To relieve the tension, I placed my hand on Farrell’s arm and we began to walk slowly around the room. See and be seen. This chamber was full of second-tier courtiers – those not quite important enough to be in the same room as royalty. Just as we had hoped, our attire attracted a certain amount of attention. Heads turned to watch us pass. I caught sidelong glances and people whispered behind their hands.
Even more time passed.
‘This is normal,’ I said, hoping it was. ‘If we didn’t have to wait, then how would we know how important she is?’
Farrell nodded, then stiffened and stared over my shoulder. ‘Something’s happening.’
I could hear a bustle behind me, but refused to turn around. We stood, apparently oblivious, discussing the weather in light, social tones.
Someone cleared their throat. Farrell turned slowly. A man bowed low and murmured something I never caught. He turned away and set off down the room. Farrell and Peterson fell in behind him. I, of course, brought up the rear. Silent courtiers watched us go. I could hear my dress swishing as I walked.
Ahead of us, a door was flung open. Someone announced us.
I caught a vague impression of light – a lot of light – warmth and colour.
We stepped over the threshold.
This was it.
Chapter Eighteen
Years ago, I’d waited outside another door, not knowing what was on the other side. On that occasion, it turned out to be Mrs Partridge’s sister, the Sibylline Oracle, with an offer that changed my life. But what I remember most from that day was the sensation of stepping blindly into the unknown.
This was no different.
To begin with, I couldn’t see a thing past Farrell’s broad back. A sudden silence fell as we were announced. As carefully instructed, the men bowed and we curtseyed. We straightened, walked slowly down the room, paused and bowed again. We all stayed put as Leon advanced alone, bowed before her for a third time and waited for royal acknowledgement.
I shifted my weight slightly so I could see past Peterson. Being women, of course Schiller and I were at the back.
The queen sat at the far end. She wore black, as did many of her court, but there’s black and then there’s black. This was the second kind. Her famous cap nestled amongst flaming red hair dressed with pearls. I know she wore a red wig to her execution and I suspected she wore one now, as well. But that wasn’t unusual; many women in this age wore wigs. Her skin was good – she had no need to whiten her face with the lead-based cosmetics that probably did for Elizabeth in the end. And she was beautiful. Classically beautiful, with large, well-opened eyes and a short straight nose. I never saw Elizabeth Tudor, but I doubted the Queen of England could match the Queen of Scotland. It was fortunate perhaps, that they never met.
Her ladies in waiting clustered at her feet, sitting on cushions, their skirts billowing out around them and looking like opulent mushrooms. No one else was seated. The room was very hot and very crowded. Still, if I fainted, my clothes would probably hold me up.
I saw her smile graciously, then take a second glance and smile again, more warmly this time. Her taste in husbands notwithstanding, she knew quality when she saw it. She said something. The room was silent and watching, waiting to take its cue from the queen, no doubt. Farrell had his back to us so no clues there. I made myself stand quietly and wait. There was nothing I could do. Slightly behind me, Schiller’s gaze would be raking the room trying to identify those present, to put names to faces. Behind me, Guthrie had waited at the door as instructed. Randall and Markham were getting things ready outside.
Farrell turned and caught our eye. Peterson offered me his arm, Schiller fell in behind and we slowly approached the queen.
My God, I was going to meet Mary, Queen of Scots! I was actually going to meet Mary Stuart! My heart hammered away and when I curtseyed for the third time, I wasn’t sure I could get up again.
She wasn’t an unkind woman. Unlike Elizabeth, who famously didn’t like other women at all, she seemed charmed to meet me, allowing me to rise almost at once. Farrell introduced Peterson first. He murmured politely and then it was my turn.
I heard Farrell say, ‘My sister, Your Grace.’ I kept my eyes on the floor until she spoke. Don’t stare, Maxwell. You’re a professional historian.
She greeted me. Her voice was very quiet and she had an accent. I obviously wasn’t expected to reply. In charge of this mission I might have been, but I was still as nothing in the scheme of things. She cast an appraising glance at my dress and nodded. I was dismissed, but kindly.
With relief, I curtseyed, stepped back carefully and found a place off to one side with my back to a window. This suited me. I could see what was going on.
Now Peterson joined in the conversation, smiling and gesturing. It all seemed to be going quite well.
I left them to get on with it and gazed around the room. It was panelled, as most rooms were, in some old, dark wood, darkened further by fire and candlelight. The room smelled of candles, smoke, perfume, and bodies.