A Deadly Betrothal

by FIONA BUCKLEY

  I wondered what Alençon would think of that and privately hoped it would turn him away from the marriage. However, I didn’t say so. I was also reticent on the subject of childbirth and Elizabeth didn’t ask me to elaborate. No words could smooth those risks away.

  July passed. Not only did I have those meetings with the queen, but I was also approached, almost courted, occasionally by de Simier but more often by de Lacey, who more and more seemed to me to be an enigma. He tried to appear unobtrusive, and in his dress and general manner he mostly was, but repeatedly, there were flickers of something quite different. The juggling and conjuring with which he sometimes amused the court did not fit with his usual nondescript appearance, and sometimes, he made unexpected remarks. But I didn’t think about this too much, because I was fretting, wanting to be at home, wanting to be with Harry, but knowing that the queen would not let me go, at least not yet. If all went well when Alençon arrived, then perhaps I would be released, but not before.

  Christopher Spelton, in his capacity as a Queen’s Messenger, was often at court and was regularly sent to carry letters to a gentleman in Kent, the tenant of a manor owned by Walsingham. When he was with the court, we often met and talked. I learned from him that since his route to Kent always took him close to West Leys, he usually seized the opportunity of calling on his cousin Eric and – though he didn’t actually say so – gazing at the face of his forbidden love. Early in August, on returning to court from one of these journeys, he came to see me, with news of Lisa Harrison.

  ‘Things have altered considerably, Ursula. The fact is – Edmund Harrison has died.’

  ‘Died?’

  ‘In the last week of July. He had a seizure. Eric says that it was very likely brought on by rage and distress. Well, he’s gone. He was buried two days ago. The servants sent to inform Lisa, of course and she went back to Firtrees House with the twins and since then has stayed there. There is no one now to say her nay. The servants there are fond of her – much fonder than they ever were of Edmund. Lisa is trying to grieve but in truth, I think she’s relieved!’

  ‘Well, at least she can stay in her own home,’ I said. ‘If it is hers, that is. How was the property left?’

  ‘Edmund originally left everything to Lisa but just before he died, he made a new will. Eric says he thinks that doing that helped to bring on the seizure; that at heart he really did care for Lisa and really did know that the twins were his and it all built up inside him and killed him. He was a hard man – so hard that he actually did go through with changing his will and cutting out Lisa and the twins – but under the surface, he still had feelings. Under the new will, Firtrees House and the land that goes with it – the fields and the fir plantation – have all been left to Edmund’s brother George and after him to Robert, George’s son.

  ‘George says that Lisa is welcome to live there; he prefers to live in Leatherhead with Marjorie. Lisa can be his tenant and pay him rent for Firtrees, he says. I strongly suspect that he’s having pangs of conscience. After all, it was his fault that Edmund cast her out! He has actually told her that though he disapproves of her behaviour, he doesn’t think the twins should have been disinherited. Thomas can inherit the tenancy and George says he’ll give Jane a dowry. Whatever Lisa has done, he says, is not their fault. Also, I understand that he sees Lisa as a good housewife, the kind that never runs out of flour or candles or lamp oil. She will run Firtrees properly. He won’t admit it,’ said Christopher, the man of the world, ‘he won’t admit it – few men would – but at heart he does realize that he’s hardly in a position to throw stones.’

  He grinned. ‘Edmund didn’t consider that when he changed his will! As for the little property in Cornwall, which I believe isn’t worth very much, that has been left to Eric. He hopes to visit it soon. Though for some reason, it’s a limited bequest. It’s only for Eric’s lifetime. After his death, the Cornish property reverts to George or his heirs. Kate isn’t pleased. It may not be very valuable, but every little is useful.’

  Christopher never talked for long without bringing Kate’s name into it. I asked after her, as I knew he wanted me to do. ‘She is well,’ he said. ‘Blooming, in fact.’

  ‘I’m glad,’ I said sincerely. ‘And glad for Lisa, too. She has her home back now.’

  ‘Eric says he has advised Lisa to go to law and challenge the will, because Thomas looks just like Edmund and so the reason for cutting the twins out can’t stand. But Lisa is too overset as yet to make plans and is afraid of the expense.’

  ‘She may well be,’ I said. ‘The law’s a slow and costly business!’

  On the 17th of August, a page came to my apartment, bidding me to attend on the queen at a reception. Francis, Duke of Alençon, had arrived.

  Unexpectedly, he had arrived without attendants, and his presence was a semi-secret. He and the queen had met briefly in private before most of the Council even knew he was in the country. He must now meet them and this reception had therefore been planned. Dress would be formal. I chose an outfit in my favourite tawny and cream: tawny for the overgown and its sleeves, and a kirtle and sleeve slashings of cream silk, with little tawny flowers embroidered on it. With it went amber jewellery and gold kid slippers, and gold edgings for my ruff.

  In my capacity as an enquiry agent, I regularly wore gowns open in front, so that a pouch, hidden but quickly accessible, could be stitched inside the skirt, and in that pouch I often carried such useful things as a little extra money, a small dagger in a sheath and a set of picklocks. But on this occasion, my skirt had no secret pouch. I was not on duty now, or not in that sense.

  It was horrible weather. Outside, in the grounds, it was raining hard, and a sharp wind was tearing leaves from the trees and the rose bushes in the gardens. Passageways and galleries were shadowy, though there were cressets in holders here and there. Nevertheless, as I hastened along, I sensed a busyness in the air, a feeling of lively expectation. Here and there, knots of people stood talking quietly but excitedly; and servants were scurrying about, valets and tirewomen with garments over their arms, serving men and maids bearing trays loaded with wine and platters of all kinds of food from small pies to a complete cold roast goose.

  At one point, I had to stop while two men carrying a massive table between them emerged from a side passage and then put the table down in my path and stood there massaging their arm muscles and grumbling about the weight. A few yards further on, we were overtaken by a harassed man pushing a handcart piled high with boxes of candles. Hampton Court, in fact, was humming. If the duke’s arrival had been a secret, it was clearly not so now.

  Eventually, I mounted the staircase to the lofty state apartments, which, unlike the gloomy galleries and passageways I had traversed to get there, were brilliantly lit, by banks of candles and numerous stands bearing multiple candlesticks. At Elizabeth’s court, candles were used with such abandon that I felt sure there must be several chandlers whose sole customer was Queen Elizabeth, and who were busy all day long, keeping up with her requirements. The smell of melting wax mingled with the scent from the rushes underfoot, which had been mixed with mint and rosemary.

  Guards in scarlet tunics stood outside every door in the series, clashing halberds to the floor as they admitted the guests, who were then handed over to the ushers, one of whom led me through to the Presence Chamber.

  Here, I paused to take in the scene. A further door, slightly open, gave a glimpse of a room where tables were being positioned and refreshments set out, and in the room immediately before me, the guests were gathered. To one side, the queen’s ladies formed a smiling cluster along with some of the foremost male guests. Sir Francis Walsingham, tall, dark, hollow-cheeked and clad in black, was among them, as was the queen’s vice-chamberlain, Sir Christopher Hatton, who was one of her close associates, and also Jean de Simier.

  De Simier, who I supposed was present as the friend of the guest of honour, was dressed with propriety, in a light brown suit that had a soldierly air about it
. Hatton on the other hand was in a rust-red doublet and hose which went with his dark beard and hair and his strong, good-looking features. Hatton was the best dancer in the court and was possessed of dramatic eyebrows that went up at the outer corners. At the moment, although he seemed to be talking pleasantly to his companions, the inner corners of those brows were drawn together. He did not look happy.

  Nor did the Earl of Leicester, who was standing alone. His smile looked as though it had been painted on to his tanned features. His crimson doublet was tight, probably to show off his wide shoulders and his flat stomach. Cecil, wearing his formal robes, was on the other side of the room, talking to Thomas Radcliffe, the Earl of Sussex. Cecil’s face was watchful but Sussex was beaming. And in the centre, in white and silver and three ropes of glimmering pearls, was Queen Elizabeth, deep in conversation with the Duke of Alençon.

  I looked at him, and stood motionless, at gaze.

  Francis, Duke of Alençon, certainly wasn’t handsome. He was straightbacked enough but he was barely over five feet tall and his face, which was partly turned towards me, was sadly pitted with the marks of bygone smallpox. But his dark eyes sparkled with intelligence and merriment, and from where I stood, I could hear him speaking, in fluent English, and I have never heard a more melodious voice. It was as though his lack of inches and his scarred face were irrelevant, and not just because of the bright eyes and the beautiful voice, either. He had that indefinable thing called Presence. Simply by being in the room, he made every other man dwindle. It was as though, wherever he stood or walked, a brilliant shaft of light followed him, a light that had nothing to do with the innumerable candles.

  Listening to that pleasant voice, I realized that he was quoting a piece of English poetry. I gathered that he was completing a quotation which the queen had begun. He finished, and Elizabeth said: ‘You know that poem by heart! Have you memorized much verse, my lord? You speak it so well.’

  ‘I have always had a liking for poetry, ma’am.’ His smile was as delightful as his voice. ‘I take pleasure in committing it to memory. Such interests balance the martial skills that all men should learn. They complete a man, make him into a rounded being.’

  He was assuredly that. All the ladies were glancing towards him with visible admiration and the queen’s shield-shaped face, usually so pale, was softly flushed, like the face of a girl who has just been paid her first compliment. I looked again at Hatton and Leicester, and saw that Hatton’s dramatic eyebrows had almost met and that Leicester was holding himself rigidly, as though he were encased in an invisible suit of armour. The queen was pleased with Alençon, but they were not.

  At that moment, there was a mild disturbance behind me. Turning, I saw that close to the door was a bank of lights that must have been lit before the others, for some of the candles were burning low. Someone must have noticed and asked for replacements, for servants were just hurrying in with boxes of fresh candles. As they set about replacing the old with the new, one of them dropped a box lid. It fell with a clatter, whereupon Leicester, suddenly glowering, strode over and in a low but savage voice, ordered them to stop making a noise, to finish quickly and go.

  He then swung round and went to join de Simier and Hatton and I witnessed the way he put his painted smile back on to his face, assuming a sociable mien. I also saw something knowing in de Simier’s manner as he replied to something Leicester said, and I knew that he was perfectly aware that Leicester and Hatton were furious and that Leicester had taken out his rage on the hapless servants.

  The queen caught sight of me and smiled, a lovely smile, and for once, she was not concealing her thoughts. She gave me a little nod.

  It was all right. Leicester and Hatton might seethe, Walsingham and Cecil might doubt, but Elizabeth had taken to her suitor. She was going to let him woo her. She looked as though she had forgotten all her fears.

  My responsibility was over. The Duke of Alençon would assuredly finish the work of reassurance. Fearing for the queen as I did, I was sorry for it, but if it was what she herself wanted, then I – and Cecil and Walsingham, Leicester and Hatton – would have to put our worries aside and pray for her. I could go home.

  TEN

  The Breaking Storm

  Before the queen released me, she called me to one more private meeting. She welcomed me with a smile and handed me a fan. The chilly wet weather had gone, to be followed by two hot days and then a windless, sultriness with a hazy sky. My stiff ruff pricked my neck and under my expensive green brocade gown I was sweating. Sweat also gleamed on Elizabeth’s skin, beneath her open ruff. I was glad of the fan.

  It was the start, though no one could have known it, of a stormy season, which would affect the events that followed, as though Fate itself were guiding them.

  Without wasting words on preamble, Elizabeth said: ‘All goes well, my Ursula. You have no doubt wondered. Francis of Alençon is a most remarkable young man. I never expected to take to him as I have, to feel as much at home with him as I do.’

  ‘I am happy to hear it, ma’am,’ I said dutifully. ‘When I saw him at the reception, I must say he impressed me.’

  ‘Yes. He has a keen mind, and a vigour, an aura, even though he lacks inches and there are the marks of the pox – well, I have a few of those too …’

  ‘They aren’t noticeable, ma’am.’

  Elizabeth put up a hand to touch the little marks on her forehead and under her left cheekbone. They were very faint, even when she wasn’t wearing powder and today she was. ‘Mine are nothing,’ she said. ‘But his are nothing, also, because after a few moments in his company, one can’t see them any longer. Ursula, he can talk of anything, and in knowledgeable fashion. He can talk of music, poetry, history, of exotic foodstuffs from other lands, of the management of horses and how to cultivate quinces and the latest scientific theories about the stars. And he can make puns. Even in English! We are never dull.’

  ‘That is an accolade indeed,’ I said. The queen laughed and her golden-brown eyes danced in a way I had rarely seen before.

  ‘Dear sister. It is going to be all right. And so – I love to have you by me, but it would make my other ladies jealous if I kept you here too long, and besides, I know you want to be at home with your little boy. You have my leave to go when you wish. But there is one more thing that you can do for me.’ Her eyes became serious. ‘You can pray for me, pray that I too may soon have a little boy, to rule after me, to guard and guide this green realm when I am gone. Will you do that?’

  ‘Of course I will.’ I would also, most ardently, pray for her safety in the perilous seas of childbirth. ‘Though even if your child should be a little girl,’ I ventured, ‘why should she not be a worthy successor to you? As worthy as you are yourself, my sister.’

  ‘I wouldn’t wish such a fate on a girl,’ said Elizabeth unexpectedly. ‘A crown is a heavy burden. I have done – I intend to do – my duty, but it is harder for a woman than for a man, harder to be in command, harder to be responsible for the succession …’

  Just for a moment, the old uncertainty was there again. She said: ‘It seems that the treaty which my marriage to Alençon is supposed to clinch may actually be dependent on the marriage. I mean, that the French won’t sign until we have exchanged our vows. It’s just as well,’ said Elizabeth lightly, ‘that he and I have agreed together as we have.’

  I kissed her hand and wished her joy, as I knew she wanted me to do, and then I went away to tell Dale that we could pack.

  We started for home the following day. There was no straight road between Hampton Court and Hawkswood, just a choice of serpentine ones, but the one I preferred took a route that passed through the market town of Epsom and on through the villages of Ashtead and Leatherhead, until, to reach Hawkswood, one turned off from the road between Leatherhead and Guildford, and took a track leading westward. This, eventually, led to Hawkswood.

  It was a day’s ride at our pace though a man in a hurry could do it in less. We were not in a hu
rry and we didn’t expect to be home before suppertime.

  We had passed through Ashtead when we noticed that the hazy sunshine was dimming further and that in the southwest, the sky looked very dark. ‘I think rain’s on the way,’ I said, pointing.

  ‘Yes. It looks as though it might be heavy,’ said Dale uneasily.

  ‘In that case,’ Brockley said, ‘we’d better seek shelter somewhere.’ He looked about him. There were no habitations to be seen, only fields and commons and patches of woodland.

  ‘We’re getting near Leatherhead,’ I said. ‘What about the Running Horse inn?’

  They both murmured agreement. We had all liked the Running Horse, liked its clean white plastered walls, its eye-catching gables and its comfortable rooms from which one could hear the purling of the nearby river Mole. Brockley had approved of the inn’s airy stables and competent ostler.

  ‘The Running Horse it is,’ I said.

  We shook the horses into a trot. Dale bounced uncomfortably but gallantly held on to Brockley. We were near the first houses of Leatherhead when, all in a moment, the darkening sky became very dark indeed, a wind sprang up and the rain began to spatter.

  ‘Cloaks!’ said Brockley. ‘It’s going to pour!’

  Since we had set off in warm weather, our cloaks had been stuffed into our saddlebags. It was easier to put them on when not sitting on a horse, so we all dismounted. We had just got our cloaks on when the spattering rain turned into a deluge. It fell out of the sky as though from a waterfall. We were soaked in a moment, cloaks and all. ‘We’ll never make the inn in this!’ I gasped. ‘It’s at the far end of the town! But Marjorie Harrison’s house is near. Look, it’s that one! Let’s try there!’

  We blundered forward, pulling our horses after us. They were drenched as well, their coats shining with water. At Marjorie’s gate, I threw my reins to Brockley, ran through the garden and up the steps and pounded on the door. Dale came after me, panting. The maidservant Mary opened it, and stared at us in amazement.