The Huntress: A Novel (Dark Queen) Page 9

  “Dangerous, but necessary.” Walsingham was not a forthcoming man, seldom explaining himself fully to anyone, even his queen.

  He surprised Martin when he steepled his fingers together and continued gravely, “I have dealt with many of these Catholic conspiracies against Her Majesty. In the past I always moved too swiftly, never rooting out the dark heart of the matter. But this time I mean to end these plots once and for all. To do that I must entrap the Scottish Jezebel herself and offer Queen Elizabeth incontrovertible proof of her cousin’s guilt.”

  Walsingham sighed. “While Her Majesty can be as astute as any man I have ever known, she is very much a woman in this respect. She has no stomach for execution, especially when it concerns another anointed queen.”

  “Mayhap the queen has good reason for her reluctance,” Martin ventured to suggest, “considering the tragic way her own mother died.”

  “I wouldn’t know. The queen never speaks of the Boleyn woman and there is great wisdom in that. She has had her legitimacy challenged too many times to remind the world that she is the daughter of a woman beheaded for treason and adultery. But regardless of what ghosts haunt her, the queen must set aside her private feelings.

  “While Mary lives, neither this realm nor Elizabeth will ever be safe. If I can get a letter from Mary’s own hand, endorsing Babington’s plot, Elizabeth will have no choice this time. She will have to have her cousin tried and executed.”

  “But will Mary really be foolhardy enough to answer a letter from Babington?” Martin asked.

  “Oh, I rather think she might. She believes herself safe, writing her messages in code, but I have a cryptographer capable of deciphering anything. The woman has never been noted for her wisdom.”

  “And so the Queen of Scots will lose her head for indiscretion.” Martin nearly added, “Poor foolish woman.” But he thought better of it.

  It was just as well because Walsingham eyed him sternly. “She will lose her head for treason and plotting the murder of our sovereign queen.”

  “Er—amen to that,” Martin said. Elizabeth was a clever and able ruler, but he felt a certain pang of sympathy for the deposed Scottish queen. Part French herself, Mary had once been wed to the king of France, made a young widow the year Martin was born.

  He had grown up hearing many of the romantic legends of la petite Marie. They still drank toasts in the taverns of Paris to la belle reine, although it had been a long time since Mary had sat on any throne. She had been a prisoner of the English for the past twelve years. It was understandable she would plot to regain her freedom.

  Martin tapped his fingers restively upon his knee, frowning over his own thoughts. He might have suppressed his accent and anglicized his name, but he feared that at heart he was still a Frenchman. Elizabeth’s conflict with her Catholic subjects struck him as an English problem, little to do with him.

  As for Walsingham, the secretary was playing a dangerous game in more ways than one. Queen Elizabeth possessed a formidable temper and Martin doubted she would thank Walsingham for forcing her to deal harshly with her cousin, or favor anyone who aided the secretary in his maneuverings.

  All this plotting could only end in blood and tears. More heads than one were going to roll and Martin wished himself well out of the business.

  He was therefore greatly relieved when Walsingham said, “You have done very well, Master Wolfe, but I have in my employ a man who actually once studied at the Jesuit seminary in Douai. I think him better suited to wangle his way into the confidence of both Babington and the Scottish queen and act as conduit for their letters.”

  “Excellent,” Martin agreed heartily, rising from his chair. “If you have no further need of my services, I shall—”

  “Not so hasty, sir. Sit down.”

  When Martin hesitated, Walsingham repeated in a firmer tone. “Sit down. I find your report to me incomplete.”

  “I know not what you mean.” Martin settled uneasily back into his chair, fearing that he knew what was coming, questions he had hoped to avoid.

  Walsingham studied Martin through narrowed eyes. “In your discussion of all these treasonable activities, I notice you make no mention of your young friend, Edward Lambert, Lord Oxbridge.

  “That is because there is nothing to tell,” Martin replied coolly.

  Walsingham frowned, his brows knit with displeasure. “I didn’t go to the expense of setting you up in your own household and furnishing you a more respectable veneer merely to have you lurk about in taverns. Your main assignment, in case you have forgotten, was to insinuate yourself into the baron’s graces and discover how far gone he might be in this treason against the queen.”

  “And I have done so,” Martin said with a trace of asperity. “I will admit that Ned—I mean Lord Oxbridge—is at times reckless and foolish as any young man of twenty may be. But even though he is a Catholic, I have found nothing to suggest he is anything other than loyal to the queen. Certainly I have uncovered no connection between him and this Babington plot.”

  “Perhaps you haven’t looked hard enough.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “I mean that you might find it inconvenient for the man who helped fund your precious theater to be guilty of treason.”

  “Actually, it was not Oxbridge’s money that paid for building the Crown, but his sister’s.”

  Martin regretted the words as soon as they were out of his mouth, because Walsingham pounced upon the remark like a dog at a bone.

  “Ah! So we come to the heart of the matter, the Lady Jane Danvers. She is reputed to be a lovely woman.”

  Martin shrugged, trying to appear indifferent. “I reckon she is comely enough.”

  “And a wealthy widow, still young enough to require a new husband in her bed.”

  “I have no idea what the lady requires. I would hardly dare to raise my lowly gaze to the sister of a baron.”

  “Oh, I think there is little you would not dare, Master Wolfe.”

  Martin squirmed. Walsingham was said to have a gaze that could strip a man’s soul bare, and at the moment the secretary was peering uncomfortably close into Martin’s.

  Of late, his thoughts had strayed to Lady Danvers more often than they should. She was a sweet, gentle woman, at times a little too solemn for Martin’s taste. But he could not help considering how marriage to the lady would advance his fortunes, and Jane would make a good mother for Meg.

  Walsingham continued to regard Martin through narrowed eyes. The secretary knew how to wield silence like a weapon, often prodding another man into injudicious speech.

  When Martin refused to be goaded, Walsingham continued, “We are living in a unique age here in England, when a man of ambition and abilities can rise far above what his father was. You strike me as such a man, Master Wolfe. You are also something far more dangerous.”

  “And what would that be?”

  “A man who acknowledges no master, no ties or loyalties to anyone.”

  “How strange,” Martin drawled. “I had the peculiar impression that I was bound to your service, Mr. Secretary.”

  “Certainly you take my coin and carry out the assignments I give, but I have never been fool enough to consider myself your master. After six months employing you, I know little more of you than I did at the outset.”

  “I might say the same of you, sir,” Martin retorted. “You have the reputation of being a man who says little, but sees everything.”

  “And you are a man who speaks much, but reveals nothing. I am not even entirely certain where your religious convictions lie.”

  “I attend the Protestant services regularly every Sunday.”

  “So do a great many men, if for no other reason than to avoid the fines imposed upon those who abstain.”

  Martin smiled. “My relationship with the Almighty is fairly uncomplicated. When I was a boy, God spoke to me. He told me, ‘Martin, my lad, I have far more important things to worry about than you, so you had best look to y
ourself.’”

  Walsingham gave a dry laugh, but Martin could tell he had offended the stern Puritan with his blasphemy. He became more serious as he added, “As for this conflict between Catholic and Protestant, I have seen firsthand the misery and suffering it causes. France has been torn apart for years by civil war—men, women, and children cruelly slaughtered. And all for what? I think your own queen put it best. Didn’t she say, ‘There is only one Jesus Christ; the rest is disputes over trifles.’? I tend to agree with her.”

  “And yet you once served the Protestant king of Navarre,” Walsingham prodded.

  “Because I genuinely liked the man and he made it worth my while to do so.”

  “And that is exactly what concerns me about you. That your liking for Lord Oxbridge’s sister and her purse has led you to be less than zealous in your investigations of the baron.”

  Martin vented an exasperated sigh. “Why you are so certain Oxbridge is inclined to treason?”

  “I have outlined my reasons to you before. The Lamberts are one of the last great Catholic families from the north. They have an unfortunate history of rebellion against the crown. The present baron’s grandfather ended up with his head mounted upon the Tower. The father would likely have shared the same fate had he not tumbled from his horse and broken his own neck while fleeing from justice.”

  “But you yourself just assured me it is a new age in England. That a man need not be what his father was.”

  Walsingham looked nettled to have his own words turned against him. “I have other reasons as well. Oxbridge and his sister were fostered by the Earl of Shrewsbury when Sir Anthony Babington was a page in that household. They all lived under the same roof at the time when the earl had custody of the Queen of Scots.”

  “Coincidence,” Martin scoffed. “Just because they were all known to one another in the past does not mean there is any present connection. I have seen nothing to suggest that either Lord Oxbridge or his sister—”

  “Then I suggest you look more closely, sir,” Walsingham snapped. “Lest I be obliged to employ someone else to scrutinize the baron and your loyalties as well, Monsieur le Loup.”

  Martin steeled himself not to show how badly such a threat shook him. “I shall do my best.”

  “That is all I require. Now I am sure you are anxious to return to your daughter.” The secretary rose to walk Martin to the door. “And how fares young Margaret?”

  “She does well,” Martin replied cautiously. He studied Walsingham, trying to perceive if any sort of threat lay behind the question.

  But something had softened in Sir Francis’s usually cold eyes. “It has been six summers now since I lost my youngest daughter, my little Mary.

  “She is with God now. Treasure your days with your daughter, Master Wolfe. Our children are often lent to us for all too brief a time. And in the end it is not kingdoms or power that matters. It is only God and family.”

  The secretary spoke simply, no pious cant, but straight from the heart. And for a moment it was as though they were but two ordinary men, one father addressing another.

  Then Walsingham’s mask settled back into place. “Do you plan to call upon Lord Oxbridge and his sister soon?”

  Martin nodded reluctantly. “I have been favored by an invitation to a great banquet to be given at Strand House tomorrow eve. The queen herself is expected.”

  “Not if I can dissuade her. Given all these plots swirling, it is hardly the best time for Her Majesty to be dining in the houses of known recusants.”

  Walsingham rested his hand upon Martin’s shoulder. “Help me defeat this conspiracy against my queen and I will see you rewarded. A coat of arms and respectability can be bought. There is no need for you to court danger by wooing a woman whose family may be steeped in treason.

  “Serve me well, and you may rise to great heights. But remember, it is possible to fall just as hard. Good night, sir.”

  Martin had no difficulty perceiving the threat this time.

  AS SOON AS WOLFE HAD DEPARTED, PHELIPPES ENTERED. THE clerk jerked his head toward the door. “Do you entirely trust that Frenchman, sir?”

  “As much as I trust any of you,” Walsingham replied. “I find there are very few men who don’t bear watching. How goes the translating?”

  “Well enough. Or at least most of it.” Phelippes scratched his beard. “I was certain I had cracked the code, but part of this message reads so strangely, I am not certain this can be right.”

  “I am sure it is. You are the best cryptographer I have ever employed. Who is the letter from?”

  “It is from the Scottish queen’s factor in Paris, Thomas Morgan.”

  Morgan had been acting on Mary’s behalf for years, working to gain her release and drum up support for a French invasion to free her and set her on the English throne. To retain good relations with England, the French king had finally been persuaded to arrest the man. But Henry III had been reluctant to hand Morgan over to the English government.

  Morgan was locked up in the Bastille, but that certainly had not kept the man from continuing his activities on the captive queen’s behalf.

  “What is it about Morgan’s letter that troubles you?” Walsingham asked.

  “He recommends Babington to Mary as a man to be trusted.”

  “All to the good.”

  “But it is the rest that is so strange. Morgan feels all means should be tried to free the queen this time. Including witchcraft.”

  “What!” Walsingham reached for the parchment and scanned Phelippes’s translation.

  “And though Your Majesty is a woman of great piety, I must beg you to consider that even the forces of darkness might be harnessed for a holy cause. I have heard rumors of a powerful sorceress living in England whose skills might be channeled to your deliverance…”

  Walsingham scowled with contempt. “It sounds as though Master Morgan has been incarcerated too long. His brain is going soft.”

  “You place no credence in witchcraft?”

  “If I believed in magic and superstition, I would be a papist. But much damage can be wielded by those who advocate such dangerous beliefs. We can ignore no threats, no matter how far-fetched.”

  “What do you wish me to do then, sir?”

  Walsingham massaged his temple, considering for a moment before ordering, “Seal up the letter and see that it reaches the Scottish queen along with the correspondence from the French ambassador. I will write to instruct our own agents in Paris to see if they can learn more about this witch. What is she called?”

  Sir Francis took another glance at the translated parchment.

  “The Silver Rose.”

  Chapter Five

  CAT CURLED UP OUTSIDE MEG’S DOOR, THE MORNING LIGHT soft upon her face, beguiling her into pleasant memories of booleying time. Pillowing her head upon her arm, she dreamed she was bedded down beneath a wickerwork shelter, drowsing upon a bed of moss and rushes. She could hear the lowing of the cattle in their summer pasture and the soft footfall of her gran fetching Cat a lovely breakfast of buttermilk and black bread.

  It was not her grandmother’s melodic voice that awakened her, but an ear-splitting shriek like the cry of a banshee.

  “Papist witch! Irish she-devil!”

  Cat’s eyes flew wide. Her warrior’s instincts prompted her to roll just in time to avoid the heavy cane that threatened to crash down upon her skull. Scrambling to her feet, Cat found herself under siege. Not only from Agatha Butterydoor, but also from a scrawny housemaid armed with a broom.

  Cat flung up her arms to shield herself from the blows. “What the devil! Are you insane, old woman? Stop that—ow!” Cat yelped as the cane cracked against her elbow. She twisted away from Agatha, caught the broom handle, and wrenched it away from the maid.

  Gripping the broom with both hands, Cat wielded it like a staff, blocking Agatha’s wild swings. The terrified maid retreated behind the old woman’s black skirts and screeched at the top of her lungs.

&n
bsp; “Will you quit?” Cat grated between thwacks. “And cease that caterwauling before you wake the little girl.”

  Panting, her drooping bosom heaving, Agatha retreated a few steps down the corridor. “I pray my poppet can still be waked. What have you done to her, fiend?”

  “Nothing, you old fool—”

  “Maude! Run below stairs and fetch the master at once,” Agatha ordered the cowering housemaid, but it was an unnecessary command.

  Martin le Loup came thundering up the stairs, sword drawn. Barefoot and bare-legged, he was clad only in a white shirt that came to mid-thigh. Wild-eyed with alarm, he looked very much like a man who had just been rudely startled from his sleep, his dark hair tousled about his bearded features.

  Taking the stairs two at a time, he roared, “What’s happened? Is it Meg? Has someone—”

  He broke off, coming to a halt at the top of the risers. He blinked as he took in the scene, his gaze first traveling over Cat clad in his clothes, and then flicking to the old woman with the sniveling housemaid clinging to her skirts.”

  “What in thunder is going on?”

  “Oh, master, I warned you!” Agatha cried. “That Irish witch was skulking up here—”

  “I was doing no such thing, you silly wench,” Cat interrupted.

  “Skulking and plotting to steal the silver and murder us all.”

  “I was asleep, you damned fool—”

  “—and I fear she already must have devoured the little mistress.” The old woman’s eyes glinted with tears. “Because she—”

  “Oh, for the love of heaven! Woman, you have the wits of a flea.”

  “Quiet!” Martin bellowed, glaring so fiercely even Cat felt compelled to subside. Raking his hand back through his unruly cap of hair, he stepped in between Cat and Mistress Butterydoor. He used the flat of his sword to force the old woman to lower her cane.

  “Now will someone please explain—one of you at a time,” he added as both Cat and Agatha drew breath. “You first, Mistress Butterydoor.”