Philippa Gregory 3-Book Tudor Collection 2 Read online

  ‘Your Grace, I must ask you some questions, and this gentleman –’

  ‘Sir Peter Brown.’ He bows to her.

  ‘This gentleman will listen. He has come from Lord Burghley with most disturbing news.’

  Her gaze that meets my eyes is so honest and true that I am certain that she knows nothing of this. If the Spanish land, they will do so without her knowledge. If they come for her and take her from me, it will be without her consent. She gave her word to Lord Morton and to me that she would not plot with anyone, any more. She plans to get back to Scotland by Elizabeth’s treaty, not by destroying England. She gave her word there would be no more plots.

  ‘Your Grace,’ I begin trustingly. ‘You must tell Sir Peter all that you know.’

  She droops a little, like a flower, heavy-headed in a shower of rain. ‘But I know nothing,’ she says gently. ‘You know that I am cut off from my friends and my family. You know yourself that you see every letter that comes for me and that I see no-one without your consent.’

  ‘I am afraid that you know more than I do,’ I say. ‘I am afraid that you know more than you tell me.’

  ‘You don’t trust me now?’ Her dark eyes widen as if she cannot believe that I would betray the affection I have for her, as if she cannot imagine that I would accuse her of being false, especially in front of a stranger, and an adherent of her enemy.

  ‘Your Grace, I dare not trust you,’ I say clumsily. ‘Sir Peter here has brought me a message from Lord Burghley that commands me to question you. You are implicated in a plot. I have to ask you what you know.’

  ‘Shall we sit?’ she asks distantly, like the queen she is, and turns her back on us and leads us into the garden. There is a bench in an arbour with roses growing around the seat. She spreads out her gown and sits, like a girl interviewing suitors. I take the stool that her lady-in-waiting was using, and Sir Peter drops to the grass at her feet.

  ‘Ask,’ she invites me. ‘Please, ask me whatever you want. I should like to clear my name. I should like everything to be above board with us.’

  ‘Will you give me your word that you will tell me the truth?’

  Queen Mary’s face is as open as a child’s. ‘I have never lied to you, Chowsbewwy,’ she says sweetly. ‘You know I have always insisted that I be allowed to write privately to my friends and to my family. You know I have admitted that they are forced to write to me secretly and I to reply. But I have never plotted against the Queen of England, and I have never encouraged rebellion of her subjects. You can ask me what you wish. My conscience is clear.’

  ‘Do you know a Florentine named Roberto Ridolfi?’ Sir Peter says quietly.

  ‘I have heard of him, but I have never met him nor had any correspondence with him.’

  ‘How have you heard of him?’

  ‘I have heard that he lent the Duke of Norfolk some money,’ she says readily.

  ‘D’you know what the money was for?’

  ‘For his private use, I think,’ she says. She turns to me. ‘My lord, you know I do not have letters from the duke any more. You know he has abandoned our betrothal and sworn allegiance to the queen. He broke his betrothal to me and deserted me, on the command of his queen.’

  I nod. ‘That’s true,’ I say aside to Sir Peter.

  ‘You have had no letters from him?’

  ‘Not since he broke his promise to me. I would not receive a letter from him if he wrote it, not since he rejected me,’ she says proudly.

  ‘And when did you last hear from the Bishop of Ross?’ Sir Peter asks her.

  She frowns, trying to remember. ‘Lord Chowsbewwy would recall, perhaps. His letters are always delivered to me by Lord Chowsbewwy.’ She turns to me. ‘He wrote to say he was safely back in London after visiting us at Chatsworth, didn’t he?’

  ‘Yes,’ I confirm.

  ‘And you have not heard from him since?’

  Again she turns to me. ‘I don’t think so. Have we? No.’

  Sir Peter gets to his feet, and puts his hand against the warm stone wall as if to steady himself. ‘Have you had any letters from the Pope or from Philip of Spain or any of their servants?’

  ‘Do you mean ever?’ she asks, a little puzzled.

  ‘I mean this summer, I mean in the past few months.’

  She shakes her head. ‘Nothing. Have they written to me and their letters gone astray? I think Lord Burghley spies upon me and steals my messages, and you can tell him from me that it is wrong to do so.’

  Sir Peter bows to her. ‘Thank you for your courtesy in talking with me, Your Grace. I will leave you now.’

  ‘I have a question for you,’ she tells him.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I am a prisoner, but that does not guarantee my safety. I was alarmed when I heard the bell ringing, and your questions have not reassured me. Please tell me, Sir Peter, what is happening? Please reassure me that my cousin the queen is safe and well.’

  ‘Do you think she might be in danger?’

  She glances down as if the question is an embarrassment. ‘I know there are many who disagree with her rule,’ she says, shamefaced. ‘I am afraid there are those who would plot against her. There may even be those who would plot against her in my name. But that does not mean that I have joined with them. I wish her nothing but good, and I always have done. I am here in her country, in her power, imprisoned by her, because I trusted to the love that she promised me. She failed that love, she failed the bond that should be between queens. But even so, I would never wish her anything but good health and safety and good fortune.’

  ‘Her Grace is blessed with such a friendship,’ Sir Peter says and I wonder if he is being ironic. I look at him quickly, but I can tell nothing. He and the queen are equally bland. I cannot tell what either of them is truly thinking.

  ‘So, is she safe?’ she asks.

  ‘When I left London the queen was on progress in the country and enjoying the warm weather,’ he says. ‘My lord Burghley has uncovered a plot in time to destroy it. All those who were party to it will go to the scaffold. Every one of them. I am here only to ensure that you are safe also.’

  ‘And where is she?’ Queen Mary asks him.

  ‘On progress,’ he replies levelly.

  ‘This plot concerns me?’ she asks.

  ‘I think many plots concern you,’ he says. ‘But luckily my lord Burghley’s men are thorough. You are safe here.’

  ‘Well, I thank you,’ she says coolly.

  ‘A word,’ Sir Peter says to me as he turns away from her, and I follow him to the garden gate. ‘She is lying,’ he says bluntly. ‘Lying like a trooper.’

  ‘I dare swear she is not …’

  ‘I know she is,’ he says. ‘Ridolfi was carrying a letter of introduction from her to the Pope himself. He showed it to Cecil’s man. He boasted of her support. She told the Pope to trust Ridolfi as he would trust her own self. Ridolfi has a plan he calls ‘the Great Enterprise of England’ to destroy us all. It is this plot which is coming to us now. She has called down six thousand fanatical Papist Spaniards on us. And she knows where they are landing, and she has organised for their payment.’

  I hold on to the gate to conceal the weakness in my knees.

  ‘I can’t question her,’ he goes on. ‘I cannot interrogate her as I would any ordinary suspect. If she was anyone else she would be in the Tower now and we would be piling rocks on her chest till her ribs broke and her lies were squeezed out with her last gasping breath. We can’t do that to her, and it is hard to tell what other pressure we can bring to bear. To tell truth, I can hardly bear to speak to her. I can hardly look into her false face.’

  ‘There is no more beautiful woman in the world!’ bursts from me.

  ‘Oh aye, she’s lovely. But how can you admire a face which is two-faced?’

  For a moment I am about to argue, and then I remember the sweetness of her inquiry after her cousin’s health and I think of her writing to Philip of Spain, bringing the Spaniards in