Fire in the Hole (The Plundered Chronicles Book 3) Read online

  She held up her hand. “Not here. Come.” Beatrice pulled open the door and waited. “This place is, like you, not as it seems. It is a trap, and unless you wish to be ensnared–”

  Quinn hurriedly followed her out the door. “My friends–”

  “Are safely ensconced in the tavern. Come. There isn’t much time.”

  Following Beatrice a short way down an overgrown path, Quinn was surprised when they came to a stream cutting a private swath through the land.

  “Oh. My.”

  “Beautiful, is it not?”

  The lush greenery surrounding them was overgrown yet held a beauty–a majesty, even–in its chaos.

  The woman led her to the mouth of a cavern where a fire had once burned. There were several sitting stones around it. It reminded Quinn so much of Bronwen’s home.

  “Ya are a druid?”

  “Among other things, yes. Please sit. I mean you no harm. It’s just the opposite, really.”

  Quinn sat on one of the flat stones and waited.

  Beatrice sat next to her and sighed loudly. “So much death and destruction over beliefs. It’s tragic.”

  “What am I doin’ here? Who are ya?”

  Beatrice smiled slightly. A gentle breeze played with her hair. “You’ve come to see the Queen. That much I know. I also know Elizabeth’s men are arresting anyone who comes to see Mary. I have been tasked to make sure that does not happen to you.”

  “Tasked? By whom?”

  “I am not at liberty to say, but now that you have arrived, I can assist you in achieving a meeting with the Queen of Scotland.”

  Quinn looked this way and that. “Call a woman queen who is not–”

  “Pish-posh. We all know Mary is every bit as much a queen as Elizabeth. Do you want my help or not?”

  “Yes. Of course. But why would ya help a complete stranger?”

  “Because someone loves you enough to ask us to be on the look out for you.”

  “Us? There are others?”

  “Of course, though I have to say, I expected you to arrive with Grace O’Malley. We were told you are a crew member of hers.”

  “I am. It’s a long story. Please, tell me what I need to do to get an audience.”

  Beatrice grinned. “First, you tell me why an Irish pirate pretending to be a man is interested in the fate of a Catholic queen in another country.”

  “Pretendin’ to–”

  Beatrice chuckled. “You have small wrist bones, no Adam’s apple, and soft features. I am a druid, Callaghan. I see things others can’t.”

  “Ya know my name.” It was not a question.

  “I know many things. It is our way, after all.”

  Quinn looked at her wrists before replying. “I have a friend who is Scottish, and he believes he can help the Queen escape murder charges. I come fer him.”

  “To protect him.”

  “Aye.”

  “Well met, then. I believe we can help.”

  “I cannot make a move until he arrives with his... wife. Once they are here, she and I were plannin’ on seein’ Mary.”

  Clapping, Beatrice rose. “Splendid. Then I suggest retrieving your men and remaining down here until your friends arrive.”

  “The church is really a trap?”

  “Of sorts. Not to worry, though. As long as you remain here, you needn’t worry. I do hope you come back after securing your friends.”

  Quinn stood as well. “I will do that. Thank ya. I just wish ya’d tell me who it was who asked fer yer help.”

  Heading into the cavern, Beatrice looked over her shoulder, her blue eyes sparkling. “I am not at liberty to say, because if I did Bronwen would be upset.”

  “Bronwen.”

  Beatrice laughed as she disappeared. “Bronwen. She sent a message for me to wait for the Celt. You are here and in need of my healing skills, aye?”

  “Aye.”

  “Then do what you have come to do, and I will do what I was sent to do.”

  * * *

  Quinn and Maggie walked right up to the main gate at Bolton Castle dressed as two nuns.

  “Mornin’, sisters.”

  “Good morning, dear sir. We’ve been told the Queen is eager to discuss her thoughts about our Lord Jesus Christ, and we’ve been sent in the hopes you’ll allow us to converse with her on such spiritual matters.” Maggie sent what appeared to be a genuine smile at the guard.

  “She often has a priest come for these matters.”

  Maggie leaned in and whispered in a conspiratorial tone, “This is something no man should speak about with a queen, if you get my meaning.” Maggie’s English was flawless.

  Whether it was her accent, her words, her attire, or a combination thereof, the guard allowed them entrance.

  Bolton Castle was located in North Yorkshire and was an enormous square castle with very unflattering grounds. It looked out of place as it loomed over the treeless countryside.

  As a second guard escorted them to the southwest tower, he spoke freely to them about Mary’s arrangement. “Never seen anything like it, sisters. She brought with her fifty folks, though only thirty of them live in the castle.”

  “Thirty of her own people?”

  “Yes. Knights, her ladies, cooks, grooms, hairdressers... let’s see, what else? Oh yes, apothecary, physician, and surgeon.”

  Quinn and Maggie exchanged glances. “Oh my.”

  “As if that wasn’t enough, they said the castle wasn’t fit for a queen, so they borrowed tapestries, rugs, and furniture from Barnard Castle. All to make a queen who’s not a queen be able to live like one.”

  “Then she’s... not in a dungeon?”

  He tossed his head back and laughed. “A dungeon? Bloody—er, uh... why, no. She is Her Majesty’s cousin and all. Queen Elizabeth herself loaned her some pewter as well as a copper kettle for her tea.”

  Quinn suddenly felt her shoulders relax at the knowledge they were not going to see Mary in a dungeon.

  “Here we are,” their escort said, showing them to a door where two more guards stood. “The lady wishes to talk with the sisters.”

  “Does Lord Scrope know of this visit?”

  Quinn jumped in. “Why yes, he does. Shall we return to him for a letter of some sort?”

  “Not necessary.” The guard opened the door. Inside sat Mary, getting her hair done.

  When Mary looked up, she started to say something—and then she saw Quinn.

  “Your Majesty,” Quinn said, beginning a bow that turned into the most awkward of curtseys.

  “Thank you, Reginald.”

  When the door closed, Mary rose from her chair and stood in front of Quinn. “I believe, Callaghan, you must be my guardian angel.”

  Quinn bowed at the waist. “I am no angel, your majesty, but I am someone who cares about your well-being.”

  “When we first met, you were dressed as Captain O’Malley, and now”—she lowered her head as well as her voice—“a nun? You are a joy to behold. Come. Sit.”

  Two chairs appeared out of nowhere and Quinn and Maggie each took a seat.

  “Your Majesty, this is Maggie.”

  Mary of Scotland nodded her head. At almost six feet tall, Mary Stuart was an imposing figure. She was a pretty woman with a small nose; upon either side were hawk-like eyes that studied Maggie’s face. “I daresay you are not a nun, either,” she said in Latin.

  “No ma’am, I am not. I have accompanied Callaghan because my English is better than hers.” Maggie spoke in flawless Scottish.

  “Oh, Scottish! I am being tutored by Sir Knollys in English. Do you speak that as well?”

  “I do.”

  “Perhaps you will oblige me with English conversation before you go.”

  Quinn glanced around the furnished accommodations. Had she not known Mary was a prisoner here, Quinn would never have guessed it. There were gorgeous tapestries on three walls, an enormous fireplace, and several sitting areas. In one corner stood a desk. To the far right was a
nother door, which Quinn could only assume was Mary’s bedchamber.

  “So, my dearest Callaghan. I believe I once bade you to come when next I needed you... and here you are. What a positively delightful surprise.” Mary motioned to her hairdresser to continue and then barked orders for wine to another lady-in-waiting. “Nuns, eh? Irish ingenuity never ceases to amaze. So how have you been?”

  Realizing that Mary wished to visit first, Quinn filled her in on everything that had happened after they’d set out for King Philip.

  For her part, Mary was a splendid audience, clapping her hand to her chest as Quinn described the ship sinking, covering her mouth when Connor died, and tearing up when Tavish, her countryman, saved Quinn from brutal physical and sexual torture.

  When, at last, Quinn had finished, so had the hairdresser. Mary leaned forward and actually held one of Quinn’s hands. “You went through all of that, and yet still you came to me.”

  Quinn nodded. “I am a man–er–a woman of my word, Your Majesty. A debt is a debt, and I’ve returned to pay it. How can we help?”

  Mary rose and walked over to one of the windows. “They allow me to wander the surrounding grounds, and I’ve even been hunting—well, they believe I am hunting, but I am not.” She turned, and her face was a harsh mask. “I sought my freedom but realized there is only one who can set this bird free.” Sitting back down, she poured herself more wine. “Elizabeth has opened a commission of inquiry to be held in York. When I came here, I thought Elizabeth would aid me in my return to the throne. I had no idea she would imprison me and send her dogs to dig up lies. I did not kill Lord Darnley, but you can rest assured they will create evidence that will make it appear as if I did.”

  There was Quinn’s opening. “How can we be of service, Your Majesty? Surely there must be some way to prove your innocence.”

  Mary looked this way and that before pulling out a letter already sealed with her stamp. “I had this prepared in the hopes that someone I trusted would deliver it to Elizabeth.”

  Quinn blinked.

  Maggie bowed her head.

  “I know it is asking a great deal of you, Callaghan, and I would not ask had you not brought your very proper Englishwoman with you. You are English, are you not?”

  Maggie nodded and looked up. “I am.”

  “Perfect. Together, you should have no problem getting this letter to Elizabeth.” Mary continued to hold the letter out to Quinn, who slowly reached for it.

  “Your Majesty–”

  Mary rose, walked over to her desk, dipped her quill in ink, and hastily scrawled a second letter. Then she lit a red candle and sealed the letter. “Here, Callaghan. This explains to my cousin that you stopped by to see if there was anything I needed, as you are an old hunting companion of mine.” Mary handed Quinn the letter. “They do allow me to hunt here on occasion, so Elizabeth will know it to be true.”

  “Your Majesty,” Maggie started. “Callaghan and I do not wish to experience another imprisonment, ever. What is to prevent her from throwing us in the Tower?”

  “That letter says if you fail to return unharmed to me in three days, I shall martyr myself by taking my own life.”

  Quinn’s eyes grew wide.

  “Elizabeth fears the Catholics, and she well knows that my martyrdom will cause a revolt of the Catholics in her own country She cannot afford that. She will release you and have you escorted back here.”

  Quinn wanted to say no. She wanted to run from this room and never look back. She’d been willing to help Mary, but this was simply too much. It was a risk she wasn’t willing to take.

  Just as Quinn opened her mouth to say as much, Mary held her hand up.

  “Callaghan, I am quite aware of who killed my husband.”

  Quinn’s blood froze. Maybe she was bluffing.

  “But Grace O’Malley has been an intrepid ally.”

  Apparently she was not bluffing.

  “Even if I exposed what I know, Grace would be hunted, captured, and killed. None of that ensures my release in the slightest, or you can rest assured I’d have already told Elizabeth.”

  Quinn closed her gaping mouth.

  “I truly believe Elizabeth will put me back on the throne once all this silliness is over. It is her advisors who disdain me, not my cousin.” Mary opened her arms. “Look around you. Do I appear to be imprisoned like a common criminal? No. Why? Because Elizabeth would never allow it. She will let her cabinet chase shadows for the time being, and when they have nothing to show for it, she will return me to my proper place.”

  Quinn didn’t know if Mary was brilliant or delusional.

  “Callaghan, regicide is not in Elizabeth’s nature. I will remain safely ensconced here until they turn up empty-handed—which they will, won’t they?”

  Quinn stared at Mary. Was this deposed ruler blackmailing them into going to London?

  She was quite sure that was exactly what Mary was doing.

  Rising, Quinn tucked both letters into her very stiff attire. “Then we will see you back here in three days.”

  Maggie also rose. Mary did not.

  “Captain O’Malley has been a very good ally and friend of Scotland.” Quinn said, as neutrally as she could. “She lost some very good men delivering your letter to Spain... some very good men. So this is the last time Grace O’Malley or any of her crew will assist you, Your Majesty. Our debt to you is paid in full upon our return.”

  Maggie and the hairdresser both gasped.

  Mary did not flinch. “Your loyalty to Grace is second only to your unflappable courage, Callaghan. I admire that in you. In three days, when you return, I shall forgive you and Grace O’Malley your debt.”

  Without waiting to be dismissed, Quinn left the room and the castle, letters in hand and anger barely in check.

  * * *

  “Absolutely not!” Tavish barked after Quinn explained what Mary wanted. “First ya go behind me back with plans ya should’ve shared with me, and now this?”

  “We had no choice, my love,” Maggie said, lightly touching his shoulder. “Your queen has blackmailed poor Callaghan. He must go.”

  Beatrice was applying a light green unguent to Tavish’s back. “Mary has always been a shrewd negotiator.”

  Tavish rose slightly. “Ya lied to me, lad. Ya told me–”

  “I’m sorry, Tavish, but Maggie and I are goin’.”

  “Not without us, yer not.” Fitz said. “We can at least see ya through London.”

  One Eye nodded. “Yer gonna need protection, comin’ and goin’. I respect what yer willin’ to do fer the captain, but ya still gotta live through it, Callaghan.”

  “Are ya all bloody daft?” Tavish said. “We’re not her delivery boys. We canna risk it.”

  “We aren’t going, Tavish,” Quinn said. “You and Kwame are staying here with Beatrice. You’ll only slow us down and–”

  Tavish tried to leap to his feet, but the pain drove him to one knee.

  “And that, my love, is why you are to remain here,” Maggie said, helping him to his feet.

  “Well, that and because if we aren’t back in three days, ya need to find a way to get us out.”

  Returning to his seat with Beatrice’s and Fitz’s help, Tavish cursed under his breath. “Three days, eh?”

  “Aye. With enna luck, we’ll be back before then, but she gave Elizabeth three days.”

  “How could she know about Grace killin’ Darnley?”

  “Does it matter? The fact that she has not implicated Grace means she probably never will.”

  “Love, it will be an easy in, the delivery of the letter, and back out.”

  Tavish shook his head. “It would only be an easy in if ya were some lady or noblewoman, or–”

  Silently and as if of one mind, everyone turned to Maggie.

  “First of all,” Maggie began, “If I had told you all who I was at first, you might not have allowed me to join you.”

  Tavish stopped Beatrice’s hand. “Now might be a v
erra good time to tell us, Maggie. Who the bloody hell are ya?”

  “Please do not get angry with me, Tavish. I would have eventually–”

  “Out. With. It. I tire of all this deception from the two of ya.”

  Quinn laid her hand lightly on his shoulder. “Calm heads, dear friend. After all, she is not the only one here bein’ someone she is not. Go on, Maggie, who are ya, really?”

  Inhaling a deep breath, Maggie replied. “I am Lady Margaret Seymour, daughter of Edward Seymour, first duke of Somerset.”

  No one said a word until Kwame asked, “Your sisters are Anne and Jane, yes?”

  Maggie nodded.

  Kwame covered his mouth. “A Seymour?”

  “What?” Quinn and Fitz both asked.

  “Maggie is–”

  “The niece of Henry VII’s third wife, Jane Seymour, yes.”

  Quinn took a step back. “You wrote the Hecatodistichon.”

  The men all stared at Quinn, who ignored them. Being of noble birth, she, of course, had read many, many books they had not. Hecatodistichon was among them.

  “The what?”

  “Hecka who?”

  Maggie nodded. “Along with Anne and Jane, yes. I am surprised you’ve heard of it.”

  “My father understood the importance of being well read.” Quinn shook her head at Fitz and One Eye. “It is the first published piece by an English woman in this century. I can’t... I can’t believe this is you! How on earth did you wind up on Tenerife?”

  “Same as you, I would imagine. A terrible storm that battered our ship about. I was on my way to Paris when our ship lost all navigability. I dared not let them know who I was for fear of being held hostage—or worse.”

  “Why didn’t ya say ennathin’, lass, once we were free?” Tavish asked.

  Maggie sighed. “Would it have mattered? That is who I was, not who I am now. Now I am just Maggie.”

  Quinn started chuckling. “I’m sorry, Maggie, but there is nothing just about you. Critics wrote that your verse was so perfect, no man could better it.”

  Tavish just stared at Maggie mutely. Finally he said, “The Queen. She’ll–”

  “No doubt know exactly who I am. Elizabeth is nothing if not well read.”

  “You’ve met her, then?” Quinn asked.