The Siren Queen: An Ursula Blanchard Mystery at Queen Elizabeth I's

by Buckley, Fiona

  A murmur from Hugh and then Dean’s voice again. “I certainly expect to recoup within three years . . . as the situation eases, which I’m sure it must, my father will help. I am aware that the landed and merchant communities don’t usually mix, but my grandfather, of course, was a landed gentleman. Your daughter—no, stepdaughter, is it not?—will find the life of a merchant’s wife not unpleasant. She would be well dressed and would both give and attend gatherings full of interesting people. What languages does she speak, by the way . . . ?”

  Hugh moved, turning so that his voice reached me more clearly. “Excellent French but only a little Italian. She is studying Latin and Greek, however.”

  “Latin? Then her Italian can soon be polished up; the languages are related, after all . . . ”

  “She is to spend some time at court before there is any question of marriage,” said Hugh, a little repressively.

  “Admirable.” Dean sounded buoyant. “An experience of court life can only be of value to her and to her husband, too. To succeed in any field, one needs good contacts. My lord of Norfolk tells me, from his correspondence with you, that she will have a dowry befitting her station in life . . . ”

  Hugh moved again and once more said something I couldn’t hear. I heard the answer, however.

  “I have no entanglements. My father has left it to me to choose my own wife. The maiden is very young as yet, of course, but I can see that she is delightful. I won’t pretend that I’m indifferent to her dowry . . . ”

  “No one is ever indifferent to the question of dowry,” Norfolk said, overhearing and turning away from Sybil to speak to me. “But to be charmed by the lady is always an advantage. I am under a lady’s spell myself just now and it undoubtedly adds a shine to one’s life . . . ”

  “He likes me,” whispered Meg.

  I offered her some meat patties and said: “There’s a long way to go yet.”

  “I’d like to talk to him myself.”

  “I’m sure you will have an opportunity. But do remember that you are only thirteen and that you must be prepared to listen to my advice and that of your stepfather.”

  “Oh, Mother!” said Meg, with an impish smile that dismissed me as a croaking and joyless old wiseacre. “Here’s Brockley!” she added.

  Brockley had come into the room unnoticed, and was looking anxiously about him. Catching sight of me, he hurried toward me. “Madam!”

  “Yes, Brockley? What is it?”

  “I am sorry to intrude, madam. I have a message for His Grace and also, madam, you’re needed. Something very unfortunate is happening.”

  “A message for me?” Norfolk turned to him, frowning. “Can it not wait? I am entertaining guests.”

  “Well, a messenger has arrived for you, sir. A man named Julius Gale. I understand he has brought a letter from your banker. He is taking refreshment in the kitchen, but he expressly asked that you should be told at once that he was here. And also . . . ”

  “Yes, Brockley?” I said resignedly. I had sensed disaster.

  “It’s Gladys, madam. She’s causing trouble in the kitchens. I apologize again for intruding, but if possible, could you come?”

  • • •

  Norfolk’s kitchens were at the foot of a stone staircase. They were a world of their own, a rambling warren of rooms for every conceivable culinary purpose, threaded by narrow, stone-paved passages with doorways on either side. Mostly these had no doors in them, to make for the easier shifting of sackloads and barrels and carcasses. We passed a dairy where cream was setting and maidservants were slicing cheeses into fancy shapes and then an ale store where Hugh, who had come with us, was nearly tripped up by a barrel. It came rumbling suddenly out of the entrance, propelled by a cheeky-faced lad, who said: “Whoops! Sorry, sir!”

  He was promptly pounced on from behind by an older youth who cuffed his colleague around the ear, though not too roughly.

  “Watch where you’re going, young Walt!”

  Cheekiness turned to sullenness. “Oh, leave off! I ain’t done no harm. I get paid a pittance and harried for everything.”

  “Shut your gob!” The older youth eyed us anxiously and Brockley said shortly: “All right. We didn’t hear.”

  “But shutting your gob is good advice, I fancy,” said Hugh to the scowling Walt.

  “Sorry, sir.” He rolled his barrel away ahead of us and the older boy sighed.

  “Please excuse him. He’s in love and can’t afford to wed the girl yet awhile. I tell him, if he works hard and watches his tongue, there’s promotion to be had and tips as well and it’s a recommendation on its own, to have worked for the duke. A couple of years is nothing at his age. He’s but seventeen and the wench not sixteen yet, I hear. But he’s the sort that wants everything yesterday.”

  “We’ll forgive him,” I said. “This time!”

  We hastened on past a butchery, where a couple of brawny individuals in sleeveless jerkins were jointing sheep carcasses with meat cleavers. Next to it was a sinister, ill-lit little room with feathers and bloodstains on the sawdust-strewn floor and unplucked fowl and game birds and a row of deer and bullock carcasses hanging on the walls, ripening for spit or stew pot.

  Beyond all this was an archway from which heat rolled out in waves to meet us. Hurrying through, we found ourselves in a huge central kitchen where the spits and pots spluttered and bubbled over the flames in three immense fireplaces. At a table in the middle, perspiring cooks of both sexes were beating eggs, grinding spices, chopping cabbages, pounding dough, and rolling out pastry like so much carpeting.

  Brockley didn’t stop, however, but led us straight across and into yet another room, which was obviously where the servants ate, for there were food and drink on the table in the middle. Standing beside it, in attitudes of tension, were the dignified butler, the duchess-like housekeeper in her stiff open ruff and her ornamental stomacher, and three others, two men and a woman, who looked like upper servants. The woman was wide-eyed and looked both scared and excited. Another man, whose riding boots suggested that he was the newly arrived messenger, was sitting down, looking worried and slightly apologetic. Finally, also seated, there was Gladys, glowering.

  The housekeeper greeted us with relief. “Mistress Stannard! And Master Stannard. So you found them, Master Brockley.”

  “Gladys belongs to our household,” said Hugh briefly. “We hear that there is some kind of trouble which concerns her. Kindly explain.”

  The housekeeper, the butler, the three other servants, and Gladys all started to talk at once but Hugh shouted: “Stop!” and silence fell again. He pointed at the housekeeper. “You, please. Your name is . . . ?”

  “Mistress Dalton, sir. And trouble there most certainly is.” She stood there, straight-backed with her hands clasped on her stomacher. I saw that her fingers were folded around an expensive-looking pomander, a ball of pierced silver, no doubt full of perfume. “I was making my rounds and I heard the raised voices from the far side of the kitchen . . . ”

  “I forgot myself,” said the butler fairly. “But I wasn’t the only one.”

  “I think it’s my fault,” said the messenger placatingly. I looked at him with interest, thinking that even in the presence of such august personages as Mistress Dalton and the butler, he seemed out of place in the kitchen quarters. His voice was too educated, for one thing, and though his brown hose and doublet were slashed only with a muted yellow and had nothing show-off about them (which certainly couldn’t be said of the housekeeper’s raiment) they were nevertheless cut from excellent cloth.

  He was stockily built, with a square, intelligent face, neatly barbered auburn hair, and brown eyes, which were frank and pleasant. In fact, the first thing I thought as I looked at him was that I wished he were Edmund Dean. This was the kind of man I would like for Meg.

  As if thinking of him had somehow summoned him, Dean himself now swept into the room. “The duke has asked me to see what the matter is.” He stood there, surveying us all wit
h a hard blue gaze. “Ah, Master Gale. You have a letter for His Grace? I can take it to him if you wish. Now, what is happening here?”

  “The trouble,” said Gladys, in her spluttery voice, baring her brown fangs, “is that some folk don’t have no manners. There’s things you can’t help when you get to my age. Things that aren’t as easy as they were when you was younger. I can’t be changing my linen every minute of the day even if I have had a bit of an accident that no one knows about except me, except that I might pong a bit if you gets up close . . . ”

  “I sat down beside her,” said Gale, “and I was tired. I did sixty miles yesterday and I’ve come something like forty today. I’ve ridden from Dover. My employer, Master Roberto Ridolfi, is there at the moment, meeting his wife. She has just arrived from Italy. I . . . well, yes, I moved away because yes, there was an odor, and . . . ”

  “Yes, you moved away,” said Gladys pugnaciously, “wrinkling your nose like I was dirt and I took offense and why not? You wait till you’re my age! I told you off!”

  “And then,” said the butler, “I told her to speak more respectfully and she said that she expected other folk to respect her on account of her years, and . . . ”

  “She does smell,” said one of the manservants. “And I said so, backing Master Gale here up, like . . . ”

  “And I asked her to go and put on something clean, and have a wash,” said the housekeeper in a fastidious voice, as though mere discussion of this unsavory subject could worsen the odor, which I could now detect, mixed uneasily with a sweet, cloying scent, probably from Mistress Dalton’s pomander.

  To which Gladys, it now transpired, strongly objected. “And you got out that great big pomander thing and held it under your nose, you uppish bitch! So I threatened . . . ”

  “You threatened to curse the whole lot of them!” said Brockley angrily. “I was here. I heard you. You silly old woman!”

  “I’m not silly, look you. I’m old and I get insulted for things I can’t do nought about and I stick up for myself. Otherwise I’d get trodden underfoot like an old doormat!” Gladys spluttered back.

  Edmund Dean frowned. “Is this woman,” he inquired, “by any chance a witch?”

  “No, of course not!” I snapped. “And I should know.”

  “Quite,” said Hugh. “Gladys Morgan is a foolish woman who uses threats such as this simply to make people afraid of her, so that they will treat her with what she calls respect. Gladys, we are ashamed of you.”

  “And we apologize to all of you for her bad behavior,” I added.

  “I’m afraid, sir and madam, that that wasn’t all,” said the butler. Gale shook his head at him and said: “Oh, forget it, Conley. I didn’t take it seriously and as I told you a moment ago, I’m sorry for starting this. I’m just tired and I didn’t intend to make trouble.”

  “What happened?” I demanded.

  “It was after Master Brockley had gone to fetch you, madam,” said the butler to Brockley. “Mistress Dalton ordered Gladys here again to go off and clean herself and then the old woman did curse us, all of us.”

  “She said, I curse ye all. May calamity fall on the whole bloody lot of you!” said the wide-eyed woman servant.

  Hugh marched forward and seized Gladys’s arm. “That’s quite enough of that. You come with us now. We’re extremely sorry for all this,” he added to the company in general. “It won’t happen again.”

  “You really are a fool, Gladys,” I said angrily. “Brockley, you’d better take her to her quarters and . . . ”

  “She’s in with me and Magda and we don’t want her there no more!” said the woman.

  “Then take her to your own quarters, Brockley! Find Dale and get her to fetch Gladys’s things and tidy her up.” Hugh was nodding his head in agreement. “Go on!” I said. “Get her out of here!”

  I was thinking privately that at least it had been a mild curse this time, not the comprehensive and lurid one she had let fly at Dr. Fleet in Faldene churchyard. Even so, Dean looked after her gravely as Brockley, ignoring Gladys’s further attempts to justify herself, hustled her away.

  “It’s all very well, Mistress Stannard, but is it wise to keep such a one about your person?” Dean asked me. “How can one be sure that she is not in league with demons?”

  “If I were a demon, I’d want to strike up my partnerships with people who could get things done! I’d be after the folk with money and power,” remarked Gale. “Just putting the evil eye on a kitchenful of servants doesn’t achieve much, does it?”

  The kitchenful looked indignant, clearly feeling that he had belittled them. Dean said coldly: “About the letter you’ve brought?”

  “Aye, I’ve got it here.” Gale had a cloth bag slung at his belt. He opened it, took out some folded and sealed missives, examined them, selected one, and handed it to Dean. “The rest I’m carrying north, going by way of Staffordshire. I’ve orders to wait a day here in case His Grace wishes me to take any letters for him.”

  “I will inform the duke. I daresay that if he has anything for you, it will be ready tomorrow morning,” Dean said. He took the proffered letter and went away. Hugh and I murmured some more apologies and thankfully removed ourselves as well, following Dean back across the kitchen and through the labyrinthine passages.

  Wanting to distract Dean from the subject of Gladys, I remarked as we went that Julius Gale was a smart-looking fellow. “I’m surprised he isn’t received more formally,” I said, “especially if he’s carrying letters to and from the duke.”

  “Gale used to be greeted more formally,” said Dean, over his shoulder. “Last time he was here, he was welcomed as usual by the duke in person. Then he set off early the next morning, carrying letters for His Grace, but came back inside an hour, much alarmed, convinced he’d been followed. He stayed another night and was smuggled out disguised as a scullion, the next morning. One of the grooms met him outside the City with a led horse. It was decided that henceforth, he should slip quietly in and out as a visitor to the kitchen quarters. That way, there was less risk of his presence being noted by anyone who might be—well—on the watch.”

  “His Grace’s affairs are so very confidential?” said Hugh.

  “His Grace deals with many matters of business,” said Dean. “And he has family cares as well. There are always those who envy wealth and influence and wish their possessors harm. Sometimes it is wise for great men such as the duke to be cautious. It is the penalty of greatness.”

  4

  Chicken Stew

  “Great man?” I said. “If Norfolk is a great man, I’m the Queen of Cathay. No really great man could possibly talk as he does about Mary Stuart!”

  “His possessions are great,” Hugh pointed out, “and his title. There’s no denying that.”

  We had supped with the duke that evening. The meal was served in a pleasant supper room with linenfold paneling and a view of the grounds, and there were eleven of us at the table. The duke headed it, and his three secretaries were present. So too were Sybil and Meg, and grace was recited by a dark-gowned man who was introduced as Father Luke Mercer, the duke’s chaplain. At my request, Brockley and Dale were also with us, seated below the three secretaries but at least partaking of the excellent food. The journey had tired Dale a good deal and I wanted to show her some consideration.

  There was conversation but Norfolk did most of the talking, and what he talked about was largely Mary. In fact, supper lasted over an hour and we spent nearly all of it listening to the details he had discovered of Mary Stuart’s childhood in France as the dauphin’s betrothed.

  “One of the Venetian ambassadors said she was a child of exceptional prettiness . . . she had the most tender feelings for her mother; did you know that she fell ill with grief when she heard of her mother’s death, even though they had not met for years? . . . She personally nursed her husband, the young French king, when he was dying . . . ”

  Now, with relief, I was alone with Hugh, who was sitting on t
he edge of the bed in his linen nightshirt, a loose woolen gown over it for warmth. He was filing his nails by candlelight, while I was already between the sheets, leaning against my pillows, glad that I need no longer make respectful noises in answer to Norfolk’s naïve enthusiasms.

  “For all his wealth and titles, he seems as besotted with Mary as a plowboy with a milkmaid,” I said. “And he hasn’t even met her!”

  Hugh reached to put the file on a little table and turned to me. “Norfolk’s obsession with Mary hardly matters to us. He speaks of it so openly that it can’t be unknown to Cecil and the council. It’s their worry, not ours. We’re here because of Dean. What did you think of him?”

  “We’ve had little chance to weigh him up. Norfolk didn’t give us much opportunity at supper! But I didn’t take to him, even before he called Norfolk great. He’s . . . ” It was difficult to put my instinctive aversion to the man into sensible words. “He’s cold,” I said, finally.

  “What I sense,” said Hugh, “is something hidden about him, as though he isn’t what he appears to be. Well, he’s only a secretary for the time being and out of necessity and if he were a thriving merchant, in his own proper world, as it were, he might seem different but . . . ”

  “I agree. I don’t think he’s what we want for Meg. She was looking at him,” I added, “all the evening. And he was looking at her.”

  “Yes, I noticed that too, with some concern. So—we are not in favor of going ahead with this betrothal, then?”

  “I suppose we must talk further to Dean before we finally decide, but I think not,” I said worriedly.

  “We shouldn’t have come. You were right. She’s too young!” Hugh sounded exasperated. “Too young to decide for herself, and too young for us to decide for her. Her nature isn’t fully formed yet. And we wouldn’t have come, except for Gladys. Ursula, what are we to do about Gladys? I’m beginning to think that after all, she is becoming—well, odd, as aged people sometimes do. When we take her home, we may have to keep her under lock and key. Where is she now, by the way?”