Elizabeth’s brows climbed. “The child? Who kindly brings me wildflowers, because she thinks me beautiful?”
“Such an easy messenger to bring you news from the outside world.” Bedingfield nodded, certain he’d said something clever.
Elizabeth sent him a look of lively contempt. “A little girl, a messenger? From whom? Thomas Wyatt? He is dead and can dream up no more plots. Edward Courtenay? He is watched most closely, I believe, by his beloved Bishop Gardiner, and even the queen herself. There is no one to send me messages, Sir Henry. I am alone.”
At the dramatic statement, Bedingfield cleared his throat. “Nevertheless, you must not speak to anyone again. The child’s mother has been warned to keep her close.”
“Dear God in heaven.” Elizabeth sent the pretty vase of crocuses on a table next to her crashing to the floor. Bedingfield, stuck on his knees, could not scramble out of the way of the water and flying porcelain that rained across his person.
“An innocent child of seven years as a conspirator,” Elizabeth raged. “It is scarce to be believed. Let me write a letter to my sister, I beg of you.”
Bedingfield wiped his beard, and shards of porcelain tinkled to the floor. “Out of the question, Your Grace.”
“Out of whose question? Mine? Or yours? Or hers?”
“It cannot be done, Your Grace. I have not leave to give you permission.”
Elizabeth glared at him. “You must ask her leave, then. And her permission to give you leave to give me permission.”
Bedingfield glanced heavenward as he tried to unravel this. Elizabeth sent him a smile that held no humor.
“I will inform Her Grace,” Bedingfield answered after a time, sounding relieved he could at least say that.
“See that you do.”
Bedingfield climbed painfully to his feet, made certain to give Elizabeth another low bow, and backed from the room. I fancied I heard him hurry frantically off after I closed the door.
Once he was gone, Elizabeth snatched up more breakable objects and flung them from her, we ladies dutifully cleaning up the mess.
Elizabeth’s anger pleased me, however, because it meant she hadn’t given way to despair. Mary’s preoccupation with and suspicion of the innocent little girl pleased me as well, not because I had any desire for the child to be harmed, but because it meant nobody had noticed Eloise Rousell dashing away to whisper to Robert Dudley through a grill between the gardens.
Elizabeth’s walks continued. Mary’s guards watched Elizabeth closely, the little girl was kept away, and everyone ignored me. I continued to pass Dudley’s messages—helpful and otherwise—to Elizabeth, with none the wiser.
Chapter 18
On the nineteenth of May, the exact day Anne Boleyn had been executed eighteen years before, a great number of armed guards filled the halls and courtyards of the Tower, alarming us not a little.
Bedingfield appeared and gave a peremptory command for Elizabeth to accompany him, her ladies to pack her things and follow.
Elizabeth paled until her brows stood out in fiery red lines. “Am I to have no trial, then? Is Jane’s scaffold waiting for me?”
“You are to be moved from the Tower,” Bedingfield said in his careful way. “I am to accompany you far from London, there to live in a house at her majesty’s pleasure.”
“It is a trick,” Elizabeth insisted. “You will take me out into the country, and your men will assassinate me there.”
“I assure you, Your Grace,” Bedingfield began.
His tone and manner were anything but reassuring, and Elizabeth turned her back on him and stalked away across her chamber.
I wondered if Mary would have the audacity to murder Elizabeth outright. She would not dare, I didn’t think. If assassins knifed Elizabeth in the night, all the world would know in the morning that Mary had ordered her death.
Elizabeth’s popularity had not waned during her sojourn in the Tower. If Dudley’s information was to be believed, it had even increased. Dudley regaled me with tales of men sentenced to the pillory for loudly declaring that Elizabeth was innocent, and of women and men alike voicing concerns about Elizabeth’s health.
A quiet assassination would only lead to more conspiracies to topple Mary. Dudley had also told me that Mary had again attempted to disinherit Elizabeth, but Mary’s council had strongly advised her against it. Unlike with her stubbornness over her upcoming marriage, she had capitulated.
The council’s hesitancy, I thought, was why we were now being hustled into a barge that moved upriver toward Richmond on this fine day in May.
For my part, I was relieved to have sunshine on my face and wind in my hair, no matter where we were going. Even the presence of Bedingfield’s men when we disembarked—a hundred of them, all armed—could not erase the feeling of freedom. I never wanted to see the Tower of London again.
