To Shield the Queen

by FIONA BUCKLEY

  We set out on a fine morning, and Arthur Robsart got us all singing as we went. He had a good tenor voice and when, after a respectful hesitation, Martin Bristow joined in, he turned out to be a good singer, too. We were quite a jolly party and despite our unremarkable pace, we got through Maidenhead on the first day. By the afternoon, Master Blount was saying that we ought to reach Wallingford by nightfall. We would be well on our way by then.

  During the afternoon, a darkening sky and a distant rumble told us that a storm was coming. Dale promptly announced that if there was one thing she couldn’t abide, it was thunder.

  “That’s a new addition to the list,” I said sardonically. She gave me a hurt stare, which I ignored.

  Blount said, “I am not so well acquainted with the inns along here. Bristow?”

  We all turned to Bristow. He was one of the smart and knowing sort, a little cocky for my taste, but he had already shown himself to be an efficient guide. He knew which inns gave horses good fodder and which didn’t.

  “Can we take shelter anywhere near here?” Arthur enquired.

  “There’s an inn called the Cockspur a quarter of a mile ahead,” Bristow said. “It’s a good enough place, if plain. The landlord doesn’t cheat you.”

  “I don’t think we’d mind all that much if he did,” said Arthur, with one eye on the darkening sky.

  We raced the storm, by breaking into a canter. Dale’s lethargic steed didn’t want to but Bristow seized its bridle and John gave it a crack with his whip and it decided to oblige.

  The rain began just as we reached the inn. It was a rather ramshackle place, with thatch in need of repair and a yard full of potholes, but it was quite big. There was a first floor with a gallery linking the rooms, and a row of dormer windows looking out of the thatch above. The landlord, who met us in the porch, his bulky cylinder of a body wrapped in a white apron, was polite and apparently recognised Bristow. He asked respectfully after the health of Sir Robin Dudley, shouted for a groom to help John and Bristow with the horses, and whisked the rest of us to what he said was a private parlour.

  This was more like a large cupboard, and we were sorely crowded, but it was clean, with panelled walls and a hearth. The sky was now so black that we could scarcely see each others’ faces, but the landlord lit candles and went to find food and drink for us. A few moments later, John appeared, carrying a couple of saddlebags.

  “I thought I’d best bring our belongings inside, Mistress Blanchard,” he said. Then he added, “I’d like a word with you, ma’am, if I may.”

  I went out with him, and we stood in the porch, watching the rain swish down and turn the potholes into pools. “What is it?” I asked.

  “I’ve been wanting to speak to you quietly since yesterday evening but I couldn’t get the chance, ma’am. I didn’t know where to ask for you, in that great palace, and once we were on the road, someone’s always been near enough to hear. Mistress Blanchard, you gave me to understand you were going into the country to be company to Lady Dudley, who is ailing.”

  “Yes, John, that’s right.” I noticed, for the first time, how I always called him John, as Gerald had done. One normally addressed servants by their surname, but not John Wilton. To us, he always had been, always would be, John.

  “I go about,” said John. “I hear the talk at markets and whatnot. And I talked to the other grooms at court. Seems there are rumours about, well, about the Dudley household.”

  “Yes, there are. But then, with people so much in the public eye as the Dudleys,” I said, “there is always gossip.”

  Lightning lit up the sky, followed by a crash of thunder, and the rain suddenly increased, as though the flash had released it. Puddles danced with raindrops and there was a sweet smell in the air.

  “I don’t want to give offence, ma’am.” John always took care to address his employers correctly, even when arguing with them. “But I must speak my mind. Something funny happened to me yesterday evening and I reckon you ought to know about it.”

  “Something funny?”

  “I don’t mean comic, Mistress Blanchard. I mean peculiar. I was approached.”

  “Approached?”

  “Aye. By someone I didn’t know who was lounging round the stables watching other folks work. I was cleaning Bay Star’s tack ready for you today and this fellow come drifting up to me and said was I John Wilton. So I said yes. And then he said was I travelling Abingdon way with you today, so I said yes again, since it’s no secret as far as I’m aware . . . ”

  “No, it’s no secret,” I said. “We shall certainly pass through Abingdon. It’s the last town before Cumnor. Go on.”

  “Well, he asked if I’d like to earn a bit extra, so I said how—though I didn’t say it in a very friendly fashion. I don’t take to people as talk in near-whispers. Makes me wonder what it is they’re afraid to say out in the open. But my tone didn’t put him off. He said there was a private message to be carried. Then he waffled a bit. He said the great lord he worked for wanted a letter delivered secretly, and that it was a delicate affair of state. But it all sounded thoroughly havey-cavey to me, so I said no.”

  “Who was the letter for? And who was sending it?”

  “That I can’t tell you. Things didn’t get that far.”

  “Didn’t you ask?” I said, quite sharply.

  “I didn’t want to know,” said John candidly. “And besides, I doubt if he’d have told me until I’d more or less agreed to help. It could have nothing to do with the Dudleys, ma’am. The fellow mentioned Abingdon and maybe that was the point, and it was just that we were bound in the right direction. But I didn’t like it. I wouldn’t do anything to mix you up in anything that wasn’t respectable, and I just hope that you’re not mixed up in such a thing anyway.”

  “John, I’ve simply been employed to help Lady Dudley, who is very ill. I am to lend a hand to the companion she already has and try to convince Lady Dudley that her husband means her no harm. To help give the lie to the rumours you mention, in fact. I’m sure there’s nothing wrong about that.”

  “Well, it sounds all right,” John admitted. “Only, I didn’t like that fellow and his talk of secret messages.”

  At heart, neither did I. All too well, I remembered de Quadra and his hints. “If anyone else ever comes to you with such a suggestion,” I said, “try to find out more. Be a little more inquisitive, John, for goodness’ sake. If there is anything going on around Lady Dudley that shouldn’t be, then I don’t know about it—but if it’s there, I ought to know about it. Do you understand?”

  • • •

  The storm persisted and in the end we stayed the night at the Cockspur. We set out early the next day, dined en route in the little riverside town of Abingdon, and reached Cumnor Place in the late afternoon.

  The weather was cloudy but the rain had done the crops good. All round us, the meadows were green, and we saw flourishing orchards and ripening corn. The land belonged to Cumnor Place, Bristow said, and John remarked that the estate seemed prosperous. However, Cumnor Place itself, when we got there, didn’t look prosperous at all.

  There was no one on duty at the gatehouse, and we rode straight through the open gate and along a further path to the courtyard. I saw at once that in the days before Anne Boleyn and the Reformation, this had been monastic property. There is no mistaking ecclesiastical architecture. Cumnor had two storeys, built round a secluded courtyard, and there were still cloisters along one side. Doorways, windows, all had the distinctive pointed arch, the shape that spoke of prayer and incense.

  “It reminds me of Withysham, the old abbey near Faldene,” I said to John Wilton. “Your sister told me she had heard that Withysham was going to be repaired and used as a house, just like this. It’s odd to think of old monasteries being put in order to be used as country homes.”

  “This could do with being put in order, although it’s a home already, mistress,” said John, eyeing it without enthusiasm.

  He was right. Of cou
rse, it wasn’t a near-ruin as Withysham had been, the last time I saw it, with lengths of broken-down wall and weeds everywhere. Nevertheless, it was neglected. Grass had sprung up between the cobbles in the courtyard and several slates were missing from the roof. The walls were heavy with ivy, in urgent need of trimming.

  A pair of lurcher dogs ran out barking to greet us, and geese cackled in the courtyard, but we were already dismounting before any of the human inhabitants appeared, and when they did, it was unhurriedly, as though no one were much interested.

  A couple of grooms were the first to present themselves. They came through an archway and went to help John and Martin hold the horses. Then a short dark man in a dull, dark suit emerged from a doorway in the cloistered side of the house, to greet Thomas Blount and Arthur Robsart by name, and announce himself to me as Anthony Forster, Treasurer of the Household.

  “You will be Mrs. Blanchard, of course. We are expecting you. You are very welcome.” He didn’t sound over-delighted to see me.

  Master Blount said irritably, “Where on earth is everyone? Are all your servants asleep, Forster?”

  “They are over in the church, Master Blount. We gave them leave to attend a wedding. One of our maids is marrying a fellow from Abingdon. We couldn’t be sure when you would arrive. Ah, Mrs. Blanchard, let me present my sister-in-law, Mrs. Odingsell . . . ”

  A dignified lady with chilly grey eyes had followed Master Forster out. Thomas Blount and Arthur Robsart bowed to her and I curtsied. From yet another doorway came a large lady with iron-grey hair crimped into waves in front of an exotic crimson velvet cap and the rest of her swathed in a voluminous loose dress of magenta satin. She wandered out yawning as though she had just been woken from an afternoon rest, and asked what the to-do was about.

  When I had been explained to her, by Forster and Blount together, she remarked, “Oh yes, we had a letter.” I had been wondering if this were Mrs. Forster, but she now informed me that she was Mrs. Owen, evidently thinking that this should impress me. It didn’t, because I had never heard of Mrs. Owen (or Mrs. Odingsell, come to that). Dudley had not thought to give me the fine detail of how the house was organised and I hadn’t thought to question either Thomas Blount or Arthur Robsart. However, the velvet cap and the magenta satin didn’t suggest a housekeeper, so to be on the safe side, I curtsied to her as well. This seemed to meet with approval.

  The two ladies withdrew into the house, through their different doors, and in a mild flurry of saddlebags being unstrapped and horses being led away, Dale and I were parted from our travelling companions. I glanced, puzzled, at the retreating forms of Blount and Arthur as they went off towards Forster’s doorway. Forster smiled at me. His eyes had a twinkle, but they were too knowing to be attractive.

  “They are to have rooms in my wing. Because of her poor health, Lady Dudley rarely accommodates guests in her own wing. They will wash and change and then come to see her. But you will be part of her household and I am taking you and your maid to her straight away.”

  As he led us towards a third entrance, he added, “The house is oddly arranged. Have you been told about it?”

  “No. I know very little about Cumnor.”

  “Well, Mrs. Odingsell and I live in the wing behind us. To your left is the part of the house occupied by Mrs. Owen, and the rest, where we are now going, is the domain of Lady Dudley. In fact, there are three quite separate households, although all share a common kitchen. It would be too expensive to provide a kitchen for each wing. We manage very well on the whole.”

  I doubted it. My girlhood as a semi-servant at Faldene had taught me a lot about this side of life. I could imagine all too well the squabbles in the kitchen over the use of the spit and the best cauldron, and the way food would arrive on the dining tables lukewarm after being carried through the house or across the courtyard on a cold day.

  The studded oak door by which we entered was presumably Lady Dudley’s front door. It was set in an arched stone porch, with slender lancet windows, much obscured by the ivy, at each side. I saw Dale looking about her with distaste. Any moment now, she would announce that she couldn’t abide old abbeys, or windows with ivy tapping on them. Indoors, we entered a wide vestibule with a staircase to the upper storey. It was a double flight, with a little landing halfway up, and on the landing stood a woman.

  Not Lady Dudley, I thought. I knew that Amy Dudley was quite young, and this woman was at least as old as Dale, and dressed, in any case, in much too plain a style. She stared at us in silence, and it was Forster who spoke first.

  “Mrs. Pinto! This is Mrs. Blanchard, who has come to assist you.” As everyone here seemed to do, he used the shortened form of the word mistress, which was coming into fashion then. Gerald had disliked it, and so did I. “Mrs. Blanchard, this is Mrs. Pinto, Lady Dudley’s companion.”

  Mrs. Pinto came slowly down the stairs to meet me. She did not take my offered hand, and I let it fall to my side. She had blunt, rounded features in which one could see the remains of a pudgy prettiness, but her eyes were coloured like flint and not much softer.

  “My lady is upstairs,” she said. “She spends much of her time in her room, poor soul. Sometimes she feels too tired to come down. She stays in her chamber and prays and sews. I suppose you wish me to take you to her.”

  There was no question about it. Lady Dudley’s woman Mrs. Pinto was looking at me as though I were a mangled and disgusting rodent, dangling limply from the jaws of a cat. Forster observed it too.

  “I will leave you ladies to become acquainted,” he said cravenly, and with a hasty bow, removed himself. I heard Dale draw in a disapproving breath, although whether because of Mrs. Pinto or Mr. Forster or both, I couldn’t tell.

  It was embarrassing. I did my best. “I would indeed like to meet Lady Dudley,” I said politely to Mrs. Pinto, and then added in a clear voice, “I hope we will be friends, you and I. I wish only to be useful.”

  Mrs. Pinto did not deign to answer this. She turned on her heel and led the way up the stairs. I followed, with Dale trailing after me.

  We were led to a bedchamber, big and shadowy. It was L-shaped, with windows looking out both to the courtyard and the grounds, but the windows were too narrow for the size of the room, and gave only a poor light. The bare stone walls were without any tapestries. Looking about me, I thought that the room couldn’t have been much more austere when it was used by the monks. The bed was luxurious enough, but the only other furniture in the room was a chest-cum-seat under the windows, a small table on which stood a branched candlestick, lit to dispel the gloom, and beside the table, a chair in which a woman was sitting.

  “Lady Dudley,” said Mrs. Pinto, in a voice of doom, “as expected, Mrs. Blanchard has arrived. This is she.”

  Lady Dudley started to her feet. She was certainly young, but she had none of the glow of youth. The fingers gripping the back of the chair were not slim, but thin; the hair gathered into her little jewelled cap should have been gleaming ash-blonde but instead was as dull as straw. Her face was pale, and the hollows under the charming cheekbones were far too deep.

  Most telling of all, her sloe-blue eyes were sunken and shadowed, and although they were luminous, it was not with the sparkle of health but with something nearer to the shine of phosphorescence.

  And when they met mine, I saw that they were also terrified.

  5

  Light and Shadow

  I curtsied at once. “Ursula Blanchard, at your service, Lady Dudley.” Rising, I found her still regarding me with that look of fear. Her first words were both startling and pathetic.

  “My husband sent you, did he not? Are you his creature? Have you come to kill me?”

  There was a paralysed silence, except for another intake of breath from Dale. Mrs. Pinto stared at me with something close to triumph, as if to say, Aha, you see, you haven’t deceived us.

  I spoke gently. “No, Lady Dudley, I have not. Your husband did send me, but my purpose is only to help and comfort
you, to assist Mrs. Pinto in any way I can—” better try to smooth the bristling Pinto down a little—“and to amuse you if I may. I can play the lute and the virginals and sing a little.”

  I smiled at Lady Dudley encouragingly. She seemed almost too frightened to understand me, but although she was trembling, she did not plead or weep. Beneath her terror was a desperate dignity which moved me, suddenly and intensely. I must reach her; quieten her dread somehow.

  What I said next was probably not at all what Dudley had had in mind when he gave me my orders, but it seemed right.

  “I will also,” I said, “taste everything you eat or drink and—in Mrs. Pinto’s presence—handle every garment you are to wear, before you put it on. I will do all in my power not only to convince you that you are not in danger, but to keep it at bay if, by chance, I am wrong. I said I was at your service. I mean it.”

  • • •

  In time I would look back across the years, and see my younger self at Cumnor Place, standing at the window of Amy Dudley’s best parlour, on the first floor, looking down into the courtyard. I have come to think of her as Amy rather than Lady Dudley, for the name suits her youth and helplessness better than a solemn title.

  The parlour, like everywhere else in Amy’s quarters, is inadequately furnished. Stretches of bare floor lie between the scattered tables and chairs and the one settle; acres of bare stone wall between the only two pieces of tapestry. They cover the two doors and are meant to keep out draughts. There are plenty of those. Cumnor Place whispers with them, and all of it, not just Amy’s bedchamber, is shadowy. The house is at least two and a half centuries old. There is a pervading smell of old stone and sometimes I almost fancy that the building, like a living thing, can remember the monks who once dwelt here, or that their shades still inhabit it. At night, by candlelight, it is eerie.