Praise for Fiona Buckley and
TO SHIELD THE QUEEN
“A lively mystery series kickoff set in 1560 . . . In her first mystery, former journalist and editor Buckley shows a deft hand with strong characterization and creates a plot that spins merrily and wickedly through palace, manor house and intensely beautiful countryside. . . . A promising series debut.”
—Publishers Weekly
“TO SHIELD THE QUEEN is an exciting historical mystery that brings alive the early reign (second year on the throne) of Queen Elizabeth I. Ursula is a wonderful amateur sleuth while the rest of the cast brings color and pageantry to the exciting story line. . . . With the first Blanchard novel, Fiona Buckley has opened up an auspicious new series.”
—Harriet Klausner, PaintedRock.com
“The debut of Ursula Blanchard, young, widowed Lady of the Presence Chamber at Elizabeth I’s court, combines assured storytelling and historical detail to present a credible interpretation of the events surrounding the 1560 death of Lord Dudley’s neglected wife at Cumnor Place . . . . A terrific tale most accessibly told.”
—Barbara Peters, The Poisoned Pen
“A lively debut that’s filled with vivid characters, religious conflict, subplots, and power plays. Ursula is the essence of iron cloaked in velvet—a heroine to reckon with.”
—Kirkus Reviews
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For my agent, David Grossman
1
Richmond Palace
John Wilton was a small man, knotted and wiry, with short, dusty brown hair which stuck up in spikes. He had a snub nose and discoloured teeth. I can’t remember what colour his eyes were and I never knew his age. Men like John seem to be born in middle life, and there they stay. He had started out as a groom employed by my husband’s family and become, eventually, my husband Gerald’s manservant. Now, when Gerald was gone, he would gladly have become mine, except that I couldn’t afford him.
He believed in hard work and honesty and sometimes carried the latter too far. John would speak his mind when he felt it necessary, regardless of risk, regardless of the other person’s social standing. He was as plain and trustworthy as a loaf of good brown bread. In that April of 1560, when Queen Elizabeth had been on the throne for less than eighteen months, the sect we now call the Puritans had barely begun to emerge and I doubt if John had ever heard of them, but in a later age, he might well have joined them.
And I have done few things in my life harder than dismounting from his pillion and bidding him farewell that afternoon, at the landward gate of Richmond Palace.
Some people would have thought me ungrateful! I was there, after all, to enter the service of her majesty Queen Elizabeth, and Richmond Palace was one of the newest and most beautiful royal residences, a place of ample light and airy grace, with turrets and fountains and generous windows and singing weathervanes which made a melodious sound when the wind blew. It was a privilege to be allowed into it and it was rather more than a privilege to be doing so as one of the young queen’s Ladies of the Presence Chamber. God knows, I had parted from others who meant more to me than John. I had watched my husband die of the smallpox and been forced, too, to say goodbye to our daughter Meg, and leave her behind in the care of her nurse Bridget. What was a mere manservant compared to husband and child?
However, John was my last link with them; with my too-short married life and the small, loving child who was Gerald’s gift to me. Now I must lose even him and no amount of palaces or pinnacles or even the most charismatic of princes could make up for that. But there it was. However great the honour of becoming a Lady of the Presence Chamber, a stipend of thirty pounds a year would barely keep Meg and her nurse. I couldn’t find the wherewithal to pay John too.
I talked to him, while we waited for someone to come and guide me into the palace. I gave him messages for Meg and Bridget and then repeated them, dreading the moment of parting and at the same time wishing it could be over. The delay was prolonged. The guard had a messenger at hand and sent him to announce my arrival, but it was a quarter of an hour before he came back, bringing a page to act as my guide, and a serving man to carry my panniers full of personal belongings.
At the last moment, when the porter had shouldered my luggage and was already disappearing through the arch of the west gatehouse, and the page was waiting with rather obvious patience for me to follow him, tears came into my eyes and I had to blink hard to control them.
John noticed. He swept off his cap, which made his hair stand up like the spines of a hedgehog. “I hope to get work not far from Bridget and the little one,” he said. “I’ll remember your messages, mistress, never fear, and I’ll keep an eye on them for you. And if you ever need me, Mistress Blanchard, just you send word and I’ll be there as fast as I can, on any nag I can get hold of.”
“Thank you,” I said shakily. “If I do need you, be sure that I shall call. Goodbye, John, and a safe ride home.”
As he mounted his horse again, panic almost overtook me. At the age of twenty-six, I was virtually alone in the world, left to fend for myself in this place which was so beautiful and luxurious, and was also utterly unfamiliar and full of unknown demands, not to mention perils. The perils were not precisely unknown (I had learned about those from my mother) but they were no less alarming on that account.
However, I must not begin my service to the queen by giving way and making a fool of myself. Somehow I kept my countenance. As John clattered away from the gate with the two hired horses which had brought us and my personal belongings from Sussex, I didn’t watch him go. Instead, I braced myself; not to forget my sore heart, which wasn’t possible, but to ignore it, and to be alert and attentive as a queen’s lady-in-waiting must be if she is to please her mistress.
• • •
Once through the archway, I realised that the porter and my baggage had disappeared completely. I could only hope to be safely reunited with my belongings in due course. The palace was immense.
I was quite used to fine houses. I had been brought up in a manor house, and with Gerald I had been part of the entourage of Sir Thomas Gresham, financier, whose way of life, divided between London and Antwerp, verged on the princely. Richmond, though, belonged to another order of dwellings altogether. I had expected to emerge into a courtyard, but I found myself instead being led along a sanded path through a formal flower garden, bordered with lavender. Few of the flowers were in bloom yet, but under the shelter of a wall, I saw patches of forget-me-nots and violets; and a bed patterned with the rich yellow and velvety purple of heart’s-ease.
I made a conscious effort to take an interest in my surroundings. The garden was bounded by long two-storey buildings, guards’ quarters by the look of them, and beyond those to the right, there must be an orchard; blossom-laden boughs were just visible above their roofs. To the left, where the River Thames flowed, the sky was empty and luminous. I couldn’t see the river but I could hear the shouts of boatmen. The slim turrets of the palace proper were still far away ahead. It was no wonder that I had had to wait so long for my escort to appear. It was several minutes before we passed through another arch and came at last into the courtyard, where some saddled horses were awaiting their riders. Faintly, from a window on an upper floor, I could hear music.
We turned left and mounted a broad flight of steps up to an iron-studded main door. Inside, the palace was splendid, but bewildering, a maze of corri
dors and galleries. The sun poured in through slender mullioned windows. Once I glimpsed the sparkling river outside; a moment later I caught sight of a tilt-yard from which came the sound of clashing weapons and drumming hoofs. We went out into an enclosed garden and across it, and then up more steps and in at another door.
There were people everywhere, strolling or standing in clusters to talk, or hurrying about on presumably urgent errands, or, in one case, in a rage. As we passed through a long gallery with a flat carved ceiling and some spectacular hangings depicting scenes from Roman history, we had to flatten ourselves against the assassination of Julius Caesar to make way for a young woman, dressed expensively in green and gold brocade with a great cone-shaped farthingale and wearing, in addition, an expression sour enough to turn wine to vinegar on the instant, as she swept past us in the opposite direction with another young woman just behind her, frantically apologising about something and scurrying to keep up.
The page glanced back at them and let out a small, derisive snort. It was demeaning to question a page but when I was myself, not weighed down by sorrow, I was inclined to be inquisitive, a trait which Gerald had virtually encouraged, since finding things out was part of his business. Besides, I was still concerned with taking an interest and I could not too soon begin to learn about the court. So I ignored protocol and asked the page who the angry young woman was.
“Lady Catherine Grey,” said the page. “I don’t know the name of the other.”
He said no more. But even if the Gresham household in Antwerp hadn’t quite prepared me for the royal court of Queen Elizabeth, it had been a place where famous names were spoken and the political scenery surveyed. I had heard of Lady Catherine Grey.
Until the queen married and had her own children, her heirs were her cousins, descendants of her father’s sisters. Catherine was one of them. In Antwerp, people called her the Protestant heir. So that was Lady Catherine Grey. She didn’t look very regal, I thought, and wondered what the queen would look like.
The page, finding his way apparently by witchcraft, brought us at length to a room where a number of ladies were seated, stitching and gossiping. The room was tapestried but well lit through many large windows, and rosemary strewn on the floor filled the air with sweetness. Mingled with this was the characteristic smell of fabric, of silk and linen and fine wool. It came from the hangings and the numerous workboxes and also, I realised, from the brocaded and embroidered dresses of the ladies. I was instantly conscious of my plain dress, dark for mourning and without a farthingale because one can’t ride a horse in one. I had better dresses with me, but none was really new and fashions were changing all the time.
The page led me up to one of the ladies. She glanced round enquiringly, needle suspended over an embroidery frame. He bowed, gracefully. “Lady Katherine, I bring you Mistress Ursula Blanchard.”
Catherine was a common name, though people varied the spelling. We had thought of calling Meg by it but decided against it just because there were so many Catherines about. This one was older and more dignified than Lady Catherine Grey, refined of feature, her skin pale and clear. She was in a dress of dove grey, with blue embroidery which picked up the colour of her calm blue eyes. I curtsied to her and she smiled.
“Of course. You are expected. Thank you, Will.”
I tipped the page and he took himself off. I stood nervously, aware that all the other ladies were looking at me with interest. Lady Katherine, however, patted an empty seat beside her, a velvet-upholstered stool, and I sat down gratefully.
“Thank you, madam.”
“I’m sure you must be tired. We will go presently and look at your room. I am Katherine Knollys, cousin to her majesty on the maternal side. I am one of her principal ladies. Mistress Ashley is in overall charge of all the ladies but she is indisposed today, so I instructed that you should be brought to me instead. I intend visiting her this afternoon, however, and as I shall have to pass close to our quarters, I’ll take you with me and show you myself where you will be sleeping. Later, I will present you to her majesty. She is closeted with some of her council members at the moment.”
“And with Robin Dudley,” remarked another lady, young, with a fragile build but very bright grey eyes.
“Very likely, Jane,” said Lady Katherine repressively. “He is the Master of Horse, after all. I believe the queen wishes him to purchase some new riding horses. Jane, this is Mistress Ursula Blanchard, who has come to join us. Ursula, this is Lady Jane Seymour, niece to the queen of that name, the mother of poor King Edward who died so young.”
I inclined my head to Lady Jane. For all her sparkling eyes, she didn’t look much stronger than her cousin Edward, who hadn’t lived to see his sixteenth birthday. I often gave thanks to God for my own good health.
Lady Katherine began to present me to the other ladies. I smiled and said the right things, and wondered how hard I would have to battle for my position in this private hierarchy. In Sir Thomas Gresham’s house, I had had Gerald to give me status. Gerald was successful, an up-and-coming young man of breeding. He was respected and his wife automatically shared in that respect. Here, I thought forlornly, I would have to win recognition for myself. The queen’s women were all so very elegant and confident. My looks would not help. Gerald had once said that he first wanted me because of my black hair and long hazel eyes and my pointed face which made him think of a kitten, but Gerald was never one to follow fashion. Most men preferred something more rounded and fairer. Brunettes went out of favour when Anne Boleyn’s dark head was cut off, nearly a quarter of a century ago.
Also, these ladies were all daughters or wives of important men. Most of them had titles.
And in addition, I thought wryly, they were probably all legitimate.
I wondered how much Lady Katherine Knollys knew about me. She was introducing me simply as the widow of Gerald Blanchard, gentleman. In turn, I tried to absorb what I was told about the others, but there were too many of them and, although some bore names as famous as Seymour, I knew I wouldn’t remember more than one or two of them, not yet. I was indeed very tired, not only from the two-day ride from Sussex, but also from the strain of my farewells and my sadness. I was glad when, at length, Lady Katherine rose and took me off to my quarters.
“You feel dazed, I expect,” she said as she led me through another lengthy gallery. “I know a little of your story. Sir William Cecil told it to me and Mistress Ashley. You have certainly had a troubled life, but you will be too busy to brood, I promise. Do you dance gracefully?”
“Dance?” The change of subject took me by surprise. “Well—reasonably so, I think. But . . . ”
“You are in mourning, but that won’t be for ever,” said Lady Katherine briskly. “The queen likes to dance and also to watch her ladies do so. Later, we must see what you can do.”
“Does Lady Catherine Grey dance well?” I asked.
“Catherine Grey? Why do you ask?”
My inquisitiveness had surprised her. I might have to curb it if I wished to fit in at court. I said mildly that the page and I had met Lady Catherine Grey on the way through the palace. “I—noticed her,” I said. “She was so splendidly dressed. I asked who she was.”
Katherine Knollys laughed. “Oh, I see! Splendidly dressed! I daresay she was in a splendid temper as well, only you are too discreet to put it that way. Am I right?”
“Well, er . . . ”
“A foolish maid of honour mistook her for someone else and went through a doorway ahead of her. The queen will only allow her to be a Lady of the Presence Chamber and not of the Privy Chamber. It causes misunderstandings. Though it might help if Catherine were not in a perpetual sulk over it. Oh, I may as well be candid; you will soon hear all about it anyway. She is still a person of importance, of course. Lady Jane Seymour has lately become her close friend and will I hope be a steadying influence. Lady Jane is a dear girl, though perhaps a trifle too spirited. Here’s your room. Here at Richmond, you can have your own, t
hough you will have to share at some of the other residences.”
The room into which she took me was in a corner of the building and it was a very odd shape, almost triangular, although it did have one very short fourth wall. It was panelled, with a leaded window overlooking the courtyard and it contained a small tester bed, a clothes press, a window seat with a storage chest beneath it, and a washstand. To my relief, I saw my panniers on the floor beside the bed.
“There’s a truckle bed underneath yours, for your maid,” said Lady Katherine. “Have you brought a maid or were you intending to hire one here in London?”
“I meant to do without,” I said. “My means are—well, modest.”
“Do without a maid?” Lady Katherine, who had been stooping to make sure that the truckle bed was there, turned to me, her finely plucked eyebrows rising.
“Yes. I can easily manage. It’s quite all right.”
“My dear Mistress Blanchard, it is not quite all right. A lady-in-waiting must have her own maid. It is not a question of whether or not you can manage; it’s a question of how the other ladies will regard you. Especially when your—well, your antecedents—become known, as they will. The court is like that. Whatever else you go without, a maid, my dear, is essential.”
• • •
Lady Katherine decided that my sudden quietness was because I was so tired. She sent for wine and cakes and said her own woman would help me unpack and dress for my presentation to her majesty. Then she left me alone while she went to give orders to her maid and I sat on the window seat, sipping white wine and nibbling cinnamon pastries and inwardly cursing in terms profane enough to scandalise a fishwife.
If only, oh if only, Gerald could have lived. I thought of his square brown face and his friendly brown eyes and longed for him as desperately as I had on the day he died. If you had to take his life, I said silently and furiously to God, couldn’t you at least have waited until he could leave me a little better provided for? He had been doing well in Gresham’s service, but he hadn’t had his good salary for long enough. He had saved so little.
To Shield the Queen Page 1