And Less Than Kind Page 53

  Susanna Norton was the eldest of the ladies sent by Mary to serve Elizabeth. She glanced only briefly into the mirror when Elizabeth held it toward her, but long enough for Elizabeth to see that here was the danger from her women attendants. Susanna's face showed real animosity. If she could find a way to do me harm, Elizabeth thought, she will. Maybe Da will know why. He might have known her when he was at Court. Norton was also a very passionate Catholic, Elizabeth remembered. Likely, like Mary, she felt Elizabeth's conversion insincere.

  Although she gave no sign, Elizabeth sighed inwardly. Norton would be actively watching her for any sign of resistance to the Catholic rite. No doubt she would report any inattention to Mass, any flicker of expression that implied disapproval of the full Catholic rite. Norton, Elizabeth thought, would not hesitate to lie to please the queen, if she could get away with it. Elizabeth resolved never to be alone with her if she could avoid it.

  As if absently, Elizabeth carried the mirror downstairs. No breakfast was set in the parlor, nor was Bedingfield waiting to escort her to the ruinous manor to eat. The door to the inner room was open, however. Elizabeth walked over to see if more furniture had been obtained—and stopped dead.

  There was more furniture. It was in this room that a table had been set up for breakfast.

  Bedingfield was standing behind a short bench set at the foot of the table. He turned when he heard Elizabeth coming, an expression that mingled stubbornness and apprehension on his face. Elizabeth stood and stared. She understood he had arranged the inner room as a dining parlor to make clear to her that she would not be receiving any visitors. So Bedingfield was not quite as stupid as his face looked.

  Furnishing a dining parlor to make a point without words was a clever ploy, but at this moment Elizabeth had a more important question to be answered. Was Bedingfield an honest if dull-witted gaoler or a clever assassin?

  Elizabeth looked at the table, looked at Bedingfield, raised a hand as if to gesture as she expostulated—and then looked with pretended surprise at the mirror in her hand.

  "Oh," she said, and laughed. "My mind is truly elsewhere this morning. Just look at what I have carried down from my bedchamber without thinking."

  Bedingfield had turned fully to face her and bowed. Elizabeth thrust the mirror at him, again angled so it showed his face without catching hers. He looked into it briefly. Elizabeth looked into it. Bedingfield turned his head toward Elizabeth, but only to look at her while he spoke. He was not making an attempt to avoid the image in the mirror and Elizabeth had a long look at his face.

  She started to smile and then bit her lip, recalling that she was supposed to be angry about being deprived of a private receiving room. Truly, however, she knew there would be no one to receive and she was so relieved at what the mirror showed that she did not really feel like quarreling with her warden just now.

  Bedingfield's image in the mirror was plainly and simply Bedingfield. Like Blanche's image, nothing at all had changed. What showed in the mirror was exactly what Elizabeth saw when she looked at him directly: dull stubbornness, a transparent honesty, kindliness but overlaid with stern dedication. Elizabeth sighed gently with relief. Bedingfield would be no part of any attempt to assassinate her. He would both keep her confined and keep her safe with equal dedication.

  "There is something very strange about that mirror," Elizabeth Marberry said before either Elizabeth or Bedingfield could speak. "No one looks exactly right, and yet the image is bright and the glass does not seem to be uneven or ill made."

  Bedingfield looked slightly relieved when Marberry opened a neutral topic of conversation. He took the mirror from Elizabeth's hand with a slight bow, raised brows for permission, and stared into it intently. Elizabeth got another long look at what the mirror portrayed.

  "There does not seem to be anything wrong with it, Mistress Marberry," he said, bowing slightly again as he handed the mirror back to Elizabeth.

  "It is very old. Perhaps the glass has somehow been distorted over the years, and that only shows in certain light," Elizabeth said, walking to the head of the table where her chair was placed.

  She laid the mirror face down on the table beside her place. Dunstan appeared suddenly from some shadowed recess of the room and pulled the chair out. As she seated herself, and Dunstan pushed the chair to the table, Elizabeth gestured for her companions to sit also.

  "And now, Sir Henry," she said, staring down the length of the table at him, "how is it that this chamber, which I thought would be suitable for private meetings, is fitted out as a dining parlor?"

  "Because there is nowhere else to eat," Bedingfield said, "unless you wish to walk to the manor every day through good weather or ill. And let me remind you, Your Grace, that my orders from the queen are that you have no visitors and certainly no private meetings."

  Chapter 31

  Albertus had been almost completely at ease when he brought Aurilia the news that Elizabeth had been sent to the Tower. Almost at ease because the prince of the Dark Court and his consort were never predictable. However, ever since Mary had decided on the Spanish marriage, dissatisfaction and distrust had sent more and more power to the Unseleighe, and Vidal and Aurilia had been mostly very good tempered. Albertus had never mentioned that he was sure Mary would never order Elizabeth executed; had he done so, he was afraid that Vidal would somehow arrange Elizabeth's "accidental" death and Albertus was still determined to save her to spite his master.

  Now Albertus was bringing what Vidal would consider very bad news and he was tense with fear. Elizabeth was not to be executed; she was to be released to house arrest. He tried to concentrate on that fear, on the sense of disappointment for being unable to please his master. He tried to bury deep, very deep, his desire to see Elizabeth come to rule.

  Actually Albertus rather liked Queen Mary; she was a gentle soul, but her dithering about everything except the one thing she should abandon irritated him. And being at Court for the first few months of Mary's reign had allowed him to meet Elizabeth, who suffered from headaches. Like so many others and rather against his will because the feeling was dangerous to him, Albertus had been charmed.

  He confessed Elizabeth's emancipation to Aurilia, on his knees, filling his thoughts with helplessness and frustration at failure. Aurilia shrugged.

  "It is not your failure, Albertus," she said lazily, looking into a mirror. "I do not blame you. It is Vidal's creatures that are at fault."

  She was more beautiful than ever, Albertus thought; she glowed with power. In the past, from time to time, he had been aware that there were scars on her forehead and her complexion was somewhat raddled and realized that the spells that disguised those imperfections were weak. Now no one, no matter how familiar with the truth, would have been able to find any hint of those blemishes.

  "I did what I could, my lady. When the queen complained to me of indigestion or headache, I told her that if she rid herself of her anxiety about Lady Elizabeth, those symptoms would soon disappear."

  What Albertus said was perfectly true. That, indeed, was the advice he had given Mary. What he carefully kept in his mind was that if Elizabeth were dead, Mary's doubts would be over; he did not dare think that he had given what subtle hints he could that sending Elizabeth away would be equally effective.

  "A doctor is not a great mover or shaker," Aurilia agreed with mild contempt. "You have prepared more of the headache potion?"

  "Indeed I have, my lady, and your servant—the one who heals any physical hurt—has the large flasks. She can refill your bottles whenever necessary."

  "And you are keeping Queen Mary in good health?"

  "Yes, my lady, as good as possible. She is only mortal and not young. But she should live many years yet."

  "As many as possible. She is a great asset to the Dark Court."

  As she spoke, Aurilia gestured at Albertus. He felt himself wrapped in something, although there was nothing he could see. Reflexively, his body jerked and he thrust out his arms to pu
sh away the invisible blanket.

  "Nothing to fear," Aurilia said with a trill of laughter. "I've merely raised a shield around you so that if Vidal is annoyed by your news he will not blast you to nothing before he stops to think."

  Albertus should have been grateful. In a way he was grateful but he was also annoyed. Aurilia could have told him she was going to shield him and saved him the spurt of fear that still had his heart pounding. He had thought she was going to smother him; he had seen her reduce several servants to unconsciousness . . . and kill one.

  However, the precaution had not been necessary. Vidal, who looked wonderful—sleek and polished, his dark hair shining and his eyes showing a spark instead of looking like unpolished black stones—flung no spells at him. When Albertus knelt and delivered his news, Vidal only stared into the distance with pursed lips.

  "Who is interfering with my orders?" he asked; his voice was strong but not roaring.

  "My lord, no one that I can tell," Albertus faltered. "The common gossip is that the queen only really listens to the Imperial ambassador and he is known to have advised her again and again to have Lady Elizabeth executed. And I, myself, heard the chancellor, Bishop Gardiner, say that Lady Elizabeth was guilty of treason even if it could not be proven in a court of law and that the queen should order her death. Nor have I heard any rumor about any strong support for the queen's sister . . . but you know I cannot sense spells or those from Underhill."

  "Do you know all of Mary's women?"

  "Well," Albertus said hesitantly, not knowing where this question was leading, "I know their names and sometimes how they won their places, but I am only a common physician and they are noble ladies . . ."

  "One among them, her name is Rhoslyn . . . No, her name as the queen's lady is Rosamund Scott—" Vidal hesitated and then nodded and continued, "Ah. I see you know Rhoslyn."

  "Yes, my lord. She is a most trusted lady and often brings messages from the queen."

  Vidal smiled slightly. "Good. If she asks your help for any reason, be sure to do anything you can to assist her." He paused, thought. "So you say Elizabeth has been set free."

  "Not free, my lord. She has been sent deep into the country under the control of a devoted servant of the queen. It is a kind of imprisonment, but far from London where she is, in the queen's opinion, too popular."

  "Is the place secret?"

  "It was supposed to be, I think, but somehow word was sent out from the Tower about Lady Elizabeth's release, and all of London exploded in celebration of their favorite's freedom. And I mean exploded. The Steelyard fired all its guns in salute as Lady Elizabeth's barge went by. Bankside was lined with people, waving and cheering. And news came back to the queen that Lady Elizabeth had been greeted and cheered all along her route."

  "You seem to be enjoying that," Vidal snarled.

  Albertus shrank in on himself. "I beg your pardon, my lord. I was just remembering all the excitement in the city when it was known that Lady Elizabeth had been released. But because she was hailed all along her route, it is known now where Lady Elizabeth was sent. It was to an old, ruined manor in Oxfordshire. Woodstock."

  Vidal brightened. "A ruined manor, you say."

  "That is what I heard it called, my lord. I was never there myself. Never in Oxfordshire at all. I studied at Cambridge."

  "Hmmm." Vidal frowned, but it was in thought; actually he looked pleased and interested. With the plentitude of power available, he had lost much of his irritability. "I think this is work for your mortal servant."

  "My mortal servant?" Albertus repeated. "But my lord—"

  "He who gathered a troop to help Mary escape her pursuers."

  "Ah, Francis Howard. Yes, my lord, but . . . but . . ."

  But Albertus had dismissed Howard as soon as Mary was firmly in power and kept the last payment that was supposed to ensure Howard's regular attendance at a meeting place. Albertus did not dare say that. He cast a frightened glance at Aurilia who might have looked into his mind and seen the truth, but she had lost interest in what Vidal was planning and was frowning critically at a grouping of chairs under a black and gold hanging across the room.

  "But?" Vidal snapped.

  "But I have not used him in so long, my lord. I am not sure he will still be coming to the place where I used to meet him."

  Vidal just looked down at Albertus as if he had gibbered like an ape. His lip lifted in a sneer. "Then you will find him. Tell Howard to gather his men and test the defenses of Woodstock. If he needs more men he should hire them. He is to seize Elizabeth. You will then bring her here . . . alive or dead."

  Albertus's mouth opened to protest. Vidal waved his hand, and Albertus crashed to the floor of the bedchamber he used in Otstargi's house. He sat up, cursing and rubbing the places that had been bruised.

  Bedingfield won the contest over whether the inner chamber was to be a dining parlor or a receiving room. Privately Elizabeth knew that there was no other place for a dining hall so unless she wanted the servants to need to set up a table and seats for each meal, she would need to accept Bedingfield's arrangement. Moreover, it was highly unlikely she would be allowed to receive visitors; she would not need a private receiving room. Still, she picked at him and whined at him for two days before she conceded. It was the first of endless clashes of will.

  According the Mary's instructions, Elizabeth was to be allowed to walk in the upper and nether gardens. After a few days Elizabeth complained that was not sufficient for proper exercise; she demanded to be allowed to walk in the orchard also. Bedingfield, who adhered strictly to the letter of his instruction, insisted on the gardens only; Elizabeth nagged unmercifully; Bedingfield wrote to the Council for permission. Elizabeth won that one; in Bedingfield's company she was to be allowed to walk in the orchard.

  After a month, Elizabeth asked to be allowed to write to the queen. Bedingfield said he had no order that permitted her to write to anyone. Elizabeth said bitterly that even the most common criminal in Newgate prison was allowed to write to the queen. Bedingfield consulted the Council, his letter carrying Elizabeth's bitter words. The Council consulted each other; Elizabeth was allowed to write. It did no good. Mary was angry and said she wanted no more "colorable" letters, but the Council was reminded, as the arrival of Philip of Spain drew closer and closer, that the "mere English" heir to the throne was alive and kicking.

  By Mary's order, Elizabeth was to be allowed any books within reason. Within weeks, Elizabeth had been through every book available. John Fortesque, who was Thomas Parry's stepson and a student at Oxford, promptly sent three books. There was a cover letter for each, which made Bedingfield very suspicious. He sent the books to the Council. They found one of the cover letters suspicious, but Fortesque, wide-eyed and bland-faced, explained the words. Elizabeth got her books.

  Next she asked for an English Bible. Bedingfield felt that was an heretical article. Without prodding he appealed to the Council to decide whether he could supply what she asked for. Bedingfield won that one.

  When he could not convince Mary to execute her sister and was told that Elizabeth would be released from the Tower and held in a royal manor, Renard had made a new clever plan to which Mary tentatively agreed. He proposed when Elizabeth had been secluded and forgotten, she would be quietly sent abroad to Brussels, to the Court of the emperor's sister, where she could be married to some good Catholic nonentity and forever forgotten.

  Only Elizabeth's triumphant progress to Woodstock and her constant petitions to the Council—which somehow often were known throughout the Court despite the queen's displeasure at any mention of her sister—precluded any chance of forgetting her. Between the complaints of her friends that she was too straitly constrained and the protests of the Marians on the Council that she had never confessed her crimes and should be tried and executed, Elizabeth was frequently a subject of discussion and certainly present in the thoughts of the Court.

  To Mary's even greater displeasure Elizabeth agreed completely w
ith the suggestion of a trial. When she was accused by some member of the Council of treason, she herself roundly demanded to be brought to London and tried. She was innocent, she declared in a ringing voice, and a jury would surely proclaim her so.

  No one would take the challenge. The Marian faction was too aware that English juries had declared several known leaders of the late rebellion innocent of any crime, and those who secretly supported Elizabeth felt it would be too dangerous; juries had been known to be rigged. Nonetheless word of Elizabeth's willingness to be tried spread and some who had doubted her now felt she was innocent.

  And so it went as the weeks passed. Bedingfield won many of the contests, but not until Elizabeth had forced him to write to the Council for instructions. Elizabeth might be held, theoretically without the ability to communicate with anyone, in a decaying manor in Oxfordshire, but few in the government had any chance to forget her.