And Less Than Kind Page 7
Doubtless, although he said nothing except that Edward was likely to do better with his offer, Winchester had known the king was very sick and his guard might well be disbanded if he died. Also his cousin did hint that Lady Mary would require Catholic observance from him. Thus, service with Lady Elizabeth was best.
Of course, Sir Edward knew that Winchester expected him to provide information about Lady Elizabeth and her household. And so he would. Sir Edward smiled behind his hand again. Although it was true that Winchester liked Lady Elizabeth and wished her well, Sir Edward was not going to trust his cousin's good will. He might well pass information; there was plenty to be said about his lady's studies, how carefully she managed her household, and how she behaved when ambassadors were sent to visit her. But Sir Edward would tell no tales that could harm his enchanting lady.
The women servants had now descended from the carts in which they had been sheltering and begun to root through the baggage to find the medical supplies everyone carried on a journey. The roads were rough so that broken axles or wheels could tip wagons and cause injuries to the passengers. Worse, because of the bad times there were outlaws who attacked travelers.
After a single glance to be sure that the wounded were being attended, Sir Edward took stock of the men who were unhurt, ordered the baggage wagon and the cart that had carried the servants drawn closer, and set his diminished troop—enlarged by the armed grooms—into defensive positions. He would have liked to tell Lady Elizabeth to sit in the cart where she would be stationary, surrounded by fighters, and safer, but he suspected that if he made the suggestion he would get his ears burned off—and might lose his place, too.
Another glance showed him that Lady Elizabeth had drawn her horse as close as possible to that of Lord Denno, and they had their heads together . . . as usual. A real puzzle was Lord Denno. Rich as Croesus and indulgent to Lady Elizabeth as a doting father. Old enough to be her grandfather, too, but . . . Sir Edward looked away, around the busy site. He did not want be caught staring. But . . . there was something between those two that had nothing to do with the rich presents Lord Denno brought or Lady Elizabeth's need for a father-like friend, as Mistress Ashley would have it.
In the next moment Sir Edward had good reason to join them.
"Those weren't outlaws." Elizabeth's voice was indignant.
She had pulled her horse close to Miralys, and nodded to Sir Edward as he joined her and Denoriel.
"No, I do not believe they were," Lord Denno replied, with the faint accent that Sir Edward could not place no matter how hard he tried.
All of them turned to look at the messenger in royal livery, who had done nothing to help them when they were attacked.
The man was quivering like aspic in a nervous servant's hands and for a moment Elizabeth could not imagine why he had not fled. Then she saw that Nyle, bared sword in hand, was right behind him, and one of the young men-at-arms, whose name Elizabeth did not know, was to the side, holding of the messenger's reins. The young man had a bloody sleeve.
"Are you hurt, Nyle?" Elizabeth asked anxiously.
"No, m'lady."
"Good." She smiled at him, her gladness warm and open. "Then let your partner go and get his wound dressed." She looked directly at the younger man. "I am sorry you were hurt . . . ah . . . Robert—" She had not known the name but caught it from Nyle's mouthing.
"It's naught but a scratch, m'lady," the young man muttered, his eyes worshipful.
"I hope so." Elizabeth smiled at him. "But let us be sure rather than sorry. Let it be cleaned and bound so it will not fester. Among Nyle, Sir Edward, and Lord Denno, whoever this is will do me no harm. I will be safe."
"Yes, m'lady," Robert whispered and reached the reins toward Denoriel who had come to his side.
Denoriel smothered a grin. Apparently the young man would sit bleeding rather than be salved if he could watch Elizabeth. The messenger reached forward as if to intercept the reins before Denoriel took them and found the "old man's" rapier an inch from his neck. He cried out and sat back.
"I am a royal messenger!"
"Are you indeed?" Elizabeth's voice could have cooled a drink on a day far hotter than this one.
"I am. I am. I can show you my patent. And here is a letter to your ladyship from the king."
Elizabeth's face suddenly lit with hope. "Edward was well enough to write me a letter?" she said, reaching out eagerly.
The messenger found the letter in his saddlebag and handed it to Elizabeth. As she breathlessly broke the seal, he showed the order for him to use post horses to Denoriel. The order was under Northumberland's seal. The sword at his throat did not waver.
"It is not from Edward," Elizabeth cried. "It is not even his signature!" Hope of her dearly loved little brother's recovery destroyed, fury took its place. She turned on the messenger. "Who are you? Who sent you? Who paid you to lead that armed band of assassins to attack me?"
"No, my lady! No! I am a royal messenger. I knew nothing about those men. Nothing!"
Elizabeth's pale cheeks flushed slightly with rage. Denoriel's arm drew back in readiness to stab at her word. And Kat Ashley came and plucked at her riding skirt.
"Elizabeth, we can go no farther just now, and I think we should go back to Hatfield, which is much closer than London. Two of the men have serious wounds. I do not understand how men can keep fighting with great holes in them—"
Worry dampened rage. "Not any of my four," Elizabeth said softly.
"No, no. Dickson has a cut, but it is truly no more than a scratch. The others are all well. But Dunstan says it would be better if we could pull off the road. Dunstan will decide whether we could make horse litters for the wounded or whether we should make a suitable place for them in the wagons."
"We should certainly remove ourselves as soon as we can from this place," Sir Edward said.
"Yes, and I think we should read that message carefully and try to discover from whom it came. And since the reason for your setting out from Hatfield so swiftly no longer exists—" Denoriel eyed the messenger with disfavor "—we might as well go back to Hatfield. We can set out anew . . . if you decide to do so, any time at all."
"I agree," Elizabeth said, her thin lips becoming even thinner. "And Hatfield would be a better place to get answers from this 'royal messenger'."
Chapter 4
William Cecil, chief secretary to John Dudley, duke of Northumberland, cast one flashing glance at his master before lowering his eyes to the sheet on which he was making notes. Inside he was cold with horror. He could hardly believe what he was hearing. He had known that his master was growing more and more desperate as the young king's health worsened and he had guessed that Northumberland was making plans to protect himself, but it had not occurred to him that the duke would try to solve his problem by changing the succession.
All of England had accepted the succession as defined in the Will of Henry VIII and the Act of Succession voted by the Parliament. England had been satisfied with their paragon of a young king; some it is true had not been happy with his weak economic policy and strong leaning toward the reformed religion or his increasing intolerance for any hint of Catholic practice. Most of the commons, the merchants, and the minor nobility blamed those who governed for him. They hoped by the time he came of age he would better understand the political and religious realities so that when he took the management of the kingdom into his own hands the wrongs would be righted.
When rumors began to ooze through the country of Edward's illness, no one was happy. Still, no one was in a panic either. The country would not fall into anarchy. The succession was established. There were two recognized heirs—or, rather, heiresses—the royal line of England was singularly without males. That was most unfortunate; no one really looked forward to a queen regnant. But the entire country dearly loved Lady Mary, who was known for her kindness and her steady courage.
What William Cecil was hearing was treason. Yet how could it be treason when the device he
was recording was said to come from the king himself? Cecil did not believe it. Edward was inclined to reverence his father and not to wish to change what Henry VIII had decreed—except in matters of religion.
Cecil's lips tightened and he took the lower between his teeth, concealing the mark of anxiety with his bent head. Religion. That was the crux of the matter. Edward was a violent bigot. He abhorred all things Catholic, and Mary, his heir, was devotedly Catholic. No pressure placed on her, not even Edward's own pleading and remonstrance had induced her to put aside her Masses. So it could be that Edward had worked out this "devise."
Only this arrangement excluded Elizabeth as well as Mary and Cecil knew Edward was fond of Elizabeth and knew her to prefer the reformed religion. Cecil himself had not been looking forward to Mary coming to the throne. He was convinced that the Catholic religion and, in particular, the Catholic papacy and priests were corrupt and greedy, and his wife was strongly of his opinion. Cecil was perfectly willing to keep his lips sealed over his religious preference, but he was quite sure that the Lady Mary would not be satisfied with quiet nonobservance. If he wished to serve and, more especially, rise in her government, open conformity would be required . . . Mass, confession, tithing to the Church . . .
"Let me see what you have written—and you yourself need to write this matter. No secretaries. No hint of the king's devise should go farther than your chamber."
"No, Your Grace, of course not. But . . . but I cannot understand why the king has . . . has disinherited Lady Elizabeth. I understand that to have a strong Catholic on the throne, who would be inclined to marry only another Catholic, would be a disaster for this realm. Lady Elizabeth, however, believes as the king does. I remember that he called her his Sweet Sister Temperance and always took great joy in her company."
Northumberland stared down, his face expressionless except for a twitch on the left side of his mouth. "Ah, yes. You are in high favor with Lady Elizabeth. You hold a position as surveyor of her estates, do you not?"
"Yes, Your Grace, I do."
"And you looked to rise higher still if she became queen."
Cecil shrugged. "That possibility was far in the future if it were ever to come about. I—"
"Well, it will not!" Northumberland's jaw clenched. "The king himself saw that it was impossible to disinherit one sister because she was declared illegitimate and not the other, when she, too, was declared illegitimate and is, moreover, a very headstrong young woman, disinclined to take advice." He paused, then said, "I want that document in my hands before dinner. Do not make any copy and destroy the notes you have made. And if there is any hint of a rumor about this disposition . . ."
Northumberland turned and walked out of the room. For a moment Cecil sat staring down at his notes. No, this time he dared not send even a distant hint to Elizabeth. And what good would a hint do? Unless he was totally explicit, no one would understand what he was hinting about. The idea was incredible! To change the succession to heirs male of Frances Brandon or of her daughters. Why the girls were just barely married. Who knew if there would be heirs male . . . or any heirs at all . . . The poor little king was fading fast.
To exclude Mary and Elizabeth . . . Could Northumberland carry enough of the Council? Cecil sighed. They were all so much afraid of him. The shock to Elizabeth would be dreadful, but . . . Wait! What did Northumberland intend to do with Mary and Elizabeth? To ignore them was an open invitation to rebellion. That Mary should rule and Elizabeth follow if Mary had no heir was a settled fact in the public mind. Whatever the Council was forced to agree to, the gentry and the people would be shocked and angry. The first event anyone disapproved would bring an army of supporters to one princess or the other.
Cold coursed down Cecil's spine. Northumberland was far too good a soldier to leave an armed and unbeaten enemy free in his rear. He fumbled in the drawer of his writing table for a sheet of parchment. Northumberland would try to seize both ladies. And God alone knew what would happen to them once they were in his hand.
Then Cecil breathed a soft sigh of relief. He had only the day before sent an order under the king's seal telling Elizabeth that she should not come to London, that Edward would not be able to receive her. Cecil bit his lip again. Would she obey it? Elizabeth was just the kind to confine the messenger until after she had reached London and claim she had not received the message in time to turn back. Despite his anxiety Cecil could not restrain a chuckle. Biddable? No, Lady Elizabeth was not biddable. Northumberland would be much happier with an infant heir from one of Frances Brandon's daughters.
Cecil flattened the sheet of parchment on the table and dipped his quill into the ink. Without glancing at the notes he had made, he began to write out the king's "devise." If the king survived until a boy child was born to one of the girls named in the "devise," Cecil knew he would have time enough to provide some warning to Elizabeth against falling into Northumberland's hands.
By then, too, news of the altered succession might well be abroad from other sources so Northumberland would not blame his secretary for tattling. And surely Lord Denno would warn Elizabeth that she was in danger from Northumberland if even a hint of the change of succession came to his ears. Also, Cecil's long silence would ring an alarm bell for Elizabeth. She would know he had been forbidden to communicate with her by the duke. Neither of them ever mentioned the future, but . . .
Despite her original insistence on going to see her brother, Elizabeth was actually glad to be back in Hatfield. The messenger had been hurried away between Gerrit and Shaylor to be questioned, and Sir Edward had ordered the gates be closed and a watch be set to warn of any large party approaching.
Now that she was safe, Elizabeth found she was cold with shock. She had been attacked before, but that had been Underhill, where everything was somewhat unreal to her.
She remembered now that Denno had told her an attempt to abduct her had been made when she was only three, but apparently she had slept peacefully through that desperate battle and knew nothing about it. Had this been another attempt to abduct her? Gerrit and Shaylor would wrench that out of the messenger—if he knew. The man who had reached for her and been unable to seize her because of her shield had not threatened her with any weapon. But he had a weapon in his other hand. Who knew what he might have done if he could have dragged her away from her defenders.
The entrance doors had shut behind them and Elizabeth started down the corridor toward her apartment, Kat and the maids of honor trailing behind.
"Lady Elizabeth?"
She turned quickly. "Lord Denno?"
He stood a little apart from the women and Elizabeth could see the lines of pain around his mouth were graven deeper than usual. "I think, perhaps, I should leave you now—"
"No!"
Regardless of the fact that her maids of honor were following and that she and Denno were careful never to show any sign of intimacy, Elizabeth took a long step toward him and seized his arm.
"No," she said somewhat more softly, but still clutching his arm. Tears stood in her eyes. "At least . . . at least . . . You said you were not hurt. Do you really need to go?"
Because of the geas put upon her by Queen Titania when she was allowed to come Underhill and return to the mortal world with her memories of the kingdom of the Sidhe intact, Elizabeth could not speak of that place. She could not ask Denoriel if he needed healing or to go Underhill to restore his power.
Denoriel covered Elizabeth's hand with his own and looked over her shoulder at Mistress Ashley, who was nearly the color of her name. There was no censure in her expression. Of course, Mistress Ashley was not the finest and most severe judge of propriety. Her affection for Elizabeth often outweighed her good sense—as it had when she encouraged the idea that Thomas Seymour would be allowed to marry Elizabeth. Still, in the aftermath of an armed attack, allowances might be made.
"For myself, no. I do not need to go," he said. "I thought that you would wish to change your clothes and rest . . ."
The last was only a murmur that her women could not hear, but Denoriel felt her hand strike cold through the silk of his sleeve. He did not need the added pain that her iron cross was sending from her grip to his arm, but she really was shaken. Without saying anything, he led her toward her own apartment, where two young guards bowed respectfully, stepped aside, and opened the door to her reception room. Elizabeth's hand closed harder on his arm.
"Where are my men?" she whispered.
"Gerrit and Shaylor have taken the messenger off to question him, my lady," Denoriel said. "And you sent Dickson off with Nyle who had been slightly wounded. I am sure the men Sir Edward has chosen to guard you are both skilled and devoted."