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

by Buckley, Fiona

  I said doubtfully: “Well, that could be so, I suppose.”

  Cecil snorted. “I believe there are certain kinds of fish which, when startled, give out an inky substance that hides them while they make their escape. Norfolk’s theories were very like a cloud of ink. I wondered what was going on behind them. Now, you tell me that this man Ridolfi, who has dealings with Norfolk, and, apparently a secret correspondence with either Mary Stuart or Moray, is also having confidential conversations with de Spes, a man that I neither like nor trust. Nor does the queen,” he added. “She and I are in accord about the Spanish ambassador, at least! She said to me once that de Spes is two men in one body: a whimsical dreamer and a cold fanatic.”

  I thought of de Spes’s romantic style of talking, of the secretive smile and the embattled, watchful eyes, and realized that Elizabeth, acute as ever, had interpreted them aright. I said: “I think that sums him up perfectly. Do you have any observers in Roberto Ridolfi’s house?”

  “Not at the moment.” Cecil paused and then said: “Master Stannard, you have in the past graciously allowed your wife to serve her queen even though it meant being separated from her for a time. Would you consent to that again?”

  I wanted to protest but then I saw Hugh’s expression. I knew what he was going to say. He was an unusual man. He would say that my duty to the queen came before my duty to him. He would remind me too that she and I were half sisters. He had done so before.

  “I would raise no objection,” Hugh said quietly. “But I don’t wish my wife to be put in danger.”

  “There is no need for that,” Cecil said. “Not if you are circumspect, Ursula. There have been times in the past when you weren’t, but no one ordered you to risk getting your throat cut. You rushed headlong into danger all by yourself. I certainly never told you to do so! I don’t like using you, a married woman with a child, in this way at all. But I think that without risk to yourself, you could easily fill this need.”

  “How?” I asked. I had the feeling that my back was against a wall. My only chance of escape, as far as I could see, lay in the fact that I couldn’t imagine how I could be introduced into Ridolfi’s household.

  Cecil had the answer, of course. I might have known.

  “I mentioned that Norfolk has been seeking my advice,” he said. “Are you aware that he’s entangled in a lawsuit over lands which are, or should be, his stepdaughters’ inheritance?”

  “Yes,” I told him.

  “I think I can help him. Customary law is on his side, for one thing. In the absence of a son, it has always been normal for inheritances such as this to be split between the daughters. I do happen to be Master of the Wards, which means that, given I have adequate points of law to work with, I can make recommendations when such cases come to court. My recommendations,” he added, “are usually heeded.”

  Involuntarily, I smiled. It was such a charming way of saying: I order and they jump.

  “Norfolk became quite amiable after our discussion of the matter,” he said. “Almost gossipy. He mentioned that lately, Ridolfi’s wife has come to England and it seems that Ridolfi wants a gentlewoman companion for her. Madame Ridolfi speaks little English and needs a lady who speaks either French or Italian, who can assist her in learning English, help her to shop for gowns and household goods, show her the way about London, and so on.”

  Remembering Ridolfi’s gentle, brown-eyed wife, I said reluctantly: “Yes, she’ll need someone of that kind. I’ve met her, you know. She’ll need someone to help her with the household servants, too.”

  “Norfolk mentioned that as well. Some of the servants came with the family from Italy, so she has no difficulty there. But there are quite a few English ones as well and she would like to be able to talk to them directly.” He laughed. “It seems that the English servants all address her as Madame, as though she were a Frenchwoman, though she doesn’t mind, and says that if it’s easier, she’s prepared to be known as Madame while she’s in England. They call her husband Master Ridolfi. English servants don’t seem able to get their tongues round Signor and Signora, and I daresay the same will be true of half the people she meets in society as well. The English are an insular nation. Even I, for all my high position, can speak no tongue but my own.”

  I said nothing, and he studied my face. “It would be a temporary arrangement, for three months or so. When you met—I’ll call her Madame Ridolfi as well—did you like her?”

  “Well—yes. At least, I didn’t have much conversation with her, but what I saw, I liked.”

  I had lost the contest already. I knew it.

  “I may be able to persuade Norfolk into smoothing the way for you,” Cecil said. “We could say that your husband has business at home, but that you wish to stay in London to buy new fashions for yourself and your daughter. I could suggest that the two ladies would be company for each other. That way, we might arrange for you to join Madame Ridolfi as a friend, not in any sense as a servant.”

  I longed to say no. Then I thought of Julius Gale, being hauled out of a roadside culvert by his feet. I thought of Walt, insulted even in death, hung like a carcass alongside game birds and bullocks.

  Cecil was right. Something had to be done.

  12

  The House by the River

  “I realize that your family is Catholic,” I said, plowing determinedly on, standing in the middle of Norfolk’s parlor and gazing resolutely into Edmund Dean’s unfriendly blue eyes. They were so intense that they had almost physical force. “I was myself reared in a Catholic household,” I said. “The reason why we have decided against this betrothal is the one we have given already. My daughter is too young.”

  I didn’t want bad blood between myself and Dean, for I would probably come into contact with him again in the near future. Norfolk and Ridolfi, I had gathered, saw a good deal of each other when they were both in London, and I would be spending at least the next three months with the Ridolfis. They had taken the bait as easily as ponies take apples. I was to become Donna Ridolfi’s gentlewoman companion.

  I wished Hugh could have been there to support me but Hugh had already left for Hawkswood. Chance had lent color to the excuse that he was too busy to stay in London with me, though we wished it hadn’t. He had gone because of a worrying letter from Sybil.

  Sybil, being both educated and ladylike, had worded the letter in dignified fashion but her alarm came through all too clearly.

  . . . Meg has been downhearted. It seems that she wanted to be betrothed to Master Dean and has even said that she thinks of herself as betrothed to him because, apparently, she told him so one day when they were walking together. I do my best to distract her but I fear she is lovesick. She does not attend to her studies as she should and even rides out and goes hawking as though it were a duty rather than a joy.

  As regards Gladys Morgan, I did all I could to follow your instructions, but it is not possible to keep her confined in the house, she being most offended by this notion. She caused so much ado when she found her chamber door locked that it seemed best to allow her some freedom. I bade her to be circumspect in all she said and did, and at first all went well, but then she offered to make a medicine for an ailing maidservant and went out into the fields to find herbs and there met the Hawkswood vicar. He asked her what she was about and when she told him, he said she was acting presumptuously, pretending to be a physician, which is an art to be practiced only by men, and that he feared her purpose was witchcraft. Whereupon she cursed him in some fashion and, alas, some dwellers in a nearby cottage heard them disputing and came out and were not pleased to see Gladys, whom they knew and distrusted. This caused her to turn on them and curse them too.

  I now have her under lock and key again and have promised the vicar and the villagers (who sent a deputation to me) that she will not annoy them again. I repeated that she was a foolish old woman with a bitter tongue but no unnatural powers. The vicar said, however, that if any harm befell him or the cottagers, charges will be
brought.

  No such harm has yet come but what if it occurs by chance? I most earnestly seek your advice and your presence too, if possible . . .

  All of which, reduced to its gist and invested with the full force of the emotion behind it, meant: Meg is in love with Master Dean and thinks she is promised to him and I don’t know what to do about it, while Gladys is impossible and will get herself hanged if she isn’t careful. Coping with either of them is beyond me. I call for help!

  So, Hugh had gone to Hawkswood to do what he could, but before he left, we agreed that I should put the ambiguities of tact aside and make a final end of the betrothal question.

  “Otherwise it may drag on and there may be further approaches,” I said. “The way we were introduced to his parents was a warning. They might even pay a visit to Hawkswood and disturb Meg further.”

  “I agree. It’s time to be definite,” Hugh said.

  This was proving difficult. Dean didn’t seem at all disposed to take no for an answer.

  “Mistress Stannard, if my adherence to the old faith is not a difficulty, then why is Margaret’s youth such a barrier? Time will mend that! I have already said there can be no question of marriage until my circumstances are better and the wench is older. That was always understood. Early betrothals often work out well. The young people concerned know that their future is settled. Your girl is dutiful and obedient to you, I am sure.”

  I was much less sure of that, though I could scarcely tell him that my daughter’s independent spirit was more likely to be ranged on his side than on mine.

  Patiently, I tried again. “We came in good faith. But soon after we came here and, as it were, saw Meg in the position of a girl being presented as a marriage prospect, we realized that we had made a grave error. We were sorry, as we felt that we had led both the duke and yourself on to believe—to have hopes—to . . . ”

  I was dithering. That frosty stare was unnerving me. “Master Dean,” I said, sounding harsh out of sheer desperation. “Please! We have changed our minds. We shall not consider any betrothal for Meg until she is at least seventeen and has spent at least a year at court. By then, if all goes as you expect, you will have made your way and found another wife. There is no point in continuing these . . . negotiations.”

  “I see. You will not take into account that I—and perhaps your daughter too—may have fallen in love?”

  “Meg is too young to fall in love, just as she is too young to be betrothed. And you, I’m sure, won’t pledge your whole life to a dream.”

  “Very well. I wish your Meg—though I like her full name of Margaret much better—a happy life and a happy marriage, if not to me. I am sorry, for believe me, she has enchanted me and I will not forget her. I understand you are to visit Madame Ridolfi soon? I wish you a pleasant time with her. I am sure she will find you a great support as she learns her way about an unfamiliar city. Good day, Mistress Stannard.”

  He bowed, turned on his heel, and went out. He had said all the right things. No one could fault his words. But if he had at last accepted his rejection, it wasn’t in any amiable spirit. There had been such a flash of fury in his eyes that, as he left the room, I found that I was trembling.

  I was also sure that I had done the right thing. This was not the man for Meg.

  I went to take my leave of Norfolk. “You and Master Stannard have really decided against Dean?” he said regretfully. “I must admit I’d hoped . . . it would have been doing him a kindness.”

  “I know. I’m sorry. But”—since Hugh was not there to be questioned, I unloaded the responsibility onto his shoulders—“my husband was very firm about the matter.”

  “I understand. Well, if you are to be with the Ridolfis for a while, we shall no doubt meet again. That will be a pleasure.”

  “Indeed it will,” I said, conventionally.

  I had come on foot from the Green Dragon, attended by the Brockleys, who were waiting for me in the entrance hall. Brockley raised inquiring brows as I joined them, and I nodded. “It’s done. He wasn’t pleased,” I added in a low voice, since we were still on Norfolk’s premises and Dean probably close by. “But it’s over now and finished.”

  “I think you’re quite right, ma’am,” said Dale. “We both do.”

  “We must go back to the inn and pack,” I said. “The Ridolfis expect us later today.” The Brockleys were to accompany me. The Ridolfis saw me as an equal, and entitled to have my own servants.

  We returned to the inn through the warm spring weather, threading our way amid the crowds. In the innyard, the first thing I saw was Hugh’s coach, with its shafts in the air, and one of our sturdy brown coach horses tethered to a stable door while John Argent wisped its coat to a shine with a handful of hay.

  “Hugh’s back!” I said. I sped at once up the outside staircase to the gallery that ran in front of the bedchambers and pushed our door open. “Are you there, Hugh? I’ve just been to Howard House . . . ”

  I stopped short. Hugh was on the window seat reading. He looked up as I spoke, his expression uncharacteristically hangdog.

  On a stool close by, mumbling to herself over the work, sat Gladys Morgan, mending one of his shirts.

  The Brockleys, who had followed me, now caught up. I heard Dale whisper: “Oh dear!” and as for Brockley . . .

  Brockley hardly ever swore in the presence of women. He considered it impolite. This time, however, he forgot himself. “I can hardly believe it,” said Brockley’s voice in my ear, low but shaking with outrage. “It’s that bloody old hag again!”

  • • •

  “Hugh, I can’t take her to the Ridolfi house. I just can’t.”

  “It’s the only way. I’m sorry, Ursula, but I can think of nothing else to do with her. I got Sybil to make sure she was decently washed and dressed and provided with good spare clothing before we left. I had to bring her away. The feeling against her is running so high in Hawkswood that we daren’t keep her there and Withysham is just as bad.”

  “But, Hugh, how can I take her with me to the Ridolfis?”

  “There’s no prejudice against her there and . . . ”

  “She’ll soon create some! Besides, she made a few enemies in Norfolk’s house and the two households see a lot of each other. Their servants meet and talk.”

  “It still won’t be nearly as bad as in Hawkswood or Withy-sham and there ought to be ways of making sure it doesn’t get worse. You can tell Madame Ridolfi that Gladys is not quite in her right senses and that nothing she says should be taken seriously any more than the tantrums of a child—and you can ask the Brockleys to watch her. I doubt if Roger Brockley will have much work to do; being Gladys’s keeper can be an occupation for him.”

  “He won’t be pleased! He felt kindly enough toward her when she was a persecuted old woman on the Welsh border, but since he’s had to live in the same household, he’s much less tolerant!”

  “You pay him to do what you want, not what he wants,” Hugh pointed out. Hugh always won. He never insisted on being obeyed but by force of personality and a knack of producing reasonable arguments, he usually was.

  We had stepped out to the gallery to hold our conversation in private, after leaving the Brockleys with Gladys. We now went back. Dale had begun to pack my clothes while Brockley held pannier lids open for her. He was shooting unfriendly glances at Gladys, who was where we had left her, on her stool, sewing. I saw that she was indeed clean and neatly dressed in a dark red gown with a small white ruff. At first sight, Gladys seemed like an ordinary, quite dignified, elderly serving woman. If only, I thought, she could be relied on to behave like one!

  But there was nothing to be done. “How is Meg?” I asked. Meg, after all, mattered more to me than Gladys or even an assignment for the Secretary of State.

  “Lovesick, as Sybil told us,” Hugh said, “but she is young. She’ll recover. She sings love songs when she thinks no one’s listening, and roams in the garden at Hawkswood, sighing romantically. Sybil found the n
ame Edmund carved into the stem of one of my rose trees! I told Sybil to arrange a routine, with regular hours for studying and riding, music and stitchery, and keep to it, and I myself gave Meg a Latin translation to do and told her that I expected to see it finished by the time I came back. She’ll be all right.”

  • • •

  “Oh, my dear, of course I have no objection!” said Donna Ridolfi in French. It was late in the afternoon of the same day. Hugh had stayed at the inn and would leave next morning to return to Hawkswood. I and my entourage (which now included Gladys), had arrived at the Ridolfi house after dinner. We had been shown our quarters and I was at present in a downstairs parlor with Donna, who was plying me with wine and confectionery. Both were oversweet for my taste but I supposed I would have to adjust myself.

  “Difficult old servants are a problem everyone has!” Donna said. “My husband wishes he were not saddled with that terrible topiary gardener, Arthur Johnson. Not that Johnson’s wits have anything amiss with them but, well, when you came to our dinner, did you see the yew garden that he made?”

  “Yes, I did.” Brockley had been grumbling because if we were all to live in the Ridolfi house, Dale would be sure to see it too.

  “I need hardly say more,” said my hostess sadly. “Have another sweetmeat, my dear. I eat too many, I know.” She looked down with regret at her ornate brocade dress. “My husband is amused by the topiary garden, but he still considers Johnson a foul old man. He ogles the maidservants and says things that embarrass some of the shyer ones. Roberto has spoken to him but Johnson pretended he couldn’t understand my husband’s accent.”

  “I will try to help. That’s why I’m here, after all,” I said, seeing a way to make myself useful, though it was a moot point whether Johnson would take any notice of me, either.

  “You are very kind, my dear. We’ll leave it a day or two, while you settle in . . . oh, yes, Master Hillman?”

  “Excuse me,” said the young man who had just come along the terrace and stepped in through the garden door of the parlor. He had a cloth-wrapped package under his arm and an air of looking for someone. At the sight of us, he politely removed his hat.