.

  ‘That,’ Frances said, ‘is, at least, the truth. Talk to me, now. What is it that troubles you, Hew?’

  And he found the courage, and the heart to answer her. ‘It is what Thomas did at Chartley.’

  So
mething in him gave, something in his heart he felt there, tight and physical, and he reached for her. In the darkness of that place, he understood what even Phelippes knew; a man could not place a lock upon conscience, and keep it always closed. And Hew, least of all, could be dark and distrustful, towards someone who had trusted him so far with her own life, and placed it in his hands. The thought of that filled him with the deepest kind of terror. And so he told her, all.

  ‘You heard that Gilbert Gifford carried letters for that queen. As I believe he did. But he was not of her party. Tom trained him for the task, and both of them were agents for Sir Francis Walsingham. Gifford was not willing, but they had some hold on him. For that is how they work. And I believe, they meant his part for me, but found they could not trust me to it. Tom was at Chartley to decipher the letters the queen had entrusted to Gifford. To ensnare and ensure her destruction. To bring the queen down. And, as I suspect she was lured into the plot, and a web was spun. Since they had the letters from the start, they could have wiped out the conspirators, before they ever reached her. They did not do that. Instead, they let it run, intending to entrap, and catch her at its heart.’

  Frances was a long while quiet then. But Hew felt calm, and peaceful in the silence that they shared. And presently, she told to him her thoughts, falling into place, sensible and clear, and he understood that he was not alone.

  ‘They let her think it safe, to show her heart. She showed it, Hew, and it was black. What harm was there in that?’

  ‘If it was true, there was none. Perhaps it was true. They made sure that it was. I do not think that there was any kind of justice there. The evidence was skewed. And the letters that they showed, I think that Tom may have altered, in his own hand.’

  ‘Why would you think that?’ she asked.

  ‘Some writing that I saw. It does not amount to evidence.’ He knew, had always known, it would not stand as evidence in any kind of court. And yet he believed it was true. ‘Justice is a thing that we should fight for, is it not?’ the queen of Scots had said.