The Fugitive Queen (16 page)

She looked at me wistfully. I didn't remind her that she had been virtually thrown out of Richmond. “You won't be married off against your will,” I said. “If we find the right man, you'll be only too eager to stay with him, I promise you! It's easier to find you a Catholic marriage in the north. I'm hoping to hear of possible prospects through Sir Francis at Bolton.”

Pen smiled, which brightened her earnest face and made her almost pretty. “I liked the castle. But—Bolton Castle is
there
and I'm
here,
” she said. “You said we might visit it again, but when?”

“As soon as we can,” I told her. “Meanwhile, I suggest that we return the visits of Mistress Holme and Mistress Moss. I've explained the situation about Whitely to Brockley and he can escort us. I fancy that both those ladies know all there is to know about running a manor—we'll see if they can suggest anyone suitable to take over as steward. As soon as we've found someone . . .”

“Whitely can be off the premises the same day,” said Pen, quite ruthlessly. She had the makings of a very good chatelaine, I thought, once she was settled as a wife, with roots, and no longer at the mercy of stray romantic breezes.

We visited the Holme and Moss families on the same day. The expedition took us through the village of Fritton, the first time we had seen it. I realized, seeing it, why Master Toft had
such parochial attitudes. This, of course, was his world, and his world was little more than a hamlet, though it had a pond in the middle and a tiny green.

The church, though, was surprisingly big and well appointed, with some beautiful stained glass. For directions to the Holme and Moss houses, we called on the vicar, who was much less attractive than his church. He was a gloomy man in his middle years, who informed us that the Tyesdale district was a cesspool of popery and he hoped that we would set a good example by regular attendance at his services. We discovered that he knew Toft well and knew our story but wasn't surprised by it. “I know of nothing that may be useful. Such things happen in these wild places.”

Short of scouring the moor for about ten miles in each direction, foot by foot, and searching every single farmstead, manor, cottage, hut, or cave we came across, I thought bitterly, there was nothing that could be done to find either Harry's body or Harry's killers. The gloomy vicar was still talking, saying that he himself came from Nottingham. He obviously wished he'd never had to leave it.

“I was appointed here when Queen Elizabeth acceded, and I suppose I have been called to do my best for the benighted souls here, but my best hasn't achieved much yet. Now, you need directions to Lapwings, where the Holmes live, and to Moss House. I can put you on the way to them. They're all popish, too. You'd think sometimes that the Act of Conformity didn't exist.”

Lapwings and Moss House both proved to be sturdy, defensive buildings not unlike Tyesdale, although neither had a moat. Lapwings was well maintained, with a modern, timbered gatehouse, a black-and-white-tiled entrance hall, and a paneled dining room. The furnishings were bright and feminine, with embroidered cushions, scented rosemary amid the rushes underfoot, and a white damask cloth for the table.

The welcoming effect, though, was somewhat dampened by its mistress. Adeliza Holme was so protective of her kittenish daughters that I think it distorted her view of the world. She was relieved that Pen was comparatively plain and yet still resented her nearly as much as if Pen were Cleopatra in person. When, tactfully explaining that Whitely might be leaving, I
asked if she could recommend a replacement, she merely shook her head.

“I can't say I know of anyone. If Whitely wants to go, why not leave the place in the care of the Appletrees? I daresay you'll not be staying long yourselves; Tyesdale's a depressing house if ever I saw one.”

In other words, the sooner Tyesdale depressed us to the point of going home again to the south, the better, in her eyes.

Moss House was a more practical place than Lapwings, with few furbelows, though it too was well kept. The boys were out in the fields, but the overflowing Cecily Moss was indoors and was more helpful than Adeliza Holme. She might be able to suggest a possible steward, she said, just give her a week or two to think it over. I had the feeling that something useful might come of the visit, though I could not expect any news immediately.

On our return, we found a messenger from Bolton awaiting us. It seemed that I wouldn't after all need to invent excuses to visit Mary Stuart again. This was an invitation from Mary herself, endorsed by Sir Francis Knollys, to bring Pen and anyone else I chose from my household, to a hawking party the following Saturday.

There was no need for us to ride fifteen miles to Bolton, apparently. Sir Francis had decided that for the sake of her health, he should permit Lady Mary to ride out under guard for a little falconry, and we were asked to meet them halfway between Tyesdale and Bolton, beside a pool on the moors. We would enjoy a couple of hours of sport and a picnic, and then the two parties could return to their respective homes. The place was easy to find, since there was a twisted tree beside the pool, which was clearly visible from the main track to Bolton. Obviously, if the weather were inclement, no one would expect us to come and Mary herself would not set out.

I sent my acceptance back with the messenger at once. Whatever my secret reluctance, I must try to make good use of this further meeting with Mary.

Though I didn't think a hawking expedition would offer much opportunity for subtle conversation. I knew that from past experience. Oh well. I could but try.

“I feel like a pancake on a griddle,” I said to Meg.

The moorland, that first Saturday in August, was swelteringly hot. I envied Dale and Sybil, who had stayed at home. But here we were, myself, Pen, and Meg (who was now very proficient with Joy, the merlin, and eager to practice), with Ryder and Tom Smith as escorts. Brockley had also stayed at Tyesdale, to keep an eye on Whitely, he said. From somewhere cool and shady, no doubt, I thought wryly, wiping my forehead.

Meg, who didn't mind the heat, just laughed. She was the only one from Tyesdale who had a hawk and was rather proud of it. Mary's party were well provided, however, with hawks and falconers alike. Sir Francis Knollys and the Douglases were there, all with goshawks, while Mary Stuart and Mary Seton, who was with her, had merlins, hen birds like Joy, with brown-gray backs and barred tails.

Mary was riding astride, in shirt and breeches and with a dashing feathered hat. Her party was at the meeting place before us and when we arrived, she greeted us effusively, leaning from her saddle to kiss both me and Pen, and blowing another kiss to Meg, but I saw that she was pale and that her smile was strained.

I could guess why. Even out here, she must feel like a prisoner, for she was as well supplied with guards as with hawks. As we set off, we were encircled by soldiers: in front, behind, and to
either side. Even so, Francis Knollys seemed worried. Trotting beside me and Meg, he remarked in a low voice that he feared the expedition was ill-advised. “I let her go hare-coursing once from Carlisle but it made me nervous. My orders are to keep her close. But she has been ailing for lack of air and exercise and I also have to protect her health.”

“She has a strong guard,” I said. “What can possibly happen?”

“How could she have got herself out of Lochleven?” Knollys retorted. “I understand it to be a fortress on an island in the middle of a loch in the middle of nowhere. She is a clever woman.” There was undoubtedly admiration in his voice, but it was clearly unwilling. Elizabeth and Cecil would have been relieved by that.

“She and the Douglases, who are her devoted slaves, could set spurs to their horses all of a sudden and ride for the coast,” he said. “Or she might somehow arrange to get herself kidnapped as she was when Bothwell seized her, after that business at Kirk o' Field. I greatly fear she was party to that, so as to pretend that she was forced to marry Bothwell, when all the time she wanted to. She feared to do it openly because the whole of Scotland was whispering that it was he who organized the murder of Darnley. Ah well. I don't doubt that he had a persuasive way with a woman. Report says that of him. But a trick that worked once might be tried again. I must be wary.”

“I'm sure you're right. Her presence in England is a worry to Sir William Cecil,” I said.

“She is wishing now that she had made straight for France instead of coming to England,” Knollys said. “She has even tried to send an emissary, though he was not allowed to leave England. I have no doubt that if she could find a way to flee to France, she would.”

The moorland spread out around us: immense sunlit hillsides of heather and grass and gorse patches. A couple of ravens rose as we passed, and flew off croaking. A few fields and habitations and small patches of woodland lay in the folds of the land, but for the most part we were surrounded by empty, open country. Our little party was not only well guarded; it was also in the midst of a wilderness.

“The Douglases helped her to escape from Lochleven,” I said. “But you allow two of them to stay with her?”

“I'd rather have them under my eye at Bolton than somewhere else, scheming,” said Knollys. “I see to it that she never speaks with them unless I or some other trusted person is within hearing.”

“Such as Tobias?” I said lightly.

“Sometimes,” said Knollys. “Though I observe some caution, with Tobias. This is a mainly Protestant area, and he claims to be Protestant, but nevertheless, his father is a Catholic.”

“It's a pity that these religious differences have to matter so much,” I said. “They came between me and my second husband, and it was a great grief to me. Queen Elizabeth herself once said that we all worship the same God; the rest is a dispute about trifles.”

“If she really said that, then I'm astounded to hear it. I should hardly call a dispute about Her Majesty's legitimacy a trifle,” said Knollys acidly. “That is one of the biggest bones of contention. Ah well. With grave doubts, I have agreed to this hawking party, but she must not speak to anyone we happen to meet.”

The queen and Cecil had no need to be anxious about Knollys, I thought. He had not been hopelessly beguiled. I glanced at Mary, thinking once again how unlike a ruthless plotter and murderess she seemed, and wondered if I were the one who had been beguiled instead.

One of the falconers rose in his stirrups, pointing into the air. Mary looked up, narrowing her eyes against the dazzling sky. There was a pigeon there, a big prey for a merlin. Mary, however, unhesitatingly loosed her bird and raised her wrist. The little hawk tautened, head stretching forward and body crouched, like the body of a stalking cat before the spring. Then she spread her wings and flew and we were off, in a splendid chase that swung us away from the track, galloping across the heather to keep up. We caught the prey, and then Sir Francis saw a rabbit in the distance and loosed his goshawk at it, and we were off again.

By the time we had caught the rabbit, it had become so very hot that the blue sky was twinkling with it, as though it were
strewn with diamond dust. Mary Seton was complaining of a headache, so we stopped then to have our picnic meal.

We sat about, holding our reins and letting the horses graze, while flasks of wine and water were fetched out of saddlebags and handed around, along with cold chicken, fresh white bread, and cakes with raisins and honey in them, all neatly packed in napkins. In the quiet, without the sound of hoofbeats, the creak of grasshoppers and the twitter of the skylarks far above were like the very sound of scorching noonday.

Mary Stuart seemed better, as though the light and air were doing her good, and she clearly didn't mind the heat. I didn't greatly mind it, either, while Pen and Meg semed to be thriving on it. But Seton was streaming with sweat, runnels of it shining on her face and locks of soaked hair escaping from her hat and clinging to her neck. Mary noticed it and asked her if she was well. “You said your head ached, my Marie.”

“It still does,” Seton said ruefully, rubbing her temples.

“We should turn back to Bolton,” Sir Francis said. “We have come farther than I meant. Let us remount. Mistress Meg hasn't flown her merlin yet, but there may be a chance on the way back.”

Almost as soon as we were in our saddles again, Meg peered up into the sky and exclaimed that she had seen a bird. “It's drifting back westward, the way we want to go—can I . . .?”

“Yes, yes!” said Sir Francis, and delightedly, Meg loosed Joy. The quarry, catching sight of her, fled. But not westward, or only for a moment. As Joy closed in, her intended prey veered into a swift climbing turn, changed direction, and sped eastward instead. Sir Francis swore, but Joy meanwhile had twisted in midair to give chase and the rest of us, perforce, had to do the same.

It was a longer chase even than the first, across acres of heather, over a crest and down into a moorland trough, in and out among gorse patches and small clumps of trees, in the full blaze of the sun. The horses were sweating heavily by now. Roundel's neck was dark with it and Meg's pony was blowing, as its short legs worked to keep up with the rest of us. The quarry,
this time, escaped, by swooping down ahead of Joy, plunging into a small spinney. Among the tree branches it would be safe from any diving falcon. We pulled up and Joy returned resentfully to the lure that one of the falconers handed to Meg. “You never win them all, mistress,” he said. “They don't in the wild, either.” He smiled at her regretful face. “No need to be downcast.”

“I know. I just feel for her disappointment,” Meg said, gentling the bird and hooding her.

“Yes, such a pity,” said Seton, in a valiant voice, and with that, closed her eyes and sagged forward over her pommel. Alarmed, I edged Roundel over to her. She looked up painfully, opening her eyes but narrowing them and flinching at the sunlight. “I . . . I'm sorry . . .”