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

by Buckley, Fiona

  The meal was ending when Donna, yawning, said that the long, busy day had made her sleepy and said she would have an early night. This would leave me free to go to my room and begin work. I was relieved, for all of thirty seconds, until Ridolfi answered his wife.

  “I will join you later,” he said casually. “I intend to take a stroll in the garden at dusk. There is a nightingale,” he added romantically. “It begins to sing at that time and I like to hear it at close quarters.”

  A massive depression descended on me. Was a good night’s sleep only a wild dream? I had hoped to do some deciphering before midnight, but if Ridolfi were really going to wander into the grounds to listen to nightingales, I was, in Hugh’s words, the King of Cathay. I would have wagered my much-loved Withy-sham itself and a bag of sovereigns that he had an assignation by the long-necked topiary birds.

  I would have to work late into the night on the letters, and yet, somehow, I must be awake enough tomorrow to meet its demands. To welcome Meg . . .

  Meg! I loved Meg. I wanted to be with her. But I did not want her here, in this hotbed of plots and murder. Hugh had probably thought I knew of Madame Ridolfi’s invitation and therefore agreed with it. If only she had spoken to me first! How would I ever find the energy to pretend gratitude to Madame Ridolfi, to greet my daughter as I ought to greet her, to deal with any aftermath of Gladys’s appalling behavior today—and to get to Cecil with whatever I learned during the long night that now stretched ahead of me?

  Nor was it just that I was tired. The depression that had attacked me was more than mere downheartedness. With it had come a terrible sense of dread, a further heavy weight pressing down on top of my weariness, which was leaden enough on its own.

  If only, oh if only, I had left that cipher in the hands of Walsingham, packed us all up, and left the Ridolfi house at once.

  If only.

  19

  “When Mary Is on the Throne”

  “Madam,” Brockley whispered, “you’re shivering. Are you well? It isn’t cold.”

  True enough. The summer evening was warm and there really was a nightingale. Brockley had insisted on coming with me, on the grounds that Master Stannard would wish it, madam, and we had slipped out of the house, this time taking the risk of being seen going through the knot garden so that we could enter the topiary garden at the river end and be certain that at least we hadn’t been seen entering that.

  I had reconnoitered in advance and found a hiding place close to the bench where the paths crossed, and close, too, to the bushes that had been clipped into what we now knew were meant to be swans.

  Unlike Gladys or even ourselves, de Spes had not confused Johnson’s long-necked topiary birds with geese or herons, but had identified them as swans, and used them to pinpoint his trysting place. Where the swans are, he had said, but he could equally well have said where the horses are. Of the four angles made by the paths, two were occupied by swans, and the other two by the horses on which Hugh had commented.

  These were exceptionally complex examples of the topiary art and more successful than the swans. Each pair of horses was clipped from a single bush and each consisted of a smaller animal, tossing its head—the manes were masterpieces—and a bigger one, rearing above its companion. In each case, on the side nearest the path, the rearing stallion’s swirling tail, carved in relief, as it were, filled the gap between its hind legs and those of what was undoubtedly meant to be the mare. But on the sides away from the path, there were hollows, little caves of yew, perfect places of concealment and one was near enough to the bench for eavesdropping. It was a fair guess that if Ridolfi met anyone here, they would sit on the bench.

  There was room for us both. However, as we fitted ourselves into our dark green niche, Brockley seemed anxious. He had a knack of sensing my moods, my fears, without being told of them. He was quite right. I was shivering but not with cold.

  “It’s fear,” I said candidly. “I’m sure now that this business is connected to Gale and Walt and that’s bad enough, but it’s not just that I’m afraid of being caught. I have a sense of foreboding that I can’t shake off. I wish Meg weren’t coming here. I wish Madame Ridolfi hadn’t meddled. I don’t want Meg anywhere near this place!”

  “This is not like you, madam. You are not as a rule superstitious.”

  “I know. But that’s what I feel.”

  Brockley shook his head in puzzlement. We fell silent. I could feel his warmth and his nearness, but where once this would have been disturbing, it was no longer so. All that had passed long ago. We were simply partners in a dangerous mission, keeping vigil together and taking strength from one another.

  Presently, I felt him tauten. “I hear footsteps,” he whispered.

  We froze into complete immobility. The shadows were deepening now, and we had our dark cloaks on. We would be invisible as long as we stayed still.

  The footsteps came along the path from the house. They passed us and stopped. Peering very cautiously around a frond of yew, I saw a figure beside the nearest pair of swans. It moved, restlessly, and we heard what sounded like a grunt of impatience. Then the figure subsided onto the wooden bench. Silence fell anew.

  “It’s Ridolfi,” Brockley breathed.

  Time went by. Ridolfi got up once or twice, walked restlessly to the river entrance to look out of it, and then came back. Once or twice we heard him mutter to himself in an irritated way.

  Then, at last, just as the light was about to go entirely, we saw the gleam of a lantern in the arch. Someone came quickly along the path and there was a murmured exchange of greetings. Once more, I risked peering around the edge of our hiding place and was rewarded by a glimpse of the newcomer’s face in the lantern light. I recognized the high cheekbones and the self-satisfied smile at once.

  Edging back, I mouthed: “That’s the Spanish ambassador,” into Brockley’s ear.

  Both of them sat down on the bench. They began to talk. Brockley and I strained to hear.

  In the course of the Ridolfi business, I think I pressed my ears to more doors, lurked in more twilight gardens, than on any other assignment in my whole life. Eavesdropping on other people’s conversations was like a recurring theme in a piece of music. It was also tiresome because one never managed to overhear a conversation properly. The speakers moved about, turned this way and that. Their voices came and went like sounds carried on a capricious wind.

  This time, we couldn’t hear at all well. Ridolfi and de Spes kept their voices down and there was a good thickness of yew-tree horse between ourselves and them. One’s ears do adjust, though. Presently, I began to make out words here and there. To my surprise, they were speaking English, presumably because it was a tongue they had in common, and they seemed to be talking about money.

  “. . . have you warned him to set nothing moving until we have ten thousand marks at least in hand?” That was de Spes.

  “. . . he has already been in touch with . . . ” That was Ridolfi, sounding apologetic.

  “. . . too soon. The man is overexcitable. He behaves like a rustic swain in love . . . ” De Spes was contemptuous of somebody or other.

  “. . . at least he is still with us, not like . . . offered five hundred marks but changed his mind . . . from my own resources . . . ”

  At that moment, they both rose and began, though slowly, to move away from the bench, as people do who are ending a conversation but haven’t quite finished. For a few moments, it brought them closer to us and several sentences did actually reach us clearly.

  “I regret,” de Spes said, “that we had to meet in this clandestine manner but by stealing through my garden and taking a dinghy all alone, I think I have avoided surveillance. My letters are still being read and some of my servants say they have been followed. It is insulting. The English! A nation damned until Holy Church rescues them. Your generosity won’t be forgotten, when Mary Stuart is on the throne of England.”

  Ridolfi said something less distinct but the words “war is co
stly” were lucid enough, and the ambassador’s reply came to us complete.

  “On that, we must not embark without aid from my master. I repeat what I said when I came here as your dinner guest. Philip will not move until the English Catholics are ready to take up arms.”

  “And behind that, there must be at least ten thousand marks,” said Ridolfi with some bitterness.

  Then they were past and walking out of earshot toward the river. But there had been no mistaking the words we had heard. I felt myself go rigid and Brockley closed his hand fiercely on my arm as if afraid that I would leap from hiding and confront the two of them. I didn’t stir, however, and his grip relaxed. Ridolfi and de Spes disappeared through the archway. We stayed where we were for some time, but Ridolfi must have gone back to the house by way of the knot garden. He did not return through the topiary.

  As we made our cautious way back to the house, Brockley remarked: “If I were going to engage in a conversation like that, madam, I’d do it in the middle of a field, or on a boat on the river, where people couldn’t hide nearby with ears all agog. Those two men are fools.”

  “That may be the most encouraging thing about this whole affair,” I said. “It makes it less likely to succeed. But it’s dangerous enough, all the same. Let us hurry.”

  In my chamber, Dale was anxiously awaiting us. “Did you learn anything useful, ma’am?” she asked.

  “More than I liked,” I said grimly. I pulled the coded letters, now somewhat crumpled, out of my pouch and spread them on the table. “And it’s more vital than ever that I translate these, so that I can carry the fullest possible news to Cecil. Light some more candles, will you, Dale? Where’s Gladys? I hope she hasn’t caused any more trouble.”

  “No, ma’am. She’s on her truckle bed in our chamber, asleep.”

  “Good. What we learned, Dale . . . well, tell her, Brockley.”

  Brockley slowly quoted: “When Mary Stuart is on the throne of England . . . ”

  Dale’s eyes widened. “Did . . . someone . . . say that?”

  “The Spanish ambassador,” I told her. I pushed my weariness resolutely away. I had no time for it now. “These letters!”

  20

  One Single Sentence

  When at last I got into bed that night, I did sleep, out of sheer exhaustion. But when I woke in the morning, only half-rested, I turned onto my face and wept, trying to empty what felt to me like a bottomless well, until I felt a hand on my shoulder and looked around to find Dale at my side.

  “Ma’am . . . Mistress Stannard . . . oh, my dear.”

  “Dale!”

  I reached out to her and she turned back the covers and cast herself down beside me, taking me in her arms. Her face was tired, for she and Brockley had stayed with me until last night’s work was done. “Ma’am . . . I am so sorry. I am so very, very sorry.”

  “Is it true? I didn’t dream it? It was really there, in that last letter?”

  “Yes, ma’am. You left the letters and transcripts by your bed. When we had settled you and you were asleep, Roger saw them there and took them to our room for safety. We looked at them again this morning.”

  “What?” I sat up, horrified. “I left the letters on my table? Thank God Brockley removed them! I think I was half crazed last night,” I whispered.

  “And no wonder, ma’am. Roger and I have scarcely slept, for talking it over and wondering what you’ll do. What will you do?”

  “See Sir William Cecil,” I said. “Even if I have to chase him up and down the Thames from one palace to another, or ride to the Scottish border to catch him!”

  “Ma’am, the other things in the letters . . . ”

  “Oh yes. He must see all the transcripts, anyway. Getting them to him is my duty as an English subject,” I said. “What I may feel about Cecil himself. Or even,” I added, “about my royal sister the queen.”

  “Should Gladys and I make up a potion for you, ma’am? In case this brings on one of your migraines?”

  “It won’t,” I said, suddenly sure of it. “It’s too damned important for that. Don’t worry. I’ll dress now. I’ll have the strength of ten today.”

  • • •

  At breakfast, Donna asked me to spend the morning with her, preparing some embroidery to trim the new gowns she was planning. “Until Meg arrives, anyway,” she said.

  “I’m sorry,” I said brusquely. “I have a private matter to attend to this morning. I must take Brockley and Dale and go out.”

  Donna and Ridolfi both gazed at me in amazement, astonished, I think, as much by my harsh tone as by the unheralded advent of urgent and apparently secret errands.

  “And,” I said, “I must be on my way at once. I am sorry that I can’t explain. Please look after Meg if she arrives before I come back.”

  Before we left, Dale said: “I took some food up to Gladys, ma’am. She’s still in our room. Do we lock her in, or what?”

  “Let her be,” I said distractedly. “I told her yesterday she was to stay in your room until she had permission to leave it. I don’t want to waste time now. I want to be on my way.”

  • • •

  At Cecil’s house, his butler, I think, read something in my face that disturbed him. He said anxiously that his master wasn’t available but asked if Lady Cecil could help. I agreed to this and he ushered the three of us into the presence of Mildred, Lady Cecil, the Secretary of State’s wife. She and I knew each other well. It had been mostly Mildred, years ago, who had found foster parents for Meg while I was at court, attending the queen.

  She was a woman of great intellect and dignity and the moment we were shown into her parlor and I was face-to-face with her, I felt steadier. She rose to greet us and stood quietly, her hands linked over her stomacher. Her very style of dress, with its modest farthingale and small ruff, was a statement of good sense and moderation. Her intelligent eyes studied me and she too recognized the signs of grave distress.

  “What is it, Ursula? You need to see my husband?”

  “It’s urgent. At Sir William’s behest, I have been staying in the house of the banker Roberto Ridolfi. There are things which I must report to Sir William without delay. I must.”

  “He is in the house but he’s in conference with Francis Walsingham. I believe you met Walsingham briefly the other day?”

  “Yes. I wanted to hand the letters over to be deciphered by Sir William’s own clerks. I wish to God I had. I wish I’d never read them. I wish I didn’t know . . . ”

  I stopped, choking.

  Mildred stepped to a doorway and called. Someone came at once and she said briefly: “Fetch wine for four, and immediately.” Coming back, she said: “All three of you look exhausted and you, Ursula, have obviously had a very bad shock.” She sat down on a settle and signaled for me to do the same. “Can you tell me what happened?”

  “I’d like to.” My own voice sounded strangled. “But I must see Sir William first. I must . . . ”

  She glanced at the Brockleys, who were standing by. Brockley said: “We know, my lady. Yes. But we can say nothing until Mistress Stannard gives permission.”

  “Since my husband sent you to the Ridolfi household, he will, I think, be willing to see you. But take some wine first, and compose yourself. Meanwhile, I will tell him you’re here and that it’s important. You wouldn’t make a mistake there, Ursula; that I know.”

  The wine came, and the message, couched in properly urgent terms, was dispatched by the page who had brought in the tray. As I sipped at my glass, I asked: “Who is Walsingham? Is he trustworthy?”

  “He’s a rising star in my husband’s service. He has already brought in valuable information, following a stay in France, and I believe,” said Mildred, her fine eyes crinkling with humor, “that some of the less reverent spirits at court are laying bets on whether he will one day follow Sir William as the next Secretary of State. There has been talk of promoting my husband to some still greater position. Ah.” The page had reappeared. “Yes?�
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  “Sir William will see Mistress Stannard at once, my lady.”

  “Thank you, Tom. I’ll bring her myself. Please wait, and when they’ve finished their wine, take Mistress Stannard’s people downstairs and see that they have any refreshment they need. Come, Ursula.”

  I had hoped to see Cecil alone but when I was shown into his study, I found the grave, dark Walsingham with him. However, it seemed that Cecil and his wife both trusted him. He was no doubt reliable, just as Harry Scrivener had proved to be reliable. I had been a fool. I had withheld trust from men who were entitled to it and given trust where I should not. It was Cecil, Cecil himself, who had betrayed me.

  Cecil, as perceptive as his butler and his wife, looked at me and wasted no time. “Ursula? I gather that this is serious. Seat yourself, and explain. What have you discovered?”

  I brought out the papers I was carrying in my hidden pouch and laid them in front of him, on his desk. “Brockley and I have overheard an interesting conversation between our host Signor Ridolfi and the Spanish ambassador, and also, I have these. They’re copies of cipher messages that Roberto Ridolfi recently sent to various people. I have been able to interpret them and here are the deciphered versions. I have written out details of the cipher, so that your own clerks can verify my work. I consulted Harry Scrivener for advice. He helped me to break the cipher but he hasn’t seen the contents of the letters.”

  “Go on.”

  “There are four letters here altogether. One is to John Leslie, Bishop of Ross. Two others were enclosed with it—one to Mary Stuart and one to Sir Robert Dudley, Earl of Leicester. The fourth, which was separate, is to the Scottish regent, Moray. The messenger, apparently, was to deliver the packet of three to the bishop here in London and then ride for Scotland with the regent’s letter.

  “It happened,” I said carefully, “that in order to accustom myself to the work of deciphering, I left the longest letter until last. That is the one to the Bishop of Ross. There is one sentence in it which has a peculiar significance to me. I have underlined it.”