“My name is Matthew, and I’m not here out of kindness, but because I wanted to see you. I came back from Sussex early, on purpose to see you, and found your letter. How could you go off like that—without even saying when you would come back? How could you?”
“I had no choice, Matthew. Someone was needed here, to help Lady Dudley, and I was chosen—by the queen and by Dudley. Besides, I’m being well paid. I need the money,” I said candidly.
“Money! Ursula . . . oh, my dear,” said Matthew. “I know that we met only very recently, but you must have realised that you have only to crook your little finger and I would be willing to place everything I am and have, including my name and my house and every ounce of gold I possess, at your disposal.”
He was so very attractive, and so concerned for me. Yet here in this room, face to face with him, I felt hounded by him. I wanted Gerald. Matthew was a comparative stranger and Gerald had been the other half of myself. “Matthew!” I pleaded. “Don’t!”
He looked astonished and no wonder. “I’m sorry,” I said miserably. “Over dinner I suppose it seemed as though I were flirting with you, leading you on, but I was just enjoying myself. I think I took too much wine. It’s so sad here, as a rule.”
I did not add the word “frightening.” I still did not know if Amy’s fears were real or imaginary, but Matthew heard what I did not say.
“Yes, that I can believe. I know the court gossip. For all the merry talk at dinner, this place is full of shadows and you should not be here, Ursula. You’re young and alive, and for you, this is entombment. I want to take you away from it. Tomorrow if you wish!”
I shook my head. “No. Please try to understand. It’s too soon. I don’t know enough about you and you don’t know enough about me. I can’t just marry you to . . . to take shelter from the rain!”
“Why not? You’d soon find out,” said Matthew with assurance, “that I had more to offer you than that!”
“Matthew, I’m engaged to remain here as long as I’m needed. When I’m not . . . not needed any more . . . ”
He stepped forward suddenly, and taking my shoulders, he studied me searchingly. “When do you expect that to be?” he asked.
“I don’t know. I can’t tell.”
“You are recently widowed,” he said slowly. He dropped his hands. “I have rushed you too much, perhaps. I am sometimes impulsive, especially when my feelings are strong, and from the moment I first saw you . . . ”
“Matthew, please don’t . . . ”
“Listen, Ursula, my very dear Ursula. I must in any case go away again tomorrow. I have many things to attend to. My steward, Malton, is in a great fuss because I am having part of my house rebuilt, and the workmen are not doing what they were told to do and the wrong building materials have been delivered—and I have other matters on my mind, as well. I went back to Richmond only because I wanted to see you, because I found, as soon as I had left the place, that I needed to tell you what I felt for you. Now, I must return to Sussex. I didn’t expect an answer from you immediately, to tell you the truth, but I needed you to know. My name, my house, and every ounce of gold I own. They are all yours if you choose. By the time we meet again, you will have had time to think. Will you undertake, at least, to think about Matthew de la Roche?”
It was hardly an onerous demand, yet I was silent. He waited, and when I did not answer, he said, “What is the difficulty? Your husband? Ursula, you are young. Healing will come. Then you’ll want to make a new start.”
“Yes, I know. But . . . ”
I did know. That first stirring of desire, on the day of the hawking party, had told me. One day, Gerald would slip away from me, into the past. It was not so much that I would say goodbye to him; more that he would say it to me. But it wasn’t only Gerald.
“Ursula, what is it? What’s the matter? Is it your daughter? I’ll rear her as my own, I swear it. Or does the queen disapprove? She sent you here although she must have known that I was courting you.”
“She has doubts, yes, but I can marry without her consent. Only, you see, I . . .”
“You share her doubts? Is that it?”
“I’ve nothing to bring you,” I said. “I’ve no dowry. And also—you are Catholic.”
“The dowry is of no importance. As for the other . . . yes, I recall that you fell very quiet when I first spoke of it. This is the real hindrance, I take it. Does it matter so much? I would not interfere with your wishes in the matter of your own worship, or that of your daughter.”
It was best to be frank. “You were in France, were you not, when the queen’s elder sister, Queen Mary, was on the throne?”
“Yes. Why?”
“Then perhaps you don’t know how it was here, but there were things done in her day, in the name of religion, which I can’t forgive,” I said. I began calmly, but then anger burst out of me. “There was a man from Faldene who was burned for heresy. The great campaign against heresy started the following year, but Queen Mary was about to marry Philip of Spain and this man had made a speech against the marriage as well as against the Church . . . ” I swallowed. “I didn’t see it. It was done in Chichester and I wouldn’t go, but Uncle Herbert and Aunt Tabitha went. I was still living with them then; it was just before I ran away with Gerald. They wanted me to go with them. They said my mother had served Queen Anne, who had driven the land away from Rome. They said my mother had been tainted by heresy and that I should see what came of it. But I wouldn’t go, I wouldn’t. Can you imagine what it would be like to be . . . ?” I shuddered.
“When they came back,” I said, “they called me and made me listen while they told me all about it. My uncle stood with his back to the door so that I couldn’t run out of the room and when I tried to put my hands over my ears, Aunt Tabitha caught hold of my wrists and dragged them down. When they let me go, I ran to my own room—it was just an attic but at least it was private—and cried and cried. I can’t repeat what they told me. I can’t bear to remember their faces. They took such pleasure in it. And later on,” I said, “when the campaign got under way, I heard that it was against the law even to show pity. People were dragged to . . . to that and couldn’t even have the last blessing of seeing someone cry for them!”
“Ursula, we’re not all like that. If the true faith were one day restored here in England . . . ”
“Such things would happen again.”
“Not necessarily. And could you prevent them by refusing me? If they did happen, you would be safer with me. Ursula, I am offering you love and care, and a home. I leave, of necessity, tomorrow, but I will come back to find you and ask for your answer. Will you promise to think?”
“I don’t know. I . . . ”
“For the love of God! I’m only asking you to think!”
“Very well.” After all, he had paid me the compliment of riding all the way here to see me. “I promise.”
He kissed me, a long but careful kiss, intended to begin arousal but not as yet to set it blazing. When he let me go, I did not know if I were glad or sorry.
• • •
Matthew left early the next day. Amy sent me out to say goodbye to him as he was mounting his horse in the courtyard, and he told me to remember my promise. He would have leaned down to kiss me, but the groom who was holding his horse remained studiously blank of face, to my embarrassment, and he wasn’t the only witness. “Better not,” I whispered. “Pinto’s watching from the parlour window. She doesn’t like me.”
“She is jealous?”
“Not because of you! She thinks I’m a danger to Lady Dudley or possibly a rival for Lady Dudley’s affections. She might well be glad if I went away with you,” I said. “When I go back into the house, I don’t want her hinting that I’m no better than I ought to be.”
“As I said, she is jealous. She envies you your youth, the doors that are open for you and not for her. Be careful, Ursula. I mean it.” He was serious. “If you don’t remarry, you could turn into another Pinto. Au
revoir,” said Matthew, “and beware!” He rode away, leaving that ominous warning to echo in my ears.
Feeling in need of steadying company, I snatched a few minutes to go through to the stableyard and say hallo to John Wilton. He spent most of his time with the horses, and since my arrival I had seen little of him. He told me that all was well with him and asked if I had any errands or commissions. “Not just now, John,” I said, looking with affection at his spiky hair and remembering how he and I and Gerald had ridden through the night to Guildford, the night I ran away from Faldene. “But I’m glad to know you’re here,” I said earnestly.
I went indoors and back to Amy. Yesterday evening, she had asked if I had “settled anything” with Mr. de la Roche, and when I said no, that I was not yet ready for such a step, she had said, “Do think about it, Ursula,” and then added, “but I’m glad you’re staying for the time being.”
Now I saw all too well how much she needed help and company. The effort of bearing up during the dinner party had exhausted her. She was tearful and in pain. We fetched soothing possets for her, helped her to her prie-dieu to pray and Pinto played draughts with her for a while until Amy said she wanted to go back to her room and have her dinner in bed, on a tray.
After Amy had had her meal, tasted as usual by me, she decided to sit in the parlour and do some embroidery, but she soon felt too tired to go on with it and asked me to read to her instead.
Although Pinto was of gentle origin and had had a little education and could play the lute and sing—to tell the truth, quite as well as I could—she hadn’t come from a background which valued intellect in women. Her literacy level was no better than that of Meg’s nurse Bridget. Pinto could sign her name and she could write a label for a bottle of ointment or rosewater or preserved plums, but she could only do it slowly, and reading, for her, was a matter of picking out one letter after another and doubtfully stringing the sounds together. She couldn’t read aloud to entertain her mistress, and she didn’t like hearing me do it.
When I read to Amy, Pinto would sit and listen with her mouth primmed up, and if she could find something in the choice of material to object to, object she would. I used to try and persuade Amy to choose, because then Pinto would keep quiet, but today Amy, as she often did, said, “Oh, I’m too tired to decide. Pick something for me, Ursula.”
So I searched among her books and found some verses by a poet called William Dunbar, and read her a poem in praise of the City of London, and Pinto said when I finished that it was dull. So I tried another poet, by the name of Skelton, who wrote verses in praise of various ladies, and Pinto said he sounded like a philanderer and she was surprised that I thought his work suitable for her mistress. Not greatly to my surprise, Amy then said she was weary and asked us to help her back to bed. After we had done so, Pinto made a few edged remarks, suggesting that my poor choice of literature had bored or irritated Lady Dudley. I finished the day feeling literally as though I had spent it banging my head against a stone wall. A headache was looming.
I went to bed early and the headache subsided, but I couldn’t sleep. Matthew had unsettled me. Suddenly it seemed hateful to exist like this, fending off Pinto’s resentment and tasting Amy’s meals for fear of poison.
Dale had once remarked that it wasn’t her place to say so but she didn’t like to see me acting as taster; it wasn’t nice. I now realised that I heartily agreed with her. The simple normality of the dinner party had shown up, by sheer contrast, the unpleasant nature of everyday life at Cumnor. What a way to live, I thought. What a horrible way to live.
And suppose, said a nasty little voice inside my head, just suppose Amy is right? Just suppose there was poison in that broth you tasted today?
I was quite sure there wasn’t, as apart from my fading headaches, I felt perfectly well, but it seemed to me quite possible that an attempt had been made on her life earlier, and that Dr. Bayly had frightened the culprit off. If so, what if the attempt were later resumed? I might hope that Amy’s earlier attacks of nausea, and her present fears, were only her sick fancies, but what if they were not? How was I to tell?
As I lay there, I was conscious of the age of the walls around me. Pictures drifted through my mind, of processions of cowled monks, carrying candles, making their way through the house to their devotions in the nearby church. In my imagination, the cowls had something threatening about them, as though they hid faces one would rather not behold.
The night was warm and I had looped back the bedcurtains. By the moonlight slanting through the window, I could see Dale as she slept on the truckle bed against the wall. I could hear her breathing, too. She was a comforting human presence and I was glad of her.
I could also see the door of the room, the gleam of the iron hinges and the push-down handle. I was actually looking in that direction when the handle moved.
I sat up, heart pounding wildly. The door was opening. A figure, carrying a candle like one of the monks in my reverie, entered softly and closed the door after it. I made a strangled sound of terror and the figure turned quickly towards me, holding the candle up so as to cast light on my face.
“Hush. It’s all right. Don’t be afraid,” said the voice of Arthur Robsart.
“Master Robsart?” My panic subsided, leaving bewilderment. “What on earth . . . ?”
“Shh.” He came silently across to me and placed the candle on a small table beside the bed. He was wearing some kind of loose dressing robe, much embroidered and tied with a silken cord which gleamed in the candlelight.
He then sat down on the edge of the bed and, to my rage and disbelief, leaned forward to take off his slippers. “Don’t let’s wake Dale,” he whispered. “I’ll snuff the candle in a moment. We can draw the curtains, and I’ll slip away before dawn. She’ll never know I was here. I take it that I’m welcome?”
“You most certainly are not! When did I ever . . . ?”
“Yesterday, at dinner. You were iridescent, sweetheart; like cloth of gold in full sunlight. It was as plain as could be that you were longing for a lover, but Master de la Roche has gone away again and left you. I must go, too, in the morning, but for tonight, I’m still here and I’ve noticed during the past week that you rather liked me. I would never try to seduce a virgin,” said Master Robsart virtuously. “That would be quite immoral. You have been married, though, darling, you know what it’s all about. I felt sure that if I came to you tonight, you wouldn’t order me away.”
“You were sorely mistaken! I am but recently widowed and still mourning for my husband. I have no interest in any other man, and if I had, Master Robsart, I would hardly choose you! You have a wife! Please go away at once.”
“Hush, hush. We don’t want to start a scandal. Come now, sweetheart.” The obtuse young fool was about to take off his robe. I didn’t think he had much, if anything, on beneath it.
“Dale!” I shrieked.
“What? What? What is it, ma’am? Oooh!” She sat up on her truckle bed and stared at Arthur in amazement.
“Dear Dale,” said Arthur. “I’m sure you’re an excellent and trustworthy maid to Mistress Blanchard, and that means you’re discreet, but virtue should be rewarded . . . ”
“I’m glad you think so!” I said waspishly.
“. . . and I will happily reward yours to the amount of a gold angel.”
“I should stand out for several gold angels if I were you, Dale,” I said, “but I’ll pay them to you for not promising discretion. I shan’t need it.” Secure in possession of the funds Dudley had already provided for me, I added to Arthur, “If Dale thinks she deserves a pay rise, she has only to ask. Now will you please go?”
“But darling, why?” Arthur did have the decency to do up his girdle again although he still seemed disposed to coax. “Where’s the harm? You needn’t worry about my wife, I assure you. She won’t know.”
“Unless you leave at once, I shall make it my business to tell her. Good God! Do you behave like this often? How many love-childre
n have you fathered?”
“None that I know of. I take care,” said the lighthearted tomcat perched on the side of my bed. “But even if I did get you with child, you needn’t worry . . . ”
“I’m quite sure I needn’t! I don’t intend to give myself cause!”
“You know I’m Amy’s half-brother?” enquired Arthur.
“Yes, but what . . . ?”
“Wrong side of the blanket,” said Arthur cheerfully. “Same father, but he wasn’t married to my mother. He acknowledged me and paid for my upbringing, though, and I bear his name. I’d do the same for any child of mine. There’s nothing to fear.”
“Master Robsart,” I said. “Please listen. I don’t want a love affair with you.”
“A few days ago you said you would miss me when I went away. All week I’ve been growing more and more certain . . . ”
“You were amusing company, nothing more. Now, will you please get out? If you don’t, I shall scream at the top of my voice and rouse the whole house and I don’t think Lady Dudley will be pleased. It could be bad for her, too,” I added, ruthlessly using his sister’s poor health as a lever.
“Oh, very well.” Arthur put on his slippers again. “I thought it was worth trying,” he said philosophically. “One can’t win every time.”
“Oh, really!”
“You don’t understand yourself,” he added, as he stood up. “Recently widowed or not, you want a lover. What went wrong between you and de la Roche?”
“What?”
“He came here courting you, didn’t he? He made no secret of it. And you want him, I saw it at that dinner, but when he left I thought I’d been wrong. I wasn’t wrong, though. You’re giving off signals like a flagship. You want a man and if it isn’t me, then it’s de la Roche. Why did you let him go?” said Arthur, and then picked up his candle and sauntered out of the room, waggling his fingers at me in an impertinent farewell as he turned to close the door.
To Shield the Queen Page 9