The Queen's Captive Page 13

  “What would happen to Princess Elizabeth if the Queen delivered no child at all?” she began.

  “Pardon?” Sir William asked with a bewildered frown.

  She told them the condition in which she had found the Queen. And how no one at the palace seemed to notice. Or at least pretended not to.

  “Mon dieu, then it’s true,” Noailles said, his eyes wide. “I didn’t believe it when she told me.”

  “Told you?” Honor asked. “Who?”

  “I have a spy among the Queen’s women, clever at worming out information. The midwife secretly admitted this very truth to my informant—that there is no baby.”

  Sir William let out a puff of astonishment. “But what about…” He smoothed his hands over his belly as if it were swollen with child.

  “Imagined, all imagined,” Noailles said. “A fantasy.”

  “Perhaps a malady,” Honor said. She had heard of women suffering bloated lumps in the womb. Sometimes they were fatal. “Poor lady. Not life growing in her, but disease.”

  “But what about the doctors?” Sir William said with obvious skepticism. “How could they possibly get this wrong?”

  Noailles shrugged. “Too ignorant to know the difference.”

  Honor said, “More likely too afraid to tell the Queen. The same with her women.”

  Sir William shook his head, unable to accept it. “But, the Queen herself. How can she not know?”

  Noailles answered with some relish, the satisfaction of an insider. “First, I understand there are more symptoms than just her swollen abdomen. The state of the breasts, for example, tender and somewhat enlarged. And her appetite, diminished and queasy. Second, I am told that she has suffered for years, since her adolescence, with only intermittent monthly bleeding. Still, this—I did not actually believe it until now.” He summed up with some amazement, “The Queen is either an outright liar or a pathetic fool.”

  “Or,” Honor said with a twinge of pity, “so hopelessly obsessed with proving herself a good wife and queen, she has truly deluded herself.” She remembered Mary’s mother, Queen Catherine, and her desperate twenty-year quest for a son. The tearful miscarriages, the tragic death of an infant boy, the dismaying approach of menopause. And, through it all, her agonizing sense of failure to her husband. A husband lusting after nubile Anne Boleyn.

  “So, no baby,” Cecil said, finally accepting it, the bureaucrat getting down to business. “What does that mean for us? For the Princess?”

  Noailles threw up his hands. “Back to where we were. Heir apparent, despised by the Queen. I lie awake thinking how despised. Ever since Wyatt’s uprising, Renard has been urging the Queen to execute the Princess, and it is clear how much she wants to. And then, well, the Queen herself…” He seemed now to be thinking aloud, mulling the situation. “If this is a disease, as you suggest, Mistress Thornleigh, perhaps the Queen will die of it.”

  Honor guessed that his thoughts were bending to the political landscape if both Mary and Elizabeth were dead. Next in line for the throne was Mary Stuart, the late King Henry’s thirteen-year-old grandniece. Born in Scotland, and called queen there since her infancy, she had been betrothed to the king of France’s son when she was a child of six, and had lived in the splendor of the French court ever since.

  “The present Queen is our concern, sir,” Honor said firmly. “Though ill, she is very much alive. Frances Grenville told me she gets spells of pain but they always pass. And she has much to live for. A kingdom. And future pregnancies.”

  “But, good Lord, how will she manage things when the truth is known?” Sir William said. “She cannot keep up this deception for much longer. And when the truth becomes public, just imagine. She’ll be an object of ridicule. To her people—to all of Europe.”

  “Exactly,” Honor said. “Monsieur de Noailles thinks things will go back to where they were, but I cannot agree. Nothing will be the same. No woman can go through what the Queen is enduring—and will endure, publicly—and remain unchanged. It will devastate her. And a woman in despair, a humiliated and cornered queen—”

  “Could be a dangerous creature,” said Sir William.

  “This queen is already unstable,” she added. “Besotted with her husband and fanatical about her mission for God.” As these tumultuous thoughts distilled into one, she felt a thump of fear. “It could drive her mad.”

  Sir William looked as though he was thinking precisely what she was, and dreading it. Who would Mary lash out at in the full fury of her despair? Elizabeth.

  She rode as hard as she could, but her mare was old and her gunshot wound plagued her and she did not reach the palace until long after dark. When she hurried into the Princess’s bedchamber, panting, Elizabeth was gone. A young maid, no more than fourteen, was weeping in the gloom. Candlelight shadows writhed over her face. Just minutes ago, she said, the soldiers had come for her mistress.

  It’s happened. “Where are they taking her?”

  The girl sobbed. Honor shook her by the shoulders. “Where?”

  “I know not!” she wailed. “They just…barged in and…the last thing she said was, ‘Pray for me, Margery.’”

  Honor dashed to the window. The room overlooked the rear garden and in the moonlight she could see the troop of the Queen’s guards, eight of them, marching down the cinder path that bisected the garden, two holding torches to light their way. Elizabeth walked in the middle unsteadily, like someone condemned.

  Honor left the sobbing maid and ran out.

  She caught up with the troop as they marched, their boots crunching the gravel, their torch flames twisting in the wind. “Wait!” she cried. “I beg you, wait!”

  Elizabeth turned, her face as white as the moonlight.

  Honor caught up with the captain. “I must attend Her Grace,” she said, breathless from running, her wound afire. She showed him her badge. “It is her right!”

  The captain stopped the troop. Conceding, though reluctantly, he jerked his head, motioning her to join Elizabeth. Honor flung out her arms to embrace Elizabeth, but the captain thrust his sword between them. “You will not touch her.”

  They started to march again, the two women side by side. Honor would stay with her as long as she could—all the way to the end. But where were they taking her? Past the end of the garden lay the river, the wharf, boats. Downstream, past the night-dark fields and villages, lay London. In London, the Tower.

  “I should have listened to you…my letter,” Elizabeth whispered, her voice as hollow as Honor’s hope. She looked like a terrified child bewildered by an inexplicable punishment. “Will she kill me…for a letter?”

  They reached the end of the garden and the guards turned. Not to the river then, Honor realized. To a lockup somewhere on the grounds? Or—a far worse horror—a secret palace scaffold? Summary execution.

  Elizabeth seemed to guess at that horror, too, and gasped. Her footsteps became erratic, her breaths shallow. Her eyelids fluttered as though she might faint. Honor’s arm circled her waist to steady her, defying the captain. “Have pity, sir, and stop,” she said. “My lady is ill!”

  He glared over his shoulder at her and did not stop. But neither did he force her to let go of Elizabeth. They were turning again, taking a path that led back to the palace, to the east wing. Straight ahead lay a flight of stairs. Honor and Elizabeth exchanged a wondering glance. These were the private outer stairs to the royal apartments. The forward guards started up the steps. Honor and Elizabeth followed, the rear guard at their heels.

  The antechamber was deserted and lay in gloom, a few low candles guttering. No duchesses now, no ladies-in-waiting, not even a maid to refresh the candles. The room’s shadows seemed to shrink in fear as the guards stomped through. They halted before the Queen’s bedchamber door. The captain knocked.

  “Come.” The Queen’s voice. Strong and low, in command.

  The captain opened the door. He nodded to Elizabeth, telling her to enter. Trembling, she walked in. Honor started to
follow. The captain’s arm shot out to stop her.

  “Let her lady pass,” the Queen’s voice ordered.

  They came into her presence. She sat in a chair, her back straight, her eyes clear, her hair neatly coiffed, though her face was still pale. Honor was astonished at her recovery. Her gown, roomy enough to allow for a baby—and roomy enough to hide the truth—was a sumptuous gold and black brocade. The bedchamber was pleasantly alight with candles, and smelled fragrant with herbs strewn among the fresh rushes that covered the floor. Honor could hardly believe the total transformation from this morning.

  Elizabeth moved forward and sank to her knees before her sister. Honor stayed by the door and kneeled, too. The Queen stared at Elizabeth with eyes narrowed in anger, as though trying to decide which accusation to begin with. Honor saw that she held the turquoise and pearl rosary, the one she believed had been her mother’s, and there was a restlessness about the way she fingered the beads tightly, jerkily, as though to hold herself back from lashing out. There was a sharp light in her eyes, an impulse to cruelty, restrained.

  “What will you say in your defense?” she asked, her tone a cold, quiet dare. “That you have been wrongfully punished?”

  Honor saw Elizabeth’s shudder. Defense? Was there going to be a trial?

  Elizabeth’s voice quavered as she answered, “I must not say so, if it please Your Majesty, to you.”

  “Oh yes, so clever. All your answers are so very clever. But what will you say to the world?”

  On the scaffold? Elizabeth’s terror forced its way out in tears, despite her will to dam them. Honor heard the tears in her voice. “That I am Your Majesty’s faithful and loyal servant, and ever will be.”

  “I would you could swear the same to God. But I will not commit the sacrilege of asking you to, knowing you would to lie to Him as you have done to me.”

  She sprang up from her chair, eyes ablaze, and hurled the rosary at Elizabeth. It struck her cheek. She gasped. Honor jumped to her feet.

  “You plotted with Wyatt!” Mary shouted. “You plotted my death!”

  Elizabeth rubbed her cheek, crying quietly, her struggle intensely private, a struggle to stay strong. It tore at Honor’s heart to see the girl fighting for her life. “I never did, Your Majesty…I swear that I—”

  “Enough!” Mary sank back onto her chair as though the explosion of rage had exhausted her. “I will not listen. I care not. I am done with you.”

  Honor felt frozen. Was the Queen sending her sister to her death? Yet that queer gleam in her eye made Honor wonder if she had misjudged what was happening here. Was there something else going on? Something beyond Mary’s control?

  A scrape sounded across the room. Honor looked past the bed. The sound had come from behind tapestry curtains that divided the room. From inside, a hand pulled the curtain aside. A man stepped out, gorgeously dressed in jeweled black velvet and silver satin.

  It was the portrait come to life. The Queen’s fair-haired young husband. Philip. Honor dropped to her knees again. The Queen, however, was not surprised by his entrance. She had known all along that he was there.

  He sauntered toward his wife, confident, calm. “Permettez-moi d’accueillir votre soeur, madame.” Allow me to welcome your sister, madam. Honor remembered that he spoke no English, that the Queen had to converse with him in French. He looked down at Elizabeth on her knees. “Notre soeur,” he said, as though correcting himself. Our sister.

  Elizabeth stared up at him in wonder. In fear.

  He smiled. “Très jolie.” Very pretty.

  He stepped closer to her and bent and picked up the rosary that Mary had thrown at her. He handed it back to his wife with a look of mild reproach. “Non plus de cela,” he told her. No more of that.

  Honor’s eyes flicked in amazement from him to the Queen. Mary’s fury had shriveled, and she herself seemed to have shrunk. She gazed at her husband with spaniel eyes and said, “Mon seigneur, comme vous voulez.” My lord, as you wish.

  Honor could hardly believe it. In one moment this man’s presence had transformed the Queen from imperious sovereign into slave.

  “My wish?” he said, still speaking in French. “Why, madam, you know it. A son.”

  Mary’s chin trembled as she endured her private humiliation and pain. She raised her hand to grasp his for comfort. He took it and held it. “I pray that God will smile on us with an heir,” he said kindly. “If not this time, next time.”

  He knows, Honor thought in amazement. Knows there is no child. Or at least he suspects it and is going along with the Queen’s charade. Does she know that he knows?

  “Now,” he said, dropping his wife’s hand like a pair of gloves, “let us have no more shrill voices. Let our beloved sister henceforth feel your kindness.” It was an order, though gently made, and Mary bowed her head, accepting it.

  Philip stepped up to Elizabeth and offered her his hand. Mouth agape, she slipped her hand into his. He raised her to her feet. He kissed her softly on one cheek, then on the other. Mary closed her eyes tightly, as though hardly able to bear this further injury.

  “The hour is late,” Philip said to Elizabeth. “My wife is tired. We will talk another day.”

  And in that moment Honor knew that the Queen’s husband had saved Elizabeth’s life.

  They sat on the edge of Elizabeth’s bed, face-to-face, lost in the wonder of it. The room was still dark but for a single candle. They had no time for candles, or for any other thought beyond the extraordinary thing that had just happened.

  “Why would he do it?” Elizabeth was whispering, as though speaking out loud might tempt the gods to snatch away this lifeline.

  “I think…” Honor said, then stopped, still piecing it together. She was whispering, too, but only in case someone might be listening. Noailles had spies, so the imperial ambassador, Renard, almost certainly did as well. “I think he needs you.”

  Elizabeth frowned, incredulous. “What?”

  “Politics. With no baby—”

  “A phantom baby,” Elizabeth murmured, clearly still overwhelmed by what Honor had explained to her on their hurried way back to her rooms.

  “Exactly. With no heir of the Queen’s body, you are once again the heir apparent, and he—”

  “But I always was. And Philip knew that. So why—”

  “Because he’s thinking two steps ahead, like the wily Hapsburg prince that he is. He’s thinking of his situation if the Queen dies, if not from this malady then perhaps from a childbirth to come. If the Queen kills you and then dies childless, who is next in line for the throne?” She asked it like a good lawyer, knowing the answer.

  Elizabeth didn’t hesitate. “My cousin, Mary. Queen of the Scots.”

  “Only it isn’t the Scots who worry Philip. Where has your cousin lived since she was a child?”

  “In France.”

  “Betrothed to the French king’s son. She has grown up as a beloved part of King Henri’s family—”

  “Pampered by them like a little pet, I always heard—”

  “And soon she’ll be his daughter-in-law. No doubt it’s the very reason he wanted her for his son, hoping for the day he might see her take the throne of England. With England a vassal state of France, he could control trade. Use England to fight his wars. And confound his enemy, Emperor Charles.”

  “Philip’s father,” Elizabeth said, instantly understanding. “So, I’m alive. And, if Philip gets to decide this—”

  “Which he obviously does, as we just saw—”

  “Then I’ll stay alive.”

  For the first time Elizabeth allowed herself to smile. Brave girl, Honor thought. She could have hugged her.

  “The question is…” Elizabeth paused, thinking, biting at a ragged fingernail.

  Honor could practically hear that clever brain at work, weighing, sorting, planning. “The questions is…?”

  Elizabeth looked at her, deadly serious. “Am I free?”

  10

  News


  September–October 1555

  Honor was laughing so hard at the actors she couldn’t catch her breath. Beside her Adam, too, roared with laughter. They stood in the empty musicians’ gallery above the great hall of Hatfield House, looking down at the whole household of Elizabeth’s officials and administrators and servants and friends, all of them doubled over, their laughter ringing up to the roof’s timbers. Elizabeth sat in the front row, laughing hardest of all.

  The trestle tables where everyone ate dinner had been pushed back, and from benches ranged in a semicircle they were watching the foolery on the makeshift stage, where the actors were running around in a fine madness. A buffoon surgeon had tried to pull a patient’s tooth with a pair of monstrous tongs while a sly servant tried to rob the suffering patient, and now the surgeon chased the patient and the patient chased the servant and the servant chased a pretty boy-actor playing a maid, and the hall rocked with laughter at their antics.

  “Look out!” Elizabeth shrieked as the servant’s partner in crime tossed an orange peel underfoot in the path of the patient. The patient slipped on it and tumbled, the tooth popped out, the surgeon dove and caught it, the maid whirled around, the lusting servant plowed into her, knocking her down on her back, and fell on top of her.

  The audience howled. Adam threw back his head and laughed. Honor laughed so hard she had to pull out her handkerchief to wipe her eyes. After the months of shared captivity with Elizabeth it felt so good to laugh. The Princess was free. She was back at her beloved Hatfield House where she had spent most of her childhood, and all of her loyal staff were with her.

  Another five minutes and the play was over. Elizabeth, clapping, jumped up and skipped to the edge of the stage to talk to the actors, who grinned and wiped sweat from their brows. Several of Elizabeth’s household people followed her, handing goblets of wine up to the actors.