‘There have indeed,’ said de Lacey. ‘It has become a veritable hornets’ nest.’ Once more, I detected malice. He gave us a parting bow, and took himself off, somewhat abruptly.
‘There’s something odd about that man,’ said Dale disapprovingly.
‘Yes, there is, but I can’t decide exactly what,’ I said. ‘I think he was trying, delicately, to warn me that all isn’t well in the queen’s household. Well, I shall soon find out. Now, come along.’
Once more, we started towards the bowling alley but again we were accosted, this time by Sir Thomas Radcliffe, Earl of Sussex, himself. He appeared suddenly round a bend in the path, stopped, swept his hat off in gracious welcome, and said: ‘Mistress Stannard! So you have arrived! Welcome back.’
We both curtsied to him, smiling, for although I knew he was eager for the Alençon marriage, a point of view that I couldn’t share, he was nevertheless a pleasant and honest man and known as a loyal friend to the queen. To look at, he resembled a large and very masculine faun. I had seen pictures of fauns in a book about the legends of Ancient Greece, shown to me and my cousins by the tutor who had told us so many tales of the ancient world. Sussex had a long, dark face, with a chin that stretched far enough to overlap his ruff, narrow dark eyes and pointed ears. His voice was deep and calm and I wondered how much that voice had helped him when he was dissuading Elizabeth from consigning Leicester to the Tower.
‘I am pleased to be back,’ I said. ‘How is her majesty?’
Sussex jerked his head to indicate whatever might be happening somewhere behind him. ‘She is practising her skills at bowls and slaughtering skittles.’
‘Slaughtering …?’
‘Her majesty,’ he said gravely, ‘is upset, has been for some time. You know about the Earl of Leicester?’
‘And his marriage? Yes.’
‘It’s not a crime to marry,’ Sussex said, sounding weary. ‘And this is a perfectly respectable union between a widowed man and a widowed woman, in the presence of witnesses, including the bride’s father. But I had to argue the point with her majesty. The trouble is that for many, many years she has relied on Leicester’s devotion, and though in many ways she is perceptive and knows what goes in the minds of her councillors, well, in other ways – well, she does not understand men. Does not understand certain needs.’
‘I am here to help her if I can.’
Sussex considered me. ‘You know her as well as anyone does, I think. She will tell you herself what she wants of you. She is missing Duke Francis and that isn’t helping. He is quite remarkable, you know – the duke, I mean. He’s hardly a fine figure of a man!’ We all smiled, Sussex, Dale and me, remembering the duke’s short stature and pockmarked face. ‘But he has something,’ Sussex said. ‘Character, an atmosphere, something in those lively dark eyes of his and a great deal in his well-tutored mind! He is knowledgeable about modern sciences, he can speak several tongues and he can recite poetry by the furlong! He has moved the queen as no other man has, not even Leicester.’
‘I certainly thought that he created an impression,’ I said carefully.
‘I regret that he has gone back to France,’ said Sussex. ‘The latest news is that he may well have to deal with a crisis in the Netherlands before he can return to England. It’s true that there is much to be done to convince the people of England that the marriage is desirable, but it might be easier if he were here to promote himself! The queen needs him, anyway. She is angry, as much as anything, because she is miserable without him. Do your best for her, Ursula.’
‘I’ll try,’ I said, and he bowed and took his leave, passing us and walking on, back towards the palace. Dale and I went thoughtfully on, and a few moments later had our third encounter, for we saw Lady Margaret Mollinder approaching. She, however, merely paused long enough to say: ‘Mistress Stannard! The queen will be so glad to see you. She has been waiting for you to come,’ and then smiled and went on her way.
She was wearing a gown of dusty pink, scattered with pale green leaves, in which she looked extremely pretty, and I noticed how beautiful her brown eyes were. They were that soft shade which recalls the petals of the heartsease flower. It was a shame that she couldn’t be with her husband. Perhaps, I thought, that would be put right soon. There was surely no reason why she shouldn’t, now, travel to join him, if an escort could be found.
Dale and I walked on again. Another moment, and we were at last in sight of the bowling alley, a grassy avenue between dark yew hedges. The wooden skittles, several feet tall and gaily painted, were at the far end and attendants were ready to pick them up as fast as Elizabeth knocked them down. Which was frequently, for Elizabeth was very clearly in a royal temper and taking it out on the skittles. In fact, slaughtering them. Sussex had chosen the word well.
Informally clad in kirtle and loose overgown, no doubt to give her freedom of movement, she was hurling the bowls again and again into the heart of a defenceless row of targets, flinging her victims over with such violence that they crashed into each other and fell into heaps, to be picked up by the alley attendants (who sometimes had to dodge her majesty’s murderous onslaught themselves) and replaced so that they could be furiously assaulted again. Ladies, courtiers and a couple of pages were standing at a safe distance, effacing themselves for fear of attracting the royal rage in their direction. Dale and I stopped short but Elizabeth had glimpsed us from the corner of an eye, and swung round to look at us properly. ‘Ursula Stannard! So you have deigned to answer my summons!’
Her voice was harsh and her golden-brown eyes bright with fury. Dale and I both sank into very deep curtsies indeed, bowing humble heads, and rising warily.
‘I came as quickly as I could, your majesty,’ I said. ‘I am glad to be here and am ready to help you in any way that you wish.’
‘Humph!’
Elizabeth in this mood was unpredictable and dangerous. We waited, meekly. ‘We will speak in private,’ she said to me. She was holding a ball, which she now tossed carelessly towards the skittles, but this time without intending to hit them. Ignoring her entourage, she beckoned to us, swung round with a vicious swish of her skirts, like an angry cat lashing its tail, and strode off towards the palace, taking it for granted that we would follow. Which, of course, we did.
Elizabeth walked swiftly. The usual breathless page rushed ahead to announce her coming at every stage, generally managing to do it a bare two seconds before she caught up with him. We went indoors, up a flight of stairs, through an antechamber where more courtiers were standing about, past a pair of gentleman pensioners in scarlet uniforms, who were standing guard on either side of a door to an inner chamber where some of her ladies were busy with tapestry work, and then past two more guards into a small room beyond, much the same arrangement as the one at Hampton Court. The page, panting, gave up at this point. There was no one in the small room to whom he could announce the queen, anyway.
Dale was still with me, but Elizabeth looked at her sharply, whereupon Dale curtsied again and retreated back into the company of the ladies with the tapestry frames. Elizabeth deposited herself in a chair like a small throne and sat there staring at me. I bent my head and waited.
‘You know what has happened?’ she said at last. ‘The Earl of Leicester, Robert Dudley, my sweet Robin, on whose help and support I have so long relied, has … has …’
‘Yes, ma’am. I have heard.’
‘I wanted to send him to the Tower but Sussex, who has also served me so well and faithfully for so many years, advised against it and I do sometimes heed advice. So I sent my Robin back to the arms of my sly cousin Lettice. I was so angry. But I was growing calm, learning to accept, and then I received a letter from him, begging permission to return to court! As though we could be as we were, as though nothing of moment had happened, as though he could do as so many of my Council do, dividing their time between my court and going home to be with their wives and families! As though he were not different …! I was angry all over again
. I still am!’
I arranged my features into an expression of sympathy and enquiry but still kept silent. There had been a time when I would have gone to her, perhaps even put an arm about her, but over the years Elizabeth had changed, grown more formal, more remote, more frightening. I dared not presume. This time, she hadn’t even invited me to sit.
‘I called you back to court because I need you to help me,’ she said at last. ‘Because it isn’t just that my sweet Robin has … has taken a woman in wedlock – my own cousin and not a woman I can admire! Lettice Knollys has an eye for men! He will be lucky if she stands by him for long!’
She paused, needing breath, her eyes dangerous. I continued to wait.
‘There has been an accusation against Robin,’ she said. ‘Nothing to do with his marriage. Before my dear Duke Francis and his man de Simier left for France, de Simier had an illness, with violent sickness and gripes. It was after a dinner attended by both him and Robin. A rumour arose – I believe myself that it was begun by de Simier – that Robin had tried to have him poisoned. Robin clearly regards the estate of matrimony as suitable for himself, but is opposed to it for me! The rumour is that Robin wanted to make the duke think my court an unhealthy place, to drive a wedge between him and me. The tale is all round the court and there are those who believe it! Disprove it, Ursula! That’s what I want you to do. Use your talents to disprove it! I don’t know how you can set about it, but do it, just the same! I implore you!’
Christopher Spelton had been right. I was to investigate. I wondered, rather wildly, how. But the golden-brown eyes were pleading with me, and the shield-shaped face was drawn as if in pain.
‘I wish Duke Francis were still here,’ said Elizabeth. ‘I wish it so much. I am a woman as well as a queen. There are times when like other women, I need a man to lean on and Robin … Robin is no longer such a man. I long for the duke to come back. But meanwhile, Ursula, my sister, it is on sisterhood that I must rely instead. Help me, Ursula! I am so angry with Robin, and yet … and yet … I mind about his good name. I shall fall ill if it is not cleared. I storm and rage – and then I go to my chamber and weep in private. Prove Robin’s innocence. Do that for me! It would comfort me so much and besides, what if my dear Francis should fear to return to England to marry me because he thinks he may be a victim too? Because he fears that he may be murdered? Take that dread away, Ursula. Please!’
EIGHTEEN
Blockage
I was to prove Leicester’s innocence. Splendid. I hadn’t the least idea how to set about it and suppose he wasn’t innocent? What then?
Meanwhile, something else arose to command my attention. Word came that Sir Francis Walsingham wished to see me.
I climbed the steep staircase that led to his office, arrived in his antechamber, and was ushered into his presence.
Walsingham had offices in each of Elizabeth’s palaces and they were all alike. If I had been brought blindfolded to any of them, and then had my eyes uncovered and been asked to identify which palace it was in, I probably couldn’t have done so. He always had an anteroom for his clerks and another room for himself and his personal secretary and any visitors. In each palace, the rooms had panelled walls and diamond-paned windows. In one or two cases, the panelling was of the costly linen-fold style and might have been identified from that except that most of the panelling, linen-fold or otherwise, was obscured by charts, maps, blackboards covered with chalked letters, where coded missives from agents overseas were in process of being unravelled, and shelves piled high with documents, books, files and stationery.
The offices all smelt the same, too, of dust and ink. Walsingham did not go in for the pretty and the frivolous. I had never seen his home and sometimes wondered what it was like, and whether, when he was there, he ever discarded his austere black gown and skull cap and wore something more colourful.
He greeted me with his usual restrained enthusiasm, for though he and I had had frequent dealings in the past, he did not approve of women being involved in the kind of work I did for the queen.
I can’t say I liked him. The queen didn’t, either. She quarrelled with him often and had been known to throw things at him. His loyalty was unquestioned; he was utterly trustworthy; but he was so very stark and stern and though he was said to be a loving family man, in his professional capacity, he was ruthlessness personified.
However, he was courteous. He offered me a seat, gave me his grim idea of a smile and asked after a kitten he had once given me.
‘She flourishes,’ I said. ‘And catches mice regularly. I have named her Artemis. A big name for a little cat, but Artemis was a huntress.’
‘She comes from a long line of excellent mousers,’ said Walsingham appreciatively. If he had been a cat, I thought, he would have been a good mouser, too. ‘Now.’ His tone changed, suddenly, to aggression. It was like a missile hurtling without warning from the mouth of a cannon. ‘I believe that you have been much involved in investigating the disappearance of a youth called Thomas Harrison. I have read the report that you left with Dr West of St Andrew’s in Priors Ford. I am aware of your suspicions of George and Robert Harrison. I believe there was a button found along with Thomas’s body. Did you keep it in your possession?’
‘I … yes. I meant to leave it with Dr West but I forgot. I have it here in my purse.’
‘Your purse is on your girdle, I see. Show me the button.’
I took it out and handed it to him. ‘I think,’ I said, ‘that George Harrison probably knew about the tin mine before Edmund’s death. They were brothers, after all, and they met when George came back to his wife. I have an idea that the seeds of the crime – crimes – were sown as soon as George realized that Lisa had had an affair and that he could ruin her in the eyes of her husband. He’d always kept in touch with Robert. I believe that they wanted to push Lisa and her children right out of the line of inheritance.’
‘You put most of that in your report,’ said Walsingham coldly. ‘No need to repeat it.’ He bounced the button on his palm, looking at it thoughtfully.
‘Robert Harrison has probably gone back to France by now,’ I said, feeling the need to persist, to drive my point home against what felt like a wall of obstruction. ‘Nothing can be done about him until he returns to England, but when the grape harvest is over, he will come back to marry his cousin Jane Harrison. He and his father can be apprehended then.’ A question occurred to me. ‘How was it that you saw my report?’
‘I am kept informed of what is happening in the lives of certain people,’ said Walsingham. ‘That report was most comprehensive, but I don’t find your tale convincing. The tin mine gives the father and son a motive but the world is full of people with good reasons to murder other people, and yet they don’t do it. George may have informed on Lisa Harrison, as it were, simply for moral reasons. After all, Edmund was still alive then. Or are you supposing that George and Robert disposed of Edmund as well?’
I hadn’t considered that. But when Edmund died, Robert had been in France, and George was at Marjorie’s house. The Firtrees servants had informed him and he had despatched a messenger to France.
‘No,’ I said. ‘I don’t think that.’
‘I’m glad to hear it! You seem to be hurling accusations of murder about somewhat freely! Whatever the man Tremaine may say, it seems to me more likely that the death of Master Lake was an accident …’
‘He was summoned by a mysterious note!’
‘It may have been a message about anything. There could be a woman in the case. It could have been an invitation to an assignation …’
‘Not Eric! He was in love with his wife and Kate is expecting their first child …’
‘Are you really such an innocent, Mistress Stannard? That is a time when gentlemen often stray, for obvious reasons. The summons to the mine may mean nothing sinister but those concerned may be afraid to come forward, for fear that they will be accused of harming him. As for this button, what of it? Such buttons are a c
ommonplace.’
It was still in his hand. He bounced it again. ‘My own tailor in London once offered me buttons identical to this but I didn’t care for the pattern. Mistress Stannard, you have been summoned to court to carry out a task for the queen. I wish she would leave such investigations to me. They are not suitable for a lady such as yourself. However, the queen will have her way and you must obey her wishes; that I understand. I think she also needs a kind of support from you, in what must be a strange time for her, as she considers changing her estate. It will be a serious step. Put your mind to her business and leave this other affair alone. That is an order.’
‘You are forbidding me to pursue the matter of two murders? Thomas Harrison and Eric Lake are just to be … left?’
‘For the time being, yes. It is a relief to me,’ said Walsingham, ‘that the inquest on Master Lake arrived at a sensible conclusion …’
‘But it didn’t! The coroner was a dull little man who couldn’t believe in anything so dramatic as a murder. I doubt if he’d ever been faced with such an idea before, and he couldn’t take it in. Nor could the jury. I told them about the note but they dismissed it, said – as you did just now – that it could have been about anything and perhaps did come from Tremaine, only he was afraid to admit it. They wouldn’t even believe that the signature wasn’t in his writing. The coroner said it was impossible to be sure about such a thing. I believe half of the jury couldn’t write anyway! That coroner virtually told them to return a verdict of accident and they obeyed him.’ A thought struck me. ‘Did you somehow … arrange that?’
‘No. I knew nothing about Master Lake’s death until I saw your report. The Cornish inquest verdict was pure good fortune for me. I can only hope that the coroner who is in charge of the inquest on Thomas Harrison is similarly obliging. I can’t control either him or the jury. But I can take certain steps. From your report, it seems that you did not actually see Thomas’s body.’
A Deadly Betrothal Page 15