He merely shrugged. “You won’t be able to carry him out of here yourself. You’ll have to relinquish him for a few minutes, I’m afraid.”
“Why?” She could hear a ripple of panic in her voice as if Philip had been threatened. Her eyes darted to the sleeping child and she had to force herself to leave him undisturbed.
Owen made no immediate reply and in the quiet Pen heard the absolute silence in the chambers beyond the parlor. It was a frightened, waiting silence. Outside, the faint sounds of marching feet drifted upwards. A voice called an order. A horse stamped on the cobbles.
Owen looked at her and she looked back at him, her hazel eyes deep pools of confusion and trouble in her pale, tired face.
“Owen?” she said softly. “Owen, I cannot bear to be broken like this. Can we not try to mend it?”
He moved then, came over to her, his step sure and determined. He stood directly in front of her without touching her, but so close she could feel the heat of his body. He spoke with slow deliberation, his eyes still without warmth, and he spoke to her as if she were a stranger.
“I am a man of five and thirty. I have had a wife and two children. I have done many things in my life. I have fought on battlefields, and on the decks of a ship slippery with blood; I’ve been tortured in a Moorish prison and escaped from a Spanish one. I’m a fighter, not a courtier, by nature. And my business is espionage. I have never pretended otherwise with you.”
“No,” she agreed, feeling for words. “And you’re telling me now that I may not know many things about you . . . about your past . . . about the things that you have done . . . have had to do. That these things are not for me to know. I must accept you, trust you, without necessarily having a reason to do so.”
“But you can’t do that,” he stated harshly.
She lifted a hand towards him but didn’t touch him. “Maybe,” she said. “Perhaps . . . I don’t know.”
Smoke billowed from the fireplace as wind gusted down the chimney. The glass windowpanes rattled. The bright clear weather had turned around.
Owen stepped back. His eyes, black as polished obsidian, gazed into her own as if he would see into her very soul.
She waited for him to say something, offer her something, some inkling of his thoughts, but he said nothing and the silence seemed to smother them.
She said dully, “So how are we to get out of here unhindered? What of Philip? Why may I not carry him?”
“I will explain,” he answered, his voice once more calm and detached. “You have a considerable part to play, and I see a way to put the child’s presence to good use.”
Half an hour later, they made their way soundlessly through the corridor of darkened, deserted chambers. Susan and Matilda were both asleep, fully dressed, sharing a bed. The curtains were drawn tight around the princess’s bed and there was no sound from within.
Pen went to the night table and took a small round box. She handed it to Owen, who slipped it into his doublet pocket. In the pages’ empty antechamber, Owen eased open the door and peered into the narrow corridor beyond. It was deserted, as he had hoped. Pembroke had no reason to suspect that his guest might attempt a midnight backstairs departure from a closely guarded castle.
He slid from the room and disappeared into the shadows.
Pen locked the door after him and dropped the bar. She ran back to the parlor where Philip still slept soundly. Apprehension close to terror, exhaustion, the dreadful empty shell of her love for Owen, all threatened to overwhelm her. She forced herself to eat some bread and meat, then sank down on a low chair by the fire.
Twenty-four
“Pen?”
Pen came to with a start and realized that she must have dozed. She jumped to her feet. “Madam? You are awake.”
Mary stood in the doorway, fully dressed except that she had discarded her hood. Her hair lay in soft coiled braids on her shoulders. It made her look younger than her thirty-six years.
“I have not slept,” she replied. “Where is the chevalier?”
“He has gone to arrange for our departure.”
Mary came over to the fire. “And how does he intend to manage that?”
“With great fanfare, madam.” Pen bent to add more coals to the dying fire. “But it was necessary to borrow your seal.” She glanced up at the princess, whose expression betrayed no emotion.
Pen continued calmly, “He has given order for transport to be ready for us as soon as it’s daylight. No one will have the authority to prevent your leaving so unexpectedly. Northumberland and Suffolk left the castle after you refused them entrance, but the chevalier expects them to return soon after dawn, so we must move quickly.”
“I see.” Mary took the stool that Pen had vacated.
“The chevalier believes that your safety cannot be threatened in London in the daylight. We will set out as if to attend early service at St. Paul’s. The French ambassador has arranged for a large crowd to gather outside the gate waiting to cheer your departure and accompany you on your way to church. You will not be arrested in the presence of a popular mob.”
Mary cupped her chin in her hand as she looked into the fire that still failed to produce more than the impression of warmth.
“Simple and probably true,” she observed. “But am I to claim sanctuary in St. Paul’s then? Surely when we are on the country roads beyond London the duke could send a warrant after me.”
“No, madam. When we enter the church you will slip out by a side door and leave the city by a secret route, whilst I remain in church in your stead. The chevalier will provide you with an escort. I’ll remain at my prayers for a while after you’ve left, and that should give you sufficient start. You should reach Woodham Walter by early evening. Then you will be under the protection of the emperor’s ships.”
“And what of you, Pen?”
Pen turned her face to the fire. “I will take my child to Holborn and seek the protection of my family.”
She paused, choosing her words; Mary was very conscious of the dignity due a princess. “As an added precaution, I will take your place when we leave the castle. You should be disguised as a maid, carrying Philip to make the deception more complete. Susan and Matilda will accompany us so that it will look as if I have remained behind.”
She looked back at Mary and saw the expression she expected. She went on swiftly, “Everyone knows that you often invite members of the household to worship with you. The presence of a maidservant with a child in your small party will not cause undue remark.”
Mary stared at Pen. “
I . . .
I dress as a maid?”
Pen said quietly, “A maid’s kirtle for a throne, madam. No one will pursue a maid through the countryside.”
Mary was silent, her gaze once more returned to the fire. If this deception would enable her to stay alive and outwit Northumberland, the throne would be hers. She said heavily, remembering her youth anew, “It will not be the worst of indignities.
“I suppose I should count myself fortunate that the French interests also serve mine at present.” She shrugged, leaned towards the fire, extending her hands to the flames. The rings on her fingers glittered. “I have learned always to use what comes to hand.”
Pen inclined her head in acknowledgment, and then went to the window. She gazed down into the courtyard where the torchmen paced their allotted beat. The wind had dropped again and it was quiet and still, a few flakes of snow drifting to the cobbles.
When he left Pen, Owen took a series of twists and turns through the narrow servants’ corridors. He wondered if they had increased the guard at the main door to the princess’s lodgings and thought it unlikely. They would see no threat. How could she and her three ladies possibly, without help, leave the secured environment of Baynard’s Castle?
He had not spent enough time in the castle to learn its secret passages, but he had certainly learned its back ways, and within a short time he found himself in the kitchen courtyard. Beyond lay the stables.
He found a sleepy groom on duty ready to sound the alarm if the earl decided to leave his castle on a late-night errand. It was not an unusual occurrence.
Owen gave his instructions. He showed the princess’s seal and gave his orders with succinct authority. The befuddled groom tugged a forelock and swallowed a yawn.
The princess had decided to attend early-morning worship at St. Paul’s with her ladies. The carriage should be ready and waiting in the central court at first light. The groom thought nothing of it. Such an excursion would be in character for the deeply religious princess.
Owen left Baynard’s Castle through the same little-used postern gate through which he’d entered. The watchman was still beneath his bush, a livid bruise blooming on his temple. He moaned as Owen bent over him, feeling for a pulse. Owen hesitated, glancing up at the sky where the evening star was fading fast. He had little time to do what had to be done, but the man had been lying out in the frigid night for too long. He hitched him up by his armpits and dragged him into the shelter of the small watchman’s hut. It wasn’t much warmer, but at least the roof kept the snow out. He set the man down, propping his back against a wall. Then he left to go about his own business before ensuring that the ambassador’s men were doing their job of raising a mob of Princess Mary’s noisy and loyal supporters.
“We should leave now, madam.” Pen turned from the window where she had been watching for the fading of the evening star.
Mary stood dressed in a maidservant’s plain serge gown and cloak. They were old garments that belonged to her maid Lucy and had been left behind at Baynard’s Castle when they went to Greenwich. Mary was smaller than Lucy and the ill-fitting costume made her look even shabbier. No one would see the regal Princess Mary in this gown with the dragging hem and overlong sleeves. Matilda and Susan stood beside her, pale and frightened.
“Are you certain they will not stop us?”
“No,” Pen said frankly, lifting a sleepy Philip from the window seat. “But I think this is the best chance we have.”
“Very well. You will need to precede me.” With the slightest touch of irony Mary gestured to the door.
Pen handed her the child and it was like tearing off her own skin. She watched critically anxious as the princess held the child awkwardly against her.
“Let me cover him more securely, madam.” She wrapped the blanket tightly around the child, covering his head. “Just hold him steadily so that he doesn’t become frightened.”
“I think I can carry a child,” Mary said sardonically. “At least as far as the carriage. Then you may have him back.”
Pen curtsied. Susan lifted the heavy bar on the door and turned the key. Pen, heavily veiled, swept through. Behind her the other women fell into place.
Pen’s heart raced but she found that she had absolute confidence. The carriage would be there, the gates would open as they must for a daughter of Henry VIII, and they would gain the freedom of the streets. Owen would ensure that it happened.
The guard at the foot of the stairs scratched his head as the party swept down. He had had no orders to prevent anyone leaving the princess’s apartments, his job was simply to check the credentials of anyone entering them. As far as he knew, the princess was simply an honored guest of the Earl of Pembroke.
“The princess is attending morning worship at St. Paul’s,” he was informed by one of the two haughty ladies accompanying the slender, veiled and cloaked figure of Princess Mary.
“Yes, madam,” the guard returned with a low bow. He cast an incurious glance at the humbly attired maidservant carrying the baby, and guessed that the princess had decided the woman was in need of a little spiritual counsel.
He stood still scratching his head until the party had passed into the cloister, then he abandoned his post and made his way to the guardroom, where he found the sergeant dozing beside the fire.
“What’re you doin’ ’ere?” the sergeant demanded. “Yer detail ain’t up until eight.”
“Well, seein’ as ’ow the princess an’ ’er ladies ’is gone to church, I thought I’d get meself a bit of a warm like.” He held his hands to the brazier gratefully.
“Gone to church?” The sergeant sat up. His opened tunic gaped over an overhanging paunch. “We wasn’t told.”
The guard shrugged. “Someone forgot, I reckon. Or mebbe she jest decided on the spur o’ the moment.”
The sergeant stood up, rebuttoning his tunic. “I’d best tell my lord.” He hurried away to the earl’s chambers.
Pen tried to walk slowly, casually, setting the pace for the others. It was hard not to hurry but they mustn’t give the impression of any unusual urgency. All her senses were concentrated on Mary and Philip behind her, her ears alert for the child’s faintest whimper. He would need feeding again soon. How could she feed him while she was on her knees in the Lady Chapel of St. Paul’s? The question seemed to take precedence over all else.
The castle was coming alive for the new day. The torchmen were leaving their posts in the central courtyard, and servants scurried around, extinguishing the pitch torches along the cloister walls. Everyone stopped what they were doing to bow as the group of women went by. The veiled princess inclined her head in acknowledgment.
Pen heaved a sigh of relief. In the cold gray light of the freezing morning the carriage was there in the central court, flanked by two outriders, the horses’ breath steaming.
Pen took her place in the vehicle. The others climbed in after her, the maid last.
Pen held the leather curtain aside so that she could see out. Mary shrank into the darkest corner of the carriage, staring at the arms engraved into the panel behind Pen’s head, and thought of the crown.
The carriage driver cracked his whip above the horses’ ears at the moment when the Earl of Pembroke emerged from the castle, his clothing in disarray, a cloak hastily thrown over his furred night robe. He ran across the court to the carriage, almost tripping over the hem of his gown.
Pen’s heart jumped into her throat. In an urgent whisper she instructed the outrider on her side of the carriage to signal that the castle gates that gave onto Ludgate be opened immediately. She dropped the curtain, concealing herself in the vehicle’s dark interior.
“Madam . . . madam, I beg you . . . pray stay for a moment. I will accompany you.”
Pen coughed into her handkerchief and without moving aside the curtain said in a muffled voice, “I cannot stay, my lord. I intend to worship at St. Paul’s this morning.” She coughed again.
“Madam, you sound quite hoarse. You shouldn’t be out in the dawn air, really you shouldn’t,” the earl said desperately.
The carriage began to move. “My lord, I go to my prayers,” she stated in a fair imitation of Mary at her most haughtily dismissive. “Move forward.”
The earl raised a hand to order the gates closed again but then saw what awaited beyond them. A substantial crowd was gathered along the route to Ludgate. The princess’s name rose in a great roar.
Pembroke’s hand fell to his side. He watched helplessly as the carriage moved through the gates and was engulfed in the fervent crowd beyond.
Hats were thrown into the air, cheering folk ran alongside the carriage.
Pen leaned over, moved the curtain aside, and raised a hand. Her veil was thick and black. She saw faces raised in adoration and a shiver ran through her. This was the adulation of royalty. This was what Mary would not give up.
And why should she?
She dropped the curtain and leaned forward to take her son from the very willing princess. He looked up at her with his great solemn brown eyes, then suddenly smiled. Her heart filled with an unutterable joy and she gave a little cry of delight, smothering his face with kisses.
The carriage climbed Ludgate Hill, the steep incline slowing their progress so that the crowd was well able to keep up with the horses.
“Pembroke will have sent immediately to Northumberland,” Mary said. “He will know within the hour.”
Pen, still enthralled by her son’s smile, said vaguely, “You’ll be long gone by then, madam.”
Mary chewed her lip; beside her Susan and Matilda sat in rigid, terrified silence. Even the escorting crowd’s riotous support had a frightening edge, as if it could suddenly tumble from wild good humor into violence.
They drew up outside the main doors of the church. One of the outriders opened the carriage door, and Pen, having handed the child back to the princess, descended, raising one hand as the mob cheered. The others followed, and in minutes they were safely within the church’s dark interior. A priest in plain robes stood before the altar preparing to conduct the Protestant mass.
Mary stiffened, her nose twitching. Only under compulsion would she attend a Protestant service. The absence of incense in the air offended her. When she was queen, all the old rituals would be restored, she promised God as she followed Pen into the Lady Chapel. There would be scarlet robes and incense, the full panoply of the mass, the eucharist, everything that her brother had forbidden.
Now out of sight of the main body of the church, she gave the baby back to Pen. She knelt before the chapel altar, her hand going to the hidden rosary beneath her gown.
“Madam, this is no time for prayer,” Pen whispered.
“There is always time for prayer,” Mary replied.
“I trust then that you can pray on horseback, madam.” Owen d’Arcy stepped out of the shadows behind the altar. “Come this way. There’s no time to lose.”
Mary rose reluctantly, despite what was at stake. “Do my ladies come with me?”
“All but Pen,” he said. He moved aside a tapestry beside the altar depicting the crucifixion, and opened a small door behind it. Mary hastened past him into the darkness of a narrow passage, Susan and Matilda following.