The Virgin Queen's Daughter - Ella March Chase (34 page)

“Your Majesty has forgiven such trespasses before,” Dudley put in. I wondered if he were defending Gabriel in some small way, or if the earl was merely cautioning her that such a charge might be challenged.

“The arrogant son of a whore compounded the offense by challenging one of Walsingham’s men,” the queen said, returning her glare to me. “On your behalf, Mistress Nell, I might add. At the inn where the witch Hepzibah Jones was taken into custody.”

So the queen knew all. Only Dudley looked bewildered.

“Majesty,” the earl said. “I do not understand. Who is this Hepzibah Jones and what has she to do with Sir Gabriel and Mistress Nell?”

The queen whirled on him like a fury. “Who do you think you are, my lord? It is not your place to question me!” I saw Lord Robert’s cheeks darken in humiliation as Walsingham stepped in.

“Her Majesty has been lenient with violent displays in the past, but Sir Gabriel knows what punishment law demands.” I bit the inside of my lip until I tasted blood.

The queen closed in on Gabriel, grabbed him by the wrist. She shook back the ruffle that edged his cuff, the sun-browned contours of his hand seeming suddenly vulnerable in the trap of Elizabeth’s white fingers.

“He has such a graceful right hand, my Gypsy’s Angel. It is the hand of a swordsman, a dancer, a poet, a musician. How will he do any of those things once his hand is severed, Mistress Nell?”

My stomach roiled in horror. “No, Majesty! I beg you, do not–”

“
Hurt him?
” The queen cut in with a snarl. “Is that not what you cried to the squires when they wrenched his helmet from his head? Sometimes pain is necessary if a queen is to rule.”

Walsingham shuffled his papers, crossed to where writing implements were laid. “The queen, in her great wisdom, will grant your husband this much, Mistress. Sir Gabriel will be master of his own fate. To save his hand he needs only to tell us what wickedness his wife has been concealing from his queen. Or perhaps, Mistress Wyatt, you will write your own confession to save him, that is, if you love your husband at all.”

Did I love Gabriel? I suddenly feared how much. I wavered on the brink of flinging myself on the queen’s mercy. But even then I could read the dark truth in Walsingham’s eyes. If I confessed all I knew to Elizabeth out of fear, how could she be sure I would not reveal the same information to gain some reward? She would be compelled to destroy anyone who knew Eppie’s story. Gabriel might lose not only his hand, but his life. Another life would be snuffed out as well. Our child’s.

It was a fiendish test, not unlike the ones accused witches were put to when they were tied hand and foot, then flung into a pond. If they floated they were condemned to hang. If they drowned they were judged innocent. No matter what the verdict, the accused was dead. Minutes crawled by filled with the ticking of clocks and the maddening sounds of Dudley pacing.

“So you choose to defy me.” Elizabeth’s eyes glittered hard as the diamonds clasped about her neck. “You Wyatts were always a stubborn breed. Perhaps another visit to the Tower will loosen your tongue, Sir Gabriel. It has broken far more honorable men than you.”

Walsingham crossed to the door, rapped on it with his knuckles. Gabriel slipped his arm around me as the guards spilled in. How many times had I seen them in their dashing crimson livery? There was a time I had no idea how menacing they could be.

“Majesty,” Gabriel said, “I pray you will realize in time we are your loyal subjects.”

“We mean you no harm,” I added, my voice breaking.

“Harm the queen of England?” Elizabeth’s bosom swelled with outrage. “You are having delusions of grandeur, Mistress! I do not tremble before trifles like you! You and your ill-got husband are nothing! I will crush you beneath my heel in an instant if you drive me to it!”

“I trust we will not,” Gabriel said.

“Trust? That is a fine word to hear from the Gypsy’s Angel! You have lied your way through half of England and bedded a score of women along the way! And now you refuse to give me the information I require? A loyal subject has no secret from his queen! I am sick to death of loyalty such as yours!” She swung her arm toward the door, rings glinting on the fingers she was so vain of. “Get out of my sight!”

“As you wish, Your Grace.” Gabriel bowed, and I heard his breath hitch. I prayed his rib was not broken. The point could puncture a lung, let it fill with blood. But I could only curtsey, and battle my urge to tell the queen all she wanted to know.

Walsingham caught my eye, his fingers steepled, almost as if in prayer, his lips compressed, eyes hooded. What was he thinking? Could anyone really tell? He possessed a labyrinth soul, and no one had solved its mystery yet. I knew full well I would face him again. Someplace darker, more frightening. Then any pretence of politeness would be stripped away.

Gabriel and I turned to the door and the guards marched us from the chamber. Through the palace the guards took us, past gawking courtiers, their expressions eager as rats, feeding on the promise of scandal. I glimpsed Mary Grey almost hidden by the sea of skirts. But she said nothing. She had learned how to restrain her emotions in the most brutal of schools, watching her sisters fall, first studious Jane, then Katherine, the headstrong beauty. Katherine, who had been imprisoned when she was with child, like me.

The September air struck me with a chill as we walked out into the night. Perhaps the last time I would ever breathe it, free. The gardens of Greenwich Palace filled with ghosts for me. It was here Eppie had sought me out, desperate as she told me truths that shattered everything I had believed about myself. In a royal garden such as this my mother had found the warrant Wriothesley had dropped, her discovery saving Queen Katherine Parr’s life. And Gabriel—he had searched for Father’s astrolabe in just such a place, retrieving the treasure I thought lost forever.

I shuddered as the smell of the river filled my nostrils, the faint stench of fish and seaweed, the subtle lapping of the water grating my nerves. Gabriel grasped my elbow as I stepped onto the slippery jetty, then lifted me into the barge that would carry us away.

We huddled together on the bench as the oarsmen rowed, the drumbeat that measured the strokes seeming to keep a funereal rhythm, carrying us ever nearer to the prison where so many others had disappeared. Sir Thomas More and Catherine Howard. Anne Boleyn, my grandmother if what Eppie claimed was true. Elizabeth had made this terrible journey as well in those dangerous days before I encountered her in the Tower Lieutenant’s garden. I had offered her a key that day, my intention to set her free. Now she condemned me to those formidable walls and the endless waiting, the torture of picturing most horrible fates.

Heedless of the guards, Gabriel cradled me in his arms, pressed kisses to my temple. “As long as you carry our child you will be safe from the worst of Her Majesty’s wrath.”

“You mean, they will not execute a pregnant woman,” I said. “But once the child is born—Gabriel, if we die, what will become of our babe?”

“We must both believe it will not come to that, Nell.” He whispered encouragement, but we both knew he was a most accomplished liar. Soon, the water gate loomed, its bars giant claws dug into the water.

“Courage, Nell,” he urged me. “Remember Elizabeth survived an ordeal in this place. We will, too.”

But as I stumbled onto the landing and wound my way into the stone fortress, I could not imagine how.

At the foot of the Bell Tower, the Lieutenant met us, his greeting far different than that of Sir John Bridges, the kind man who had been Father’s friend. “Sir Gabriel will be lodged in the Beauchamp Tower,” he said in a crisp baritone, “while Mistress de Lacey’s cell is in the Bell Tower.” The guards moved to pull us apart.

“No!” I cried out, grasping Gabriel’s arm tight. I saw pain crumple his face.

“It is Walsingham’s order,” he said, low. “Separate us to break us. Courage, Nell. You are the bravest woman I have ever known.”

“I am frightened here alone.”

“You’ll not be alone.” Gabriel scooped up my astrolabe and caressed the golden disk. “Look at the stars from your window, Nell. And I will mark them from my own. When you see them, I will be there.”

Chapter Twenty-Eight

November 1565

W
EEKS CRAWLED PAST IN MY COLD CELL, THE TIME
broken by interrogations. Hour upon hour, Walsingham flayed at my nerves, questioning me first in the tone of a much grieved father, then with blistering rage. But the times I found most dreadful were after he had my guard lock me back in my tiny room, to suffer my fears alone.

I was denied a maid to tend my needs. Prisoners of gentle birth were often accorded that small comfort, but the peril I posed to the Crown was different from most. The most fearsome power I possessed was my voice. Neither Walsingham nor the queen dared risk giving me the chance to tell some servant the tale of my birth. They would not even let my mother see me, though she raced to London, someone having sent her word of my arrest. Had Mary Grey written or had Elizabeth summoned her? Proud Lady Calverley would make a fine hostage in this war of wills the queen and I waged.

Did Mother know she was to have a grandchild? Was she glad I married a man descended from the poet who was kind to her so long ago? I wondered. At least guards gave me the baskets of food that she sent. I prayed she might think to send similar gifts to Gabriel as well. The silence picked at my mind with pointed scissors, trying to unravel my sanity. My imagination did far worse. It transformed every shadow into an agent of the queen, stealing in to silence me forever. That would be the simplest solution, would it not? My death would buy the queen safety. Still, I doubted Elizabeth Tudor would stoop to clandestine murder, no matter how much Walsingham might wish her to. More likely, she would justify my death the way her father had so many. By trying me on manufactured evidence, convincing herself it was real.

Elizabeth could guarantee my silence once I was brought before the crowds. Traitors were hung, drawn, and quartered or burned alive at the queen’s pleasure. The swift death from beheading was a mercy she could revoke. I kneaded the scar edging my hand, remembering how Anne Boleyn had asked her husband to bring a swordsman from Calais to be her executioner. Headsmen wielding axes were often clumsy.

I knew Elizabeth was not the bloodthirsty monster her father was. And yet, she held her crown by a thread. France and Spain both lusted to return England to the papal fold, Mary Stuart the center of their plots. Half of Elizabeth’s own subjects condemned her for a heretic. Others believed her a bastard produced by their king’s unholy alliance with a witch. The malcontents needed only a trifling ember to set the whole country ablaze. I was their burning brand.

My faint hope was that the queen would shrink from condemning her own daughter,
if
her daughter I was. It must be easier to suffocate a babe you never met than behead a young woman you had laughed with, fought with, come to hold in affection. But Elizabeth had made difficult choices before. One thing was certain: I would never leave this prison alive. I could not be certain which punishment would be the most grim: a quick brutal death or growing old without ever breathing free country air again.

And what of Gabriel during those hellish weeks? I could only imagine what he suffered. What small leash curbed Walsingham’s ruthlessness because I was a woman would not hold the spymaster back when he confronted a man. I lived in terror that the queen might make good her threat and strike off Gabriel’s hand. I twisted my wedding ring about my finger, read its engraving. Let reason rule. But this fortress, this cell, this peril was not a child of reason, but of fear. I could feel Walsingham tightening his noose. In time all pity for a girl who reminded him of his daughters would be vanquished. Once he realized his “gentler” persuasions would avail him nothing, he would move in for the kill.

I had marked fifty days on the stone wall and counted stars until my eyes ached, when I awakened to the sound of a key rasping in my cell door. I knew the ordeal I feared had come. What other reason could there be to disturb me in the middle of the night? I shoved myself to a sitting position in my bed and wrapped my arms around the growing bulge that was my babe, afraid I might lose this precious burden in the ordeal to come. But the child kicked in my womb like a lion cub, determined to cling to life.

My cell door opened, silhouetting two grim-faced guards against the cresset torch: Adam Renfrew, unmoved by the suffering he saw, and Josiah Barnaby, who reminded me of Jem from Calverley. “You must come with us, Mistress,” Renfrew ordered.

“Give me a moment to dress properly,” I managed, voice shaking.

Renfrew scowled. “You are to throw a cloak about you and be done.”

Barnaby shifted nervously and I could see his toe poking out from a hole in his boot. “It is Sir Francis Walsingham’s orders, Mistress.”

“Where are we going?”

Even Renfrew would not meet my eyes. “You will find out soon enough.”

I wedged my feet into shoes, then clutched my cloak about my body, praying for courage as the guards led me into the bowels of the White Tower. I smelled hot fire, acrid sweat, and something far more subtle. A hopeless agony, as if those who had suffered the horrors this chamber was famous for had smeared the walls with their screams.

Here the gentlewoman Anne Askew had suffered her ordeal, an atrocity so repugnant the torture master had refused to work the rack. Wriothesley and Bishop Gardiner had applied the device themselves, so savagely Anne had to be carried to the stake in a chair. But Henry had been ruler during that abomination. A king so twisted in his soul that he had murdered two wives, cruelly hounded another into her grave, and signed the warrant for his sixth wife’s arrest. Elizabeth was a far different monarch. She would not order the torture of a pregnant gentlewoman.
Why not?
A chilling voice whispered.
They can do whatever they wish here. If they broke you on the rack, who would know?

My knees almost buckled as we neared our destination. As I entered the door I saw Walsingham, his simple black robes set in relief against the implements of torture. When he shifted to one side he revealed something more hellish still. Gabriel, his cheeks hollow, his hair filthy. Had they tormented him already? My gaze sought the end of his sleeves, fearful, but his hands were still safe. He clenched them into fists of helplessness and rage. “Nell,” he breathed. His gaze locked on my belly and for a heartbeat desperation carved his face. I wanted to fling my arms around him one precious moment, but Renfrew caught my elbow in his vise-tight grip.

“Forgive me for denying you time for a reunion.” Walsingham sounded almost sincere. “But I am a man of business and my patience is at an end. Sir Gabriel, Mistress Wyatt, we have a precarious situation here. One that troubles Her Majesty greatly as it drags on. I do not tolerate anything that robs her of her peace.”

“Our peace has been somewhat beleaguered as well,” Gabriel said.

“That was the point of imprisoning you here.” Admiration for Gabriel’s courage flickered in the spymaster’s eyes. “I am certain we all agree it is best not to draw this out any longer. I am determined to put an end to this.
Tonight.
” My throat constricted at his resolve. “To that end, may I present Master Silas? His aid has become a regrettable necessity on occasion.”

Another man stepped from the shadows, his shoulders massive, his arms thick as the bears at the baiting Elizabeth so loved. A heavy jerkin covered his barrel chest, the leather stained with the blood of sufferers who had come before.

“Master Silas is very talented at his craft,” Walsingham said. “His secrets passed down through generations of his family.”

The torture master’s lips spread in a smile, pleased as if he were a schoolboy praised for excellence in his Latin exercise. “I do my best to serve the queen.”

“You do, when I can see no other way to protect Her Majesty.” Walsingham adjusted his sleeve. “Some might enjoy this spectacle, but I always hope the prisoner will be wise. It is my fondest prayer I will not have to watch them suffer.” I sensed he meant it. Yet, he would do what he must, even if the brutality repulsed him.

The torture master crossed to where a fire blazed, plucked a white-hot object from the flames. When he turned, he held a crescent-shaped blade, a wooden handle mounted above the cutting surface. I had seen similar implements in the Calverley flesh kitchens for cleaving bones. I could only imagine what other uses the tool might have. I glanced at Gabriel, his face unreadable. “All is ready to do the queen’s will,” the torture master said, testing the blade edge against his broad thumb. I smelled the faint scent of burned flesh as he returned the instrument to the fire.

Walsingham sighed. “You do my will tonight more than the queen’s. Her Majesty has given me leave to do what I must, but she finds such proceedings unpleasant. However, Sir Gabriel and Mistress Wyatt have left us no other choice.”

“I appreciate Her Majesty’s predicament, Sir Francis,” Gabriel said. “And your own.” How could Gabriel speak thus? His nerves ice cool while mine raged mad fire?

“I have always valued your powers of discernment,” Walsingham said.

“And I, your Christian principles, despite the unpleasant work you do. Sir Francis, you do not make war on pregnant women. Let us keep this ugliness between men. Send my wife away.”

I started to protest, but he shook his head slightly.

“You care for the lady, then?” Walsingham picked at Gabriel’s brittle calm.

“I do.” Gabriel feigned detachment. “She is, after all, my property now. You know how determined I am to keep what is mine in good repair.” He was testing Walsingham. I could almost feel Gabriel, edging his way along the rim of a precipice, trying to find solid ground where he could turn, then fight.

The spymaster’s gaze bored into Gabriel’s, two minds equal in guile locked in a test of will. “Dare I hope your wife feels a warmer attachment to you?”

“I cannot imagine why she would.” Gabriel’s jaw clenched and I saw his gaze flick to the knife. His voice dropped low with unexpected earnestness. “I have done her a harm, Walsingham. And I am sorry for it.”

“Gabriel,” I choked out. “All is forgiven.”

“She is most merciful to you, Wyatt.” Regret shadowed Walsingham’s homely face. “You do not deserve such a wife.”

“Well I know it.”

Walsingham paced to where writing implements were laid out. He examined a freshly mended quill. “Do you know what I sometimes envy in you, Sir Gabriel?”

“I am shocked a Puritan like you can find anything at all.”

“You are not burdened by inconvenient scruples.” How many times had I heard others speak of the Gypsy’s Angel just so? “Better to surrender honor and live than cling to some foolhardy sense of nobility and die. Is that not your creed?”

Gabriel shrugged. “I had never found anything worth dying for.”

Walsingham paused to consider. “Of course, when one examines the prospect rationally, dying might be a gift of sorts. A grand gesture, then peace.”

“I thought you Calvinists believed in hell. Eternal damnation is hardly an inviting prospect.”

“What would hell be like for a man of your sort? An athlete who values his physical prowess above all? Perhaps justice demands a hell fitted to be your very own.” Walsingham rolled the quill between deft fingers. “I wonder, Sir Gabriel, what would it be like if I maimed you for life? Cleaved off your hand?”

I could see Gabriel’s shoulders tense, but he sneered. “It would be a damned nuisance, since I have an unfortunate impulse to want to skewer people who annoy me.”

“No!” I cried. “Sir Francis, you cannot take his hand.”

“Quiet, woman!” Gabriel snapped. He turned to Walsingham. “Forgive my wife’s outburst. Too much education, you understand. It is rather like allowing a dog to eat from the table, amusing at first, but in the end one must teach them their place.”

I winced, his words echoing jibes from more close-minded men.

“Do you hear what he thinks of you? Sir Gabriel, it would be a pity to take your hand,” Walsingham said. “All you have to do to prevent it is to tell the truth. It is simple enough to do. A few sentences only.” His lip curled with irony. “Perhaps you can write them down as poetry.”

Gabriel laughed, a ragged sound. “Now that would be a sin sure to send me to the devil. Jesus himself would not be magnanimous enough to forgive my butchery of the English language.”

“This is not a jest!” Temper flared in Walsingham’s eyes. “Before you and your lady leave this room you will be light of something—either your secret or your hand.”

“It is quite simple then. As you say.” Gabriel’s gaze went to the chopping block that stood in the room’s center. He examined it with almost negligible grace. “I suppose you have other inducements to offer? Bribes beyond just the saving of my hand?”

“All your father’s lands will be restored to you. Your wife’s inheritance will be yours, as will the baronetcy. It is such a trifle Her Majesty asks in return. Merely tell whatever treasonous lies this woman has whispered in your marriage bed.”

“Am I to have no loyalty at all to my wife?”

“You have changed your loyalties before,” Walsingham reasoned. “When Jane Grey lost the throne you pledged fealty to Queen Mary rather than die honorably beside your father. And when you were released from prison you came to despise your own mother. Abandoning a traitorous wife is a petty thing in comparison.”

“I suppose that is true.”

Walsingham’s features sharpened. “You are a courtier, Sir Gabriel. A consummate realist. Surely you value your hand as much as you did your head. Perhaps more. Do you wish to go through life burdened with a grotesque stump the ladies will recoil from? For you will have to find your pleasures with those ladies again. Before this is done you will be rid of your wife.”

Gabriel’s eyes turned black, impenetrable as marble.

“I understand her loss might grieve you. But Calverley is only the first reward the queen will offer for such loyalty. There is no telling how high you might reach.”

“And my wife?”

“We can hardly allow a woman who might spread explosive rumors to live.” It was true, then, what I had suspected all along. I would die here or rot in prison. And our child? Once it was born would it suffer the fate the two little princes did during the reign of their uncle, King Richard? Would our babe melt into the Tower’s golden stone? Or be suffocated as I was meant to be?