The Virgin Queen's Daughter - Ella March Chase (27 page)

Silence stretched out, our fates in the balance. Skilled as Gabriel was reputed to be with a sword, even he could not hold off a dozen armed men.

“Watkins,” the sergeant snapped, “put up your sword.”

I heard the sound of a blade being sheathed. “Watkins and Smith, ride north to see if you can overtake this fugitive. The rest of you, let us deliver the prisoner to the Tower.”

I could see a blur of motion, glimpsed Gabriel making his bow. “I will not forget you indulged me in this matter.” I heard a jangle of coins as the Angel poured some from his purse. “Do let me pay to see Watkins has his wound looked at by a surgeon. I prefer the queen not know about our little contretemps. She frowns upon violent encounters and I have already tried her patience on that score. But women have little stomach for such things. What can you expect even from a queen? Even so, it would be most inconvenient if she carried out her threat to take my hand. I am fond of riding and wielding swords and far more pleasurable pursuits where my fingers are quite adept, eh, sweetheart?”

I grunted what might have been an assent.

“Indeed,” the officer said stiffly. “You would do well to take your lady friend somewhere private to indulge in those pursuits rather than disrupting an official arrest. I bid you good night.” I heard the scuffle of retreating feet growing fainter.

I felt as if I were suffocating, my chest ready to burst. I turned toward the wall, shoving back the thick folds. “Eppie,” I whispered, heartbroken.

“Hush,” Gabriel warned. “We cannot risk anyone hearing you. I have the horses tied on the next street.” He led me through the darkness, my eyes burning with tears. A sob rose in my throat as he lifted me up onto his horse. He swung up behind me, cradling me in his arms, the bay’s reins tied to the saddle somehow. I could not speak as we wound through the streets, retracing the path I had ridden such a short time ago. By the time we reached the postern gate I felt as if I had been beaten.

He guided the horses in and threw enough coins to the guard to keep him quiet. Gabriel handed off our mounts to the stable lad and then lifted me into his arms. He carried me to his own lodgings above the tiltyard. I was too devastated to protest.

“We must have a private place to speak,” he explained. “Somewhere no one can listen.” He maneuvered the door open, took me inside. A single torch blazed, the fire crackling merrily. His manservant clambered up sleepily from a cot near the hearth, but Gabriel bade him leave us. The servant did so, closing the door behind him. “I thought that you were trying to trick me into leading Walsingham’s men to her,” I admitted. “But they knew where she was.”

“Walsingham would not strike unless he knew where his quarry had gone to ground. Flailing about searching would only give the fugitive warning to run.”

And Elizabeth Tudor’s cunning “old Moor” had outwitted far more wily prey than my nurse. “It is my fault Eppie was arrested,” I wailed as Gabriel set me upon his bed. “If I had listened to you . . .”

“We might not have gotten to her in time anyway.” He drew the crewelwork coverlet around my shoulders to warm me. I winced at the sight of the injury I had dealt him–an ugly purple bruise swelled the left side of his face, a slash cutting him from his brow to the line where his hair began.

“There is no use in tearing yourself to bits over things that cannot be changed, Nell,” he said. “No one knows that better than I do.”

A chill wracked me in spite of the fire crackling on the hearth. It was a simple room, but comfortable. Linenfold paneling enriched walls bare of even a painted cloth to keep back the drafts. Some strange plant with spiked green leaves sat in a pot on the window ledge, straining as if reaching for the sun, while a brace of chairs padded with cushions were positioned opposite each other, a bowl of dried apples on one of the seats. A table strewn with writing implements sat near the window and a branch of half-burned candles reached waxy fingers toward the arched ceiling while a round gold mechanism similar to the one I had seen at John Dee’s whirred noisily. Every other surface in the chamber reminded me of Mortlake as well, crammed with books of all sizes and shapes.

My mind filled with images of a far more intimidating residence—gold-hued stone walls, the Tower’s maze of cells. I imagined Eppie thrust behind barred doors, with no light, no hope, a prison like the one they had used to break Kat Ashley. I could barely force words from my mouth. “What will they do to Eppie?”

“I do not know. If she were a gentlewoman she would be safe; though they tortured Anne Askew, the horror of it still sticks in the people’s throats.”

“I could go to Walsingham,” I said, wild with the need to save Eppie from Anne Askew’s fate. “I could tell him . . .”

“Tell him what? That you may be Elizabeth Tudor’s daughter?”

I reared back as if he had slapped me. “You know? How?”

“I heard you and your nurse that night in the garden. Every word.”

He had known the truth these many months. When he gave me the astrolabe, when he wrote me the poem, when he disappeared while we were on progress. He knew. I remembered the strange ring of promise in his voice as he vowed to be ready when my secret tumbled free. God help me—ready how?

I was completely within his power. “So you know my secret,” I said. “What do you mean to do?” Of all the nightmarish possibilities storming through my head, nothing prepared me for the next words Gabriel uttered.

“I mean to marry you.”

“Marry me?” I leapt up from the bed, shaking off the folds of cloth. “Did I scramble your brains when I hit you with that brick?”

“Not entirely.” He grimaced, the wicked gash puckering. “But it was not for want of trying. Nell, this is the only way I can think of to protect you.”

“Protect me? What possible good could such a marriage be? It will infuriate the queen even more.”

“Perhaps at first. But there is a chance in time it might ease the queen’s fears. She might hesitate before striking down her own daughter. That hesitation, combined with my connections, might be enough to spare you. Elizabeth knows I am Dudley’s man, and if there is one person in England the queen trusts it is Lord Robert. If it comes to crossed swords Lord Robert would vouch for my loyalty. It is one thing to strike at a country-bred girl with no powerful friends. It is another to strike at the wife of Sir Gabriel Wyatt.”

“I can take care of myself.”

“Do not make empty boasts, Grace. It is a sure sign you are afraid.”

I was more than afraid, I was terrified. “What are you going to do? March up to the queen and ask for my hand?”

“She would never give it, suspecting what she must. We will marry in secret, and keep it so until I can think how to present it to her in the best light.”

“That is your plan? Everyone knows the queen goes into a fury when courtiers deceive her thus! She threw Katherine Grey and her husband into the Tower when she found them out!”

“Only after Katherine’s belly swelled with a son.”

“Is that what you hope to do? Get me with child so you will have two pawns to help you gain power?”

“No. A child would only complicate things. Expose us before we are ready.”

“Ready for what? To buy Dudley’s favor? Or am I to be offered up to the Howards or, God help me, the Queen herself? Surely you cannot be picturing a halcyon marriage, the two of us growing old on your estates?”

“I can think of worse ways to spend a life. Nell, I do not know how this gamble will play out. I can only promise you I will do what I can to see that Mistress Jones has some small comforts in her cell. A decent bed to sleep in. Good food. Warm clothes.”

“I do not love you,” I said, trying to bite back any weak tears.

Gabriel turned away. “Love is fleeting. But our minds, Nell, those we keep forever. If we bind them together, just think how strong we will be.”

I thought of John Dee, his voice in the Queen’s chamber.
I foresee a great union of minds.
Was Sir Gabriel Wyatt the partner foretold? Yet Dee had not said if this partner was to be ally or foe.

“I will arrange for a priest. Send word where you are to meet us tomorrow.”

“And if I refuse?”

“That is your choice, Grace. But before you do, use that logic you are so proud of.” Gabriel closed the space between us, his face intent. “I did not put anyone you love in danger. You put yourselves there. Eppie, when she was foolish enough to say Elizabeth bore you. Your mother when she let you come to court. And you when you defied her to contact the Queen.” The truth slipped between my ribs like a knife. “If our bargain goes awry I will likely end up just as dead as you will.”

“Why would you take such a risk?”

He turned away, and I could see the bruise darkening his cheek, the jagged edges of the gash that ran from his left brow to his cheekbone. “Do you know my cell window looked out over Tower Green? I saw poor Jane Grey die. She was such a tiny thing. She meant to be so brave, but when she knelt down, she could not find the block.”

I imagined the terrified sixteen-year-old groping about her, her eyes already blindfolded, blotting out the last sunlight she would ever see.

“It is not a pretty way for anyone to die, Nell. Especially a woman.” Silence stretched between us. Horror at the picture he painted spun its web in my head. After a moment, Gabriel spoke. “Now, perhaps I should see you back to your own bed before someone realizes you are missing.”

He opened the chamber door.

A
S WE NEARED
the door to the main palace, he stopped long enough to tug my hood back up to hide my face. “That is better,” he said. “I would not wish the guard on duty to think you have been out making merry. My wife cannot be thought light of virtue.”

“Why not?” I fired back, wanting to wound. “Your mother was.”

Gabriel’s eyes went wide, his hand jerked up and for a moment I feared he meant to strike me. I wished he would. Then I could cling to my anger, my pain, instead of remembering his tenderness on our flight from the Silver Swan, his sorrow when he spoke of Lady Jane Grey. After a moment he let his hand fall back to his side. He rolled his shoulders as if his neck was stiff. “I would be careful not to rouse my temper,” he warned so I could barely hear him. “I fear it is a most unruly beast.”

I remembered the tales Kat Ashley had told of vengeance he had wreaked.

“Nell, I wish I could undo the dark work of this night, but I cannot. And—strong and brave as you might be—neither can you. Your mind is sharp, Nell. Mine is, too. Pledged together, we can hone them into a weapon mightier than any sword. Unless you can think of some other plan.”

I tried, God help me. I tried. It was a gamble to wed him, but once he was my husband he would be deceiving the queen. He would have almost as much stake in my secret as I did. Add to that his fealty to Lord Robert, the one man the queen might trust should things grow even more tangled. Would Robert Dudley plead for Gabriel Wyatt’s wife? Could Dudley turn the queen’s wrath away from me? Banish her fear? More importantly, would he if we were somehow cast upon the queen’s mercy? I could not guess. Yet what Gabriel said was true. I would be stronger standing with the weight of Dudley’s name behind me, with Sir Gabriel Wyatt’s fate tied to mine. Stronger than I would be standing alone.

Chapter Twenty

The Next Day

I
TRIED TO BLOT OUT THE HORRORS OF
E
PPIE’S ANGUISHED
face as Walsingham’s men dragged her away, to quell Gabriel’s voice as he insisted I marry him. Father’s voice echoed from my memory.
You must promise me you will never fall prey to such a man as Seymour was, Nell. I could not bear it . . .

“Father, I wish I knew.” Knew what was the Angel’s mask and what was Gabriel’s true face. Could be certain what his motives were—to protect me as he claimed or, like Thomas Seymour, to advance toward some grand aspiration. Like a crown? Any bid for a crown made on such a shaky claim as mine would be suicide. And yet, men had been known to take mad risks before. Perkin War-beck, an imposter who pretended to be Edward IV’s long-vanished son, had been crowned king in Ireland. Malcontents flocked to his standard before Henry VII’s armies cut him down.

I clasped my astrolabe, held it, praying for that mystical link Father had promised me.
Oh, Father, help me! I don’t know what to do
. The metal warmed. From my hand, or in ghostly comfort? I wished I knew. But if I hoped for some ephemeral whisper of Father’s voice to answer, there was none. Only the crackle of the fire.

Eventually, I splashed cold water on my face and peered at my reflection in the mullioned window while Moll dressed my hair. The woman who stared back at me appeared infinitely older, the flesh beneath her eyes bruised with exhaustion, her gaze raked with grief. How on God’s earth was I going to survive attending the sharp-eyed queen? Endure my daily routine of dancing and lute playing, stitching and reading aloud, acting like any other maid of honor—a carefree, entertaining girl.

Discerning my real identity and deciding how much risk I posed to her throne must be one of Her Majesty’s most weighty concerns at present, or at least Sir Francis Walsingham’s most pressing worry. I wondered if Elizabeth had spent as tortured a night as I. Had her spymaster met her before dawn to inform his mistress he had Eppie in hand? Had Walsingham promised he would soon present Her Majesty with one more diplomatic pouch, this one containing every word Hepzibah Jones confessed during
questioning
? What did they hope to achieve by persecuting a poor old woman? Merely to ferret out any source of scandal before it took root? Or did they hope to smother the truth forever the way my natural mother attempted to smother me?

“Nell?” Mary Shelton called from the doorway. “You had better hasten or the queen will be angry. You know how she hates when we are tardy for the dancing.”

I smoothed the net of seed pearls over my hair one last time, their subtle glow reminding me of another jewel, the misshapen dragon pearl that forever dangled from the lobe of Gabriel’s ear. Would he expect to be my partner? I wondered as I exited the maids’ rooms in Mistress Shelton’s wake. How would it feel to be touched by him, knowing what now lay between us? Worse still, would Walsingham be watching my every step, weighing every expression on my face to see if it revealed horror at Eppie’s capture? Walsingham could not know I had looked on; I must not betray otherwise.

Mistress Shelton and I entered the chamber to the sound of musicians tuning their instruments. I prayed Gabriel would be absent. He had a priest to find, one foolhardy enough to officiate at another courtier’s secret wedding. But a moment later I saw Robert Dudley, Earl of Leicester, deep in serious conversation in the far corner of the room, Gabriel’s dark head close to Dudley’s ear. Wyatt’s gaze locked on mine; he crossed to me, bowed low.
Keep quiet,
his eyes warned.
Not a word about last night or the lady involved.

Did he think I would march up to Walsingham and question him?

Gabriel strode from the room, Dudley staring at me so long and hard it seemed as if the seed pearls netting my hair should melt. Had Gabriel confided in his master? Was it possible he had already set in motion some plan in which I was to help the Dudley faction’s cause? I turned to where William Pickering, Dudley’s most threatening rival for the queen’s favor, was standing. I would have him partner me, wanting to lose myself among the other dancers. But before I could secure Pickering’s hand, I glimpsed the man I now feared more than anyone.

Sir Francis Walsingham’s features seemed carved by unsympathetic hands, the dour planes and angles far from handsome, his eyes cunning as Machiavelli. Plain black garb marked his Puritan leanings. His lack of wealth and jewels—the bright plumage other courtiers wore as marks of the queen’s favor—were testament to Her Majesty’s ambiguity where her spymaster was concerned. She trusted Walsingham without question. Knew the worth of his particular skills. Yet all who saw them together knew the queen did not treat her “old Moor” with the same warm affection she did Cecil. I had spoken to Walsingham as most of the maids did—as seldom as possible and with only a few polite niceties. But today the spymaster was determined as he caught my eye. He glided toward me with a thin smile. “Mistress de Lacey.”

“Sir Francis.” I trod on my hem, my curtsey awkward. Walsingham reached down to unhook the cloth from where it had snagged on my slipper. “No, Sir! Pray, you mustn’t.”

“But I am certain the blame for your mishap lies at my door. I have the most unfortunate affect of making people nervous. It is a difficult job keeping the queen safe.”

“Surely you need not worry here, with those who love Her Majesty best.”

“You would be grieved to know how close to Her Majesty some threats reach.” Walsingham regarded me with hooded eyes. “In fact, there might be one matter you could help me unravel, though I regret pulling you away from the dancing.”

“I cannot imagine what help I could be.”

“You could be helpful in an investigation I am carrying on at present. One that disturbs her majesty greatly. We do not wish the queen to be disturbed, do we?”

“Most assuredly not.”

“Good. I will find this interview so much more convenient if you and I agree on that.” Walsingham offered me his arm. He led me to a nearby closet, a tiny private room where no one would overhear us. The chamber was outfitted with a small table and chair, writing supplies precisely arranged, and a spindle-thin secretary whose mouth reminded me of the keyhole in a lock. Unaccountably I remembered some text Father and I had read once about a sultan who had his private secretary’s tongue ripped out so the man could never tell state secrets.

“Charles, this is Mistress de Lacey, who has graciously agreed to talk with me this morning.” The towhead tugged on his cap in deference.

“Pay no heed to Charles.” Walsingham waved his hand. “I always keep him near to take down people’s words for me. My memory is not as sharp as it once was.”

More likely Walsingham employed Charles so he could use the writings later to trip up his prey. As for Walsingham’s memory, intellect burned in his gaze. It was obvious he had been planning to waylay me if he had this scribe waiting.

“Now to the matter at hand.” Walsingham shut the chamber door. “Last night my men made an arrest the queen found most disconcerting.”

“Did they?” I knew this was coming, yet it slammed into me with the force of a fist. I struggled to keep from showing it.

“It was an Englishwoman. A midwife who tended the Dowager Queen Katherine Parr after the Princess Elizabeth was gone from Chelsea. Your mother served at the same household.”

“My mother served Katherine Parr until that good lady’s death.”

“Then Lady Calverley would have known Hepzibah Jones. In fact, was not that woman your nurse?”

“It is true.” I knew self-preservation meant I should hold myself aloof, not ask questions. But I could not help myself. “What charges did you lay against the woman?”

“Witchcraft.”

The word nearly made me retch. They tortured witches to drive out the devil or to save their souls, then hung them before a jeering crowd. I pictured my beloved Eppie, the arms that had comforted me bound, her legs kicking as the noose strangled her. I averted my face from Walsingham, unable to suppress a shudder.

“Mistress de Lacey, in the years Mistress Jones was in your family’s employ, were there any signs of sorcery? I am told she did much work in the surrounding neighborhood, brewing potions and such.”

“She was a midwife. A healer. Her simples were to ease people’s sufferings or cure them from diseases.”

“And you are an expert in such things? You would know the difference between a tisane that hastens labor pains and one that poisons the babe in its mother’s womb?”

“No, I cannot tell the difference. But Eppie loved every babe she delivered. She would never hurt one!” A mistake. A dangerous one. Walsingham steepled his fingers and tapped them against his mouth. Charles’s pen scratched across the page.

“Did you see any wax dolls in Mistress Jones’s possession with pins thrust into their bodies?”

“No!”

“Had she a cat or some other creature forever near her? A familiar?”

“Of course not! Do you think my mother would have placed me in the care of a witch?”

“One would hope not. Yet desperate women go to such fiends every day, requesting potions to make dead wombs fertile or dash unwanted babes from their body. And there are more sinister practices. You have heard, perhaps, of certain goings-on at Sudeley Castle when the dowager queen was in childbed? The lady spoke of being poisoned?”

“By her husband, Thomas Seymour, not by Eppie! Eppie has delivered countless babes. She saves lives. She doesn’t take them!” Silence fell. I feared I had gone too far. And yet I had to defend Eppie. “Sir Francis, I have known Hepzibah Jones most of my life. She is no witch. She is the most tender nurse any child could ever have.”

“Then why did your mother turn her away? I have it on good authority that Mistress Jones’s departure from Calverley was not a pleasant one.”

“Eppie told you that?”

“I could hardly trust the testimony of an accused witch, could I? She might say anything to spare herself. I have made inquiries. That is all you need to know. Now I would like to hear your version of the tale.”

I drew a deep breath, knowing Walsingham lured me onto a path littered with sinkholes that could suck me down between one word and the next. “Mother and Mistress Jones argued. They disagreed often enough. This time Mother turned her away.”

“I see. Perhaps I should question Lady Calverley. She might remember more details . . . for example, the fact that she claimed Mistress Jones was mad?”

My heart fell. “Eppie grieved at leaving me. What nurse would not? But I had simply grown too old to be tended by her. You have children, Sir Francis. You know that the time comes for them to put away childish things. Even nurses they have loved.”

“It is a painful time for everyone—the parents, the child, the nurses or tutors who have helped nurture them.”

“Mistress Jones is the kindest soul who ever lived. It pained her to part with me, that was all. I beg you, Sir, believe me. She is no witch. Can you not let her go?”

This time it was Walsingham who turned away from me, paced toward the window as if he craved a lungful of wholesome air. The sort Eppie could not find anywhere in London’s Tower. “Your loyalty does you credit, but it has been years since you last saw her. Children think the only life their elders ever lived was the time spent with them. Yet there were many years before you knew Mistress Jones and many years after. Other lifetimes, so to speak. It is my duty to uncover the truths from those times as well. Until I do, I regret that Mistress Jones must remain in the Tower.”

“Sir Francis, if you would only—”

“Thank you for your help, Mistress de Lacey. May I call upon you again if any more questions arise as the case develops?”

“Of course.” What else could I say?

“Now, I must send you back to the dancing or Her Majesty will be most unhappy with me for unbalancing the couples. However, I fear your most ardent admirer will not be partnering you this morning. Sir Gabriel and the Earl of Leicester were arguing over some matter of business. Wyatt stormed out as if he were ready to do murder. I wonder what distressed him.”

I remembered Gabriel’s face, so hard. Shrugging, I tried to brush Walsingham’s probing aside. “How would I know?”

“Sir Gabriel had a nasty gash in his face. From brawling again, no doubt. The man has a talent for getting into fights. Her Majesty is running very short of patience on that score. Wyatt should have a care or the consequences may be grim. Perhaps you could caution him, Mistress de Lacey? Be a gentle voice of reason.”

“Why should I try to change his nature? I have no interest in the man.”

Walsingham crossed to where Charles was sprinkling sand on the inked pages to dry them. “I am relieved to hear it.” The spymaster shook sand from the first page, examining the writing. “There is a reckless streak in Wyatt that will undo him one day.”

An image flashed to mind—Gabriel weaving as if he were drunk, the hiss of his sword being drawn, the cry of pain from the soldier as steel bit deep. What would have happened if the Sergeant had refused to call off his men? Gabriel and I would have been taken to the Tower as well. I curled my fingers into my palms to hide their trembling.

Sir Francis flicked a grain of sand off of his pristine black sleeve. “An heiress like you cannot be too careful, Mistress de Lacey. Wyatt is determined to build up his family estate since the queen returned it to him. He does not merely wish to restore the old buildings, but intends to build quite grandly, carry out plans his father made. Of course, it will cost a great deal to undertake such massive construction. There are men making wagers about how quickly Wyatt will take himself a rich wife. There was talk of Wyatt wedding Lord Downing’s widow, and she is near sixty.”

Walsingham’s claim made me feel sicker yet. Did the man guess Gabriel was off arranging a wedding even now? I would be a prize for a courtier so greedy he would marry a woman old enough to be his mother!

“Perhaps you have not heard Lady Downing’s sad story,” Walsingham continued. “Her last husband kept her a virtual prisoner, locked away in a room in the country for years. But then, I have heard of more harrowing experiences still. Men poisoning a wife when she became inconvenient. There are rumors Thomas Seymour may have done so to the dowager queen.”