The Virgin Queen's Daughter - Ella March Chase (19 page)

A heartbeat later, she was gone.

My mind churned.
God in heaven, was it possible what Eppie claimed was true?
I dared not believe her. And yet so many things Eppie said laid siege to my doubt. I ran, ran from that insistent battering through the darkness, my skirt catching on the topiary, the griffin’s claw, the dragon’s wing. My hair tore loose from my headdress and tumbled down my back. Pain knifed into my side, tears streaking my face. I tripped over something, skidded to my knees. Shoving myself back to my feet, I searched the garden, desperate to find someplace, anyplace safe, where I could think
. And where would that haven be, you fool!
Truth mocked me.
It does not matter if Eppie has lied. The merest whisper of this rumor could spell disaster for you. And if
—
God forbid
—
her tale is true, it could topple the queen from her throne.

I flung myself to the ground in a shadowy nook, huddled there, my arms wrapped tight about my knees, my whole body trembling.
Oh, God, how could the world careen off its axis between one breath and the next?
I stifled an anguished sob.

I wanted so badly to believe that Eppie’s story was nothing but the ramblings of a broken mind and yet, how could I do that when so many fragments from my childhood had never quite fit: the appearance of my face in the looking glass, my coloring so foreign from my parents’. I was as different from them as if I were a cuckoo dropped in a drab sparrow’s nest. And yet, it did not mean anything save that I was not their natural child. My mother could have been any of a score of wealthy women with red hair.
Look at Lettice Knollys,
my logic argued. And yet, was not Lettice the queen’s own cousin? I rocked myself in terror, remembering the pamphlet the queen had raged about—Lady Katherine Grey locked in the Tower, separated from her husband. Helpless in a cell with a son whose blood was so royal he could threaten England’s throne.

Every noble at court was vying for power, eager to determine who would inherit the crown should Elizabeth fail to produce an heir. If one of those ruthless men caught wind of this rumor about me it could hurtle me into the center of some mad conspiracy that would cost me my head. The ambitious Stuarts, the haughty Howards, they would see me as nothing but a tool to use for their own ends. Robert Dudley would be ecstatic to have such a pawn in his power. The features of the queen’s favorite rose in my mind—Robert Dudley’s auburn hair, his shrewd eyes, a man so far gone with ambition some said he had murdered his own wife to open his way to the queen’s bridal bed. He would see me as his main chance to triumph over his enemies or perhaps to seize the prize he had lusted after for so long—leverage to force Elizabeth’s hand, become husband to the queen, her lord and master and England’s king. How had Mary Grey warned me against the man?
The Dudleys think and hunt as a pack . . . and Lord Robert has set his best hound upon you.

Wyatt. My blood ran cold. If Sir Gabriel ever discovered the tale about my birth I would be exactly the weapon he needed to exceed the power of everyone surrounding the queen. Even his master, Robert Dudley.

As for the queen herself—every day of her life Elizabeth battled the legacy her mother had left her. Anne Boleyn, the King’s Great Whore. To protect the honor of her name, she would crush anyone connected to such a dangerous lie. And if what Eppie said was true—what price would the queen be willing to pay to be rid of the evidence of her own shameful secret? I closed my eyes, remembered the doe’s throat dripping blood, saw it transform into my own. What would the death of one maid of honor be in comparison to the peace of Elizabeth Tudor’s entire realm?

“Nell!” The sound of Gabriel Wyatt’s rough voice struck me as if I had summoned the devil himself. He strode toward me, the person above all others I dreaded to see. Terror drove me to my feet, an irrational fear he could read the truth in my eyes. What had Kat Ashley told me? The reason he earned the name “Angel”?
He possesses the devil’s own gift for charming secrets people would only tell at heaven’s gate
. Gabriel caught me by the arms as if he knew I planned to flee. He shook me firmly. “Nell, you struggle like a wild thing. Hold still.”

“Why can you not leave me alone? Let go!”

“Not until I get the truth from you. Who was that person I saw you with?” Horror turned my knees to water. The man had been spying on me! How much had Sir Gabriel seen? Heard?

Think, Nell, think,
a voice screamed inside me.
If he had heard what Eppie said, he would not need to question you thus. Use your wits. He cannot read your mind!
A flash of pale satin skirt swept past one of the windows cut in the garden walls, a man’s laughter ringing out as some gallant chased after his lady. I latched on to that laughter as my own salvation. “You want to know who I met in the garden? My new suitor. Perhaps I should have him drive you off.”

“Your new . . .”

“My lover!” I flung back at him, defiant. “A man who is everything you are not. Noble. Honorable. A man of integrity, honesty.”

A muscle in Wyatt’s jaw tightened, then smoothed so quickly I thought I had imagined it. “You found an honest man here at court?” His eyes seemed to pierce secret places in my mind. “Perhaps we should display him with the other curiosities in the menagerie at the Tower. Who is this paragon?”

“It is none of your affair. I wish only one thing from you. Leave me alone.”

“You are lying. You have no lover.”

“I do! I do! Tell the whole court! Then I could go home!” My voice cracked as I pictured the lions on the gatehouse, my mother bustling about, her keys all a-jangle, Father’s library with its stained-glass windows, his crest turning to liquid jewels in the sun. But I did not belong there any more than I belonged here at court. I had no home.

I yanked myself free of Wyatt’s grasp. He caught at my waist, but I flung my weight against his grip, heard cloth tear as I wrenched free. Desperate to escape him, I raced through the gardens, the shrub-carved creatures unfurling shadowy claws to catch at my sanity. I was not wise enough to wonder why he did not pursue me.

Chapter Sixteen

The Same Night

F
ATHER’S FACE ROSE BEFORE ME AS
I
FLED, SCARRED
not only from the flames but by a far more devastating betrayal. Seeing me for what I was, a bastard his wife tried to pass off as his own. I struggled to comprehend it: Lord John de Lacey, not my real father. The man who had taught me so patiently, cherished me, coaxed my mind to soar . . .

“Father,” I cried, picturing his wise, gentle eyes before the fire seared them. “I do not know what to do.”

Oh God,
I thought with a sick jolt. Father’s papers, his instruments. They still lay hidden beneath the garden bench. I dared not go back and risk encountering Wyatt again. Pressing my hands against my stomach, I sought out the nearest page, a ruddy-faced lad with a crooked front tooth.

“I need you to run an errand for me,” I said. “Retrieve something I’ve forgotten.” I described the bundle and the bench where it lay hidden. “Deliver it to the maids’ quarters and I will make it worth your trouble.”

The lad doffed his cap, then set out at a run. I groped for the one thing of Father’s I could still touch—my astrolabe. My fingers scrabbled at the place where I had pinned it so carefully in the Maids’ Lodgings, but even the chain was gone, torn from my waist sometime during my flight. It felt as if God’s hand had reached down from heaven to snatch it away.
Why should you have such a treasure? John de Lacey does not belong to you. He never did
. The truth knifed through me, severed the bond that had anchored my whole life. And a new question battered me: If Lord John de Lacey was not my father, then—God save me—who
was
?

I made my way back into the palace. When I reached the Maids’ Lodgings they seemed empty. I sagged against the door, groping to find the snippet of cloth Eppie had tucked into my cloth bag, wishing to hurl the scrap into the fire. Obliterate the one bit of tangible evidence from this night’s madness, as if that could banish her claims to the realm of nightmare. But before I could rid myself of Eppie’s “proof,” Mary Grey slid out of the shadows where her spaniel had made a nest, ready to whelp any day now.

Heart hammering, I stowed the embroidered bit of velvet back out of sight. I should have guessed Mary would be there. She had hovered over the bitch for a week now, as worried as if the dog were her daughter instead of her pet. But why could Mary not be somewhere else tonight? Perhaps playing skittles with friends in the gallery or somewhere in the garden meeting a lover? The absurdity of either notion struck me: The other ladies barely tolerated her. And as for a lover . . .

“There was a page come looking for you an hour past.” Mary wiped any lingering softness from her expression. “I told him you had run off to the garden.”

My imagination leapt to the worst possible circumstance. I dared not face Elizabeth Tudor right now with Eppie’s words still a fresh wound. “Did the queen require me?” I prayed it was not so.

“Lord, no,” Mary snorted. “Her Majesty seems to crave your company about the same as she does mine of late—like a bout of Saint Anthony’s Fire.”

“Then who sent for me?” Sir Gabriel, perhaps? I wondered. Was that why he sought me in the gardens? Thank God he did not stumble upon Eppie and I sooner. Or had he?

“How should I know who sought you?” Mary said. “Contrary to simple folks’ belief, the demons who twisted me in my mother’s womb did not see fit to give me evil powers. If they had, I would have made Lettice’s hair fall out in great clumps by now. Preferably in Robert Dudley’s bed.”

I did not even grimace, let alone smile. My clashes with Lettice seemed a thousand years ago. Mary peered up at me with a suspicious eye. “You are not taking a fever, are you? I have seen plague victims look better than you do.”

A frisson of hopelessness rippled through me. If Mary could tell something was amiss, how would I ever hide my emotions from courtiers more cunning? The wolves would close in if they scented blood. I fought to smooth the edges from my voice. “I have a megrim. Nothing more.”

“You had best keep it that way.” She looked no more convinced than if I had claimed I had risen from the dead. “I have seen the way men look at you. If it were not for their fear of Gabriel Wyatt’s sword, you would have a dozen suitors by now. You would do better to catch the sweating sickness than get with child, that I can tell you. The court dogs may whelp as often as they like, but Her Majesty does not deal well with blossoming bellies among her ladies. Whether they are married or no.”

“Babes are expected when a woman marries. Why should the queen object?”

“My royal cousin expects to be the center of the universe for anyone she loves. A babe tends to steal its mother’s affection. I do not speak from experience, of course. My mother loathed me, and Her Majesty would be delighted to get rid of me. If I were a dog, the queen would have drowned me long ago.”

A hopeful light flickered in Mary’s eyes, and I realized with a jolt she was trying to get me to laugh. God knows, the other maids would have found her words amusing. But I looked at Mary Grey as if seeing her for the first time.

All England knew Mary’s lineage was more royal than Elizabeth’s own. What’s more, Mary bore the treason-stained name of Grey.

“Mary, you must be careful,” I warned, aware of how vulnerable she must be despite the hard crust life had forced her to grow.

“You are a fine one to urge caution! I am not the one getting mysterious messages from God alone knows who.”

“No. But you are sister to a woman the queen has great cause to fear.”

“Katherine is no threat to the queen locked up in the Tower! What can she do in her cell?”

“She does not have to do anything at all. There are others beyond the stone walls determined to plead her case.” I expected some reaction. Mary had seen what havoc such plots could wreak. I pressed on. “I am only trying to tell you what I saw. When I met with the queen after the masque, she showed me a tract proclaiming that your sister’s marriage is legitimate and her son . . .” I let the words trail off, knowing they were too dangerous to say aloud. But Mary showed no such fear.

“Katherine’s son is rightful heir to the Crown? If Mother were still alive she would be delighted. Unless, of course, Katherine loses her head as Jane did. That would be the end of all our family’s hopes. Even my lady mother did not have any delusions a crown could be made to fit my head. Someone twisted by God’s own hand.”

Most would agree that God had cursed Mary. The Church was clear enough—such tragic crippling in body or mind was proof enough God’s wrath had fallen on those such as Mary Grey. And yet, should she be condemned for her gnarled body any more than I should be because I was bastard born? Circumstances neither of us had any power over? I wished I could ask my father. Grief twisted inside me. As if Mary sensed my pain, she turned back to the spaniel, offering me space to wrestle my dragons in peace.

“There is a letter arrived for you,” she said. “It bears the Calverley seal.”

A letter from my mother. Already our correspondence was painfully stilted. How would I ever put pen to paper again? What would I say to the woman who knew my whole life was a lie, then had let me charge headlong into a lion’s den?

My dear lady mother,
I began my reply in my head
. Nay, not my lady mother. My lady liar is much more apt.
I crossed to where the letter waited. I could not bring myself to touch it, my mother’s seal dangerous as Father’s firework dragon.

Mary moved toward the hearth, where the fire crackled. She took the iron poker from the flames and plunged it in a flagon of ale. The liquid sizzled as it warmed, filling the chamber with its warm, yeasty scent. When the bubbling ceased, she set the iron aside, then crossed to me, flagon in hand. I accepted the drink gratefully, praying it would steady my nerves. Did my eyes betray me?

“I used to dread opening my mother’s letters as well.” Mary’s voice had gentled. “If I ever have a daughter, I swear she will not. She will be glad to hear from me.” She bent down to scoop the spaniel into her arms.

I sipped the ale Mary had given me, her act of kindness moving me as she started toward the door. “Mary.” My voice cracked. “I do not mean to drive you from the room.”

“Do not fret.” She smiled, and she looked almost beautiful. “I have a place to go.”

My throat tightened as the door closed behind her. I took up my mother’s letter and thrust it into my writing box. Mary had somewhere to go. I had nowhere.

M
Y OWN MOTHER
wished me dead. Day after day, every time I looked into Elizabeth Tudor’s eyes, I pictured the babe I had been, imagined being completely at her mercy. I could see the pillow growing larger, blotting out light, air, life. If she had been capable of murdering an innocent babe, how much easier would it be to kill me now?

I scarce ate. Dreaded sleep. With sleep came nightmares, all defenses swept away. I trudged through the days as they spiraled into weeks. Time was not weighed down with the stones that seemed to compress my chest. I still rose at dawn. Moll still laced me into my gowns. I still danced every morning in the Council Chamber and waited upon the queen when she required me. Nothing was different. Everything was changed.

I mapped the landscape of Elizabeth Tudor’s features to measure against mine. I listened for the merest inflection of her voice, the shift of her moods, fearful.

Thrice, my mother had written to me, each letter more worried.
Are you well, child? The city air is noxious. Have you need of anything?
Can you scrub my mind clean as you do Calverley’s stained-glass windows? I wanted to beg her. Wipe away the words Eppie said to me?
Then I would not know the truth, Mother, and you would not fear I might be daughter to the queen.

I tried to grab tight to my anger, but the edges frayed with my loneliness. Would it be so terrible if I were to go back to Calverley? Anything would be better than court, this feeling as if the floor beneath me might crumble at any moment.

I glanced across the chamber to where the queen’s ladies gathered in the twilight. Isabella Markham’s fingers plied the strings of a lute. Mary Grey sorted a rainbow of embroidery threads Lettice Knollys had tangled in a fit of impatience. The queen stitched a tapestry, pausing now and again to bid Kat Ashley pop a strawberry into her mouth, releasing its sweet scent into the air.

Suddenly, I felt the queen’s gaze hard upon me. “Leave off playing, Bella,” Elizabeth commanded with a hint of petulance. “I weary of such a melancholy song. Mistress Elinor looks pensive enough these days.”

Lettice preened, catching glimpses of her new russet silk gown in a nearby looking glass. “Perhaps she is missing Sir Gabriel, absent these many weeks.”

That, at least, had been a blessing. I put aside my own stitching, the piece as snarled as my thoughts of late. “I am much relieved he is gone.”

The queen pursed her lips, stained from the berries; the uncertain light gave a chalky cast to her features.

“Sir Gabriel will be gone all summer,” Kat Ashley observed. “It is a hazard of being one of Lord Robert’s most trusted men. His lordship sent the Gypsy’s Angel on business, to oversee the transfer of the estates he gained with his new earldom. Then Wyatt is to ride to Maidstone and oversee the building of his own house.”

Kat smiled, her delight in Dudley’s good fortune evident in her kind face. Few others in court were pleased that the queen had endowed her favorite with the earldom of Leicester, her goal to make him noble enough to marry the troublesome queen of Scots. Yet even as Elizabeth draped the ceremonial robes around him she had not been able to resist her own attraction to the man. She tickled his neck before all those present, solidifying the Scots queen’s resolve not to wed her bastard cousin’s leavings.

I did not care about such royal machinations. I was only glad Sir Gabriel had more important tasks to pursue at present than discovering the identity of my visitor that star-scattered night in the garden.

The queen flashed me a pointed glance. “I cannot abide a woman mooning over some absent man. It makes my head ache. Perhaps Mistress de Lacey would fetch a book and read to us. She must have skill at it. I remember Roger Ascham mentioning that she read to her father after he lost his sight. Did you not, Mistress de Lacey?”

“I did, Your Majesty.” I crossed to retrieve the book she indicated. The volume from Dr. Dee’s library lay in the shade of a fragrant bunch of lilies William Pickering had sent the queen just that morning as a love token. With trepidation I regarded the pages left to read, dreading the time I must go to Dr. Dee’s again, Eppie’s fear of him infecting me, making me shudder at the prospect of confronting the alchemist’s intuitive gaze.

The queen paused in her stitching to pluck the choicest of Pickering’s blossoms and tuck it into the bosom of her gown. “My tutor admired your father, Nell. Ascham claimed it astonished him that Lord John could digest such huge amounts of learning and store it in such a small vessel. Your father was quite short, was he not? And swarthy?”