Queen of Ambition

by Buckley, Fiona

  We hurriedly murmured farewells and walked on. Once out of earshot, I said: “Well! I never would have thought it. That drawing was good! Whoever would have guessed that Jester was a secret artist? Now, Brockley, there’s no one near us just now, so what is this scheme that you and Rob are laying?”

  “It depends on your consent, madam. Master Henderson has arranged a chance for me to become Master Woodforde’s manservant. We are pretending that I was formerly in Master Henderson’s employ. I meant to come and speak to you this evening. It’s settled, except, of course, that if you don’t agree, I can back out. If I do join Woodforde, Master Henderson’s men will keep an eye on the horses at Radley’s. I made a point of that.”

  “How in the world did Rob … ?” I was astonished but also impressed. “It’s an excellent idea, if it’s possible. Would you have to live with Woodforde? I hope Fran won’t mind.”

  “It would hardly be for long, madam, and Fran is much occupied.”

  “What precisely is she doing?” I asked.

  “Embroidering cushions for the Provost’s Lodge where the queen will stay. That Officer of the Wardrobe that we rode some of the way to Cambridge with; he’s got here now and he’s decided that some of the cushions and so forth in the Provost’s Lodge need repair. He’s hired seamstresses but since Fran is there and you’re not using her, he’s ordered her to help. He isn’t paying her, either,” said Brockley crossly. “He says there’s no need since she has wages from you!”

  “Well, I can hardly object, since I don’t need her just now. But look, getting back to your plans, what about Woodforde’s present manservant? I know he’s got one.”

  “Had one, madam. The man wishes to leave.”

  “How very convenient!”

  “I think, madam,” said Brockley, “that Master Henderson—er …”

  “Delved into his purse and brought out some sovereigns. All the same, if it was a good post …”

  “According to Master Henderson,” said Brockley, with a blank face but a gleam of laughter in his eyes, “the fellow was quite glad of a chance to leave. Master Woodforde isn’t the easiest of men to work for. He’s rough with his servants.”

  “Indeed? Brockley, the idea of you entering his service is a most promising scheme and of course I consent. But I hope it won’t be too unpleasant.”

  “It can hardly be more unpleasant than the life you’re leading at Jester’s,” Brockley said. “I’m concerned for you, madam. It sounds to me as if Woodforde and Jester are two of a kind.”

  We halted, halfway across the bridge. With one mind, we moved to lean on the parapet and look down at the flowing water of the Cam. “How do you know about that?” I asked.

  “I’ve managed to talk to some of the students, in casual fashion, madam, and Master Henderson, of course, has talked to them officially. We learned nothing useful, but we did hear a few remarks about Jester and the way he treats the folk who work for him. I can only hope, madam, that Jester has offered you no offense.”

  “I’ve had a bad moment or two but if the worst came to the worst, I could walk out. Except that I don’t like walking out with a task unfinished.”

  “No more do I,” Brockley said. “But if when it’s all over, Jester’s not been found guilty of anything worse, if he’s raised his hand to you, he’ll have a bill to pay and I’ll present it, never fear.”

  I turned my head to look at him. “You’re a good friend, Brockley.”

  “I would hope so, madam. You need friends. I know you’ll think this is just singing an old song that you’ve heard too often, but I wish you weren’t doing this. You should be at home with your daughter in Withysham, or else both of you should be back in France with the Seigneur de la Roche.”

  “I wish I were, Brockley. With all my heart, I wish I were, but … if … if anything happened to Matthew, I would need a home in England and so I need Withysham. The queen gave it to me for services rendered, but although she didn’t put it that way, I think that while I remain in England, she still expects services. They are part of the payment.”

  “I think you would still choose to serve her whenever possible, madam.”

  “You may be right.” Suddenly I pounded a fist on the parapet. “Why must there always be plots and … and people who want to harm her? Above all, why here? This is Cambridge. Elizabeth has put an end to heretic-hunting; she has made England Protestant and in England, Cambridge is where the movement began. Here, of all the places in the entire realm, she should be valued; she should be safe! All along, I’ve hoped that this business of the playlet is just a mare’s nest. But now that Thomas Shawe is dead—oh, dear God, he was so young …”

  I hadn’t expected to burst into tears. They overtook me without warning and although I tried to stop them, they began to fall on the parapet and on my hands as they rested there.

  “Thomas Shawe ought not to be dead!” I said furiously. “He should have had years before him, and a chance to marry Ambrosia, too—they were in love, Brockley. Ambrosia’s heartbroken now … !” Brockley put a tentative hand on my shoulder. It was warm and kind and at once aroused a new longing, to be back again in Matthew’s embrace. But Matthew was far away, embattled in Blanchepierre in the midst of a plague epidemic, and I could not go to him. There was no comfort for me anywhere, except in the person of the friend at my side. I turned to Brockley and for one moment stepped into his arms and pressed my face into his shoulder, wetting his shirt with my tears.

  He patted my back, as though I were a baby, but then put me gently away from him. “We mustn’t give way, either of us,” he said, and I knew that there was a double meaning in the words. I mustn’t give way to grief over Thomas Shawe, and neither of us must yield to the secret thing that ran between us.

  Least of all just now, for as I stepped back, dashing the tears out of my eyes and attempting to smile, I realized that a familiar figure was coming toward us over the bridge. We at once went to meet her, hoping that she hadn’t seen.

  “Roger! Ma’am! I’ve finished my stitching for today and I thought I’d take the air again awhile. I didn’t expect to meet you here.”

  She curtsied to me, and smiled at Roger, a wife greeting her husband and a tirewoman encountering her mistress. “We are waiting here for Master Henderson to catch up,” I explained, and began to tell her of Thomas Shawe and our visit to King’s Grove and our encounter with Roland Jester and his easel.

  Fran listened respectfully and made the right exclamations in all the right places, but I observed, with a heavy heart, that her eyes were full of pain.

  Yes. She had seen.

  9

  Waiting My Chance

  There was nothing to be done. Any attempt to explain why I was embracing Brockley could be interpreted as trying to explain it away, instead. It was for Brockley to deal with it later, in private with Dale. As we stood on the bridge, I stared down unhappily into the sun-dappled river. The water was not sparkling quite as it had been. The ripples were oily now and the sun-flecks duller. The air was growing humid and the sky was dimming. From the corner of my eye, I caught a glimpse of peacock-color and turning, I saw Rob approaching. “Here comes Master Henderson,” I said brightly.

  I knew that I should be on my way to the pie shop but I still had things to discuss with Rob. When he came up to us, I said briefly: “Let’s lean on the parapet while we talk. I’m short of time so let’s get to the point quickly. I repeat what I’ve said before. Thomas Shawe’s so-called accident is proof, to my mind, that something is wrong about that playlet. Can we bring the coincidence—I mean Thomas’s plan to meet me in secret, and his sudden death—as evidence at the inquest? In fact, can we cast enough doubt on the innocence of the playlet to justify canceling it on our own responsibility?”

  “I wouldn’t gamble on it,” said Rob. “This looked so very much like sheer mischance. I’m still not sure that it wasn’t, frankly, Ursula. Thomas’s worries could have been about nothing worse than fear of pinking Dudley by mistak
e or thinking that some of the students are plotting a secret extra rag of their own.”

  “I don’t think so,” I said.

  “Well, you always have your own strong views, I know,” Rob said. “You may be right.” Again, I was startled by a sourness in his voice, and he made a movement that was remarkably like an irritable shrug, but his voice was pleasant enough as he added: “Has Brockley told you yet about our scheme to get him into Woodforde’s service?”

  “Yes, and I’ve agreed.”

  “Good.” Rob mopped his brow. “How close this weather is. We shall have thunder soon, for sure. Now, listen. Let us assume that you’re right, Ursula. We could try to start a murder scandal at the inquest but we might not succeed. It’s thin, to my mind. We could also go ahead and cancel the playlet, and brave the annoyance of the queen. I doubt if she would actually clap us into the Tower for it. But if we do simply quell the whole thing, and after all there is a plot of some kind …”

  “And the inquest jury brings in a verdict of accident, ” I finished for him, “then we have muffled an attempt against Her Majesty but we are no nearer learning just what kind of attempt it is, and who the plotters are.”

  “The wolves,” put in Brockley in his level voice, “would still be at large.”

  “Yes,” I said slowly. “Yes. I do see.”

  “All of which,” Rob said, “is an argument for letting the inquest go and continuing to investigate. What kind of man is Jester? Is he likely to have political interests? Or Catholic ones? You must know him quite well by now.”

  I thought that over. “No,” I said at length. “I don’t know him well. Cecil said he was a dull man—he writes dull letters, apparently—but I haven’t found him tedious, not at all! He keeps on startling me. Oh, not about religion. I’ve never heard him mention it, but according to Cecil, he and his brother are both Protestant and that’s probably true. I’ve been told that everyone from the pie shop worships at St. Benet’s in Cambridge on Sunday.

  “But—he has a violent temper and his wife ran away from him. And I’ve heard him speak of her in a way that wasn’t just violent—it was … it was vicious. As though he’d never heard of the laws of God or decency. And then I come across him sitting at that easel, making a charcoal drawing that wouldn’t shame Hans Holbein. I don’t know what to make of him at all. I feel I haven’t the slightest idea what he’s really like. He could be anything, under the surface. And so could his daughter.”

  Hesitantly, I found myself putting into words something that I had felt for some time. “Ambrosia’s got a strong face; I think she’s got strong feelings. And yet—I don’t know what she’s really like, either. She was in love with Thomas but I can’t guess what she would say, or think, if anyone told her that Thomas was involved in something … treasonable or dangerous. Would it make her draw away from him or defend him? I can’t tell.” Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed another familiar figure approaching the bridge. “I think,” I said warningly, “that Jester is on his way home. We should move on before he gets close to us.”

  We did so. Dale walked at Brockley’s side, silent as she had been throughout the discussion, but somehow making it plain by the very way she moved that she was at this moment far more Mistress Brockley than tirewoman Fran Dale. I smiled at her once but her response was faint.

  Striding at my side, still mopping his brow now and then, Rob said: “So we leave the inquest alone and go on as we were? Is that agreed?” His tone was irritable and looking at his flushed face, I wondered if this was merely due to the heat or if he was unwell.

  “On reflection, yes, I think it best,” I said mildly.

  “I agree. And you are happy for Brockley to enter Woodforde’s service?”

  “Yes, if he’s willing. Brockley?”

  “I’m willing,” Brockley said. “It will be tomorrow. As yet, I don’t know when I’ll get a chance to get away and report on anything I find but I’ll manage.”

  “If you find out anything useful,” Rob said, “try to tell both of us. I can’t pass news on to Mistress Blanchard because I can’t call on her. Courtiers and cook-maids don’t mix. But I’m about in the university a good deal; you should have chances to speak to me, and I suppose you can visit the pie shop or meet her outside. You’re supposed to be her cousin, after all.”

  “I’ll do my best, sir.”

  “And, Dale, try to come with him,” I said quickly. “I shall be glad to see you both. Meanwhile, I think I must poke my nose a little more earnestly into the Jesters’ affairs. I’ve gone about for days with my ears and eyes open and I’ve learned next to nothing. Talking to the students was different—that would have worked, if only Thomas hadn’t been …”

  Remembering that still young face with the flecks of dust from the carpentry work in the chapel, and the hard cold brow that I had kissed, I was nearly overcome all over again. I had seen death before, many times, and I had thought I was hardened, perhaps more hardened than a young woman has any business to be, but Thomas Shawe had moved me deeply. I blinked the tears away. “I hate prying into other people’s personal documents; you’re right there, Rob—but I think I must try it. I will see if there is anything, anywhere, in writing that will help.”

  I reached the pie shop rather late, though well ahead of Master Jester, but I found that Phoebe, Ambrosia, and Wat were back already and full of lamentation because Wat had just dropped a trayload of pies on the floor, and a pile of chopped chicken that had been in the pantry meat safe, awaiting its turn in the stockpot, had gone off in the sultry heat. Ambrosia, already upset enough over Thomas’s death and her quarrel with her father, was in tears.

  I was also upset about Thomas, very tired, and far too hot. I would have sold my soul to retreat to my bed, strip off my dress, and fall asleep. Pie shop servants, however, can’t indulge themselves like that. I had to buckle down to work. When Jester arrived and heard Ambrosia’s account of the various disasters, he cursed us all roundly and raised his fist to Wat, who dodged behind one of the nice new tables and by way of excuse shouted he was that sorry, but he was tryin’ to get the pies set out on the street counter all in a hurry and on his own and he’d only got one pair of hands!

  Whereupon, Jester rounded on me, demanded to know why I hadn’t been back in time to help and for the second time during my short employment at the pie shop, I found myself sprawling on the floor with my head ringing like a gong.

  He did himself no service. As he stormed off toward the fowl run to execute a couple of mallard he had bought that morning at the market and brought back in coops on a handcart, I picked myself up, brushed sawdust off my clothes, thanked Wat coldly for his kind and helpful remarks, and then while poor Wat, who was really a most amiable soul, stumbled an apology, I came to a grim conclusion.

  Almost every task I had undertaken as an agent had eventually led me to poking my nose into other people’s private letters and although one of the reasons why I detested this was my dread of being caught, it wasn’t the only one. I also hated it because it made me feel like an intruder.

  But not this time. This time, I would still be afraid of being caught by Jester but I wasn’t going to worry about intruding. I would positively enjoy invading my unpleasant employer’s privacy, and I hoped I would find any number of embarrassing and undignified secrets.

  I worked hard all the rest of the day, while my head throbbed where Jester had struck me, and I poured with sweat under my servant’s dress. I told myself that I was lucky in a way, for I had an open linen collar instead of a ruff and at least did not have starched linen pleats irritating my neck as the fine ladies did. The fine ladies, however, didn’t have to stand in a sweltering back room and yank the guts out of mallard ducks, or stir bubbling stewpots next to the fire in a kitchen as hot as Hades, or serve pies and small ale at a run. I managed a few private words with Ambrosia and told her that I had seen Thomas.

  “He looked very serene. I’m sure he never knew what had happened to him,” I said, trying
to comfort her as best I could. “I gave him your kiss. His family are taking him away tomorrow.”

  “And I can’t go to his burial,” Ambrosia said bitterly. But she thanked me, nevertheless, and gave me a wan smile. It struck me that when her mother ran off, Ambrosia had probably been younger than I was when my mother died. I had missed mine badly enough; Ambrosia might well have missed hers even more. She had a forlorn look, as though she had lacked mothering.

  Rob’s promised storm arrived that night, with a majestic display of lightning and a roar of thunder that had Phoebe squeaking with fright. It brought relief from the heat, which for me had made sharing a bed with two other people nearly intolerable. The only person I would have welcomed in the same bed as myself was Matthew. That would be different, I thought longingly. The heat of a sultry night and the glow of Matthew’s skin would melt and blend together into the heat of love, and after love came sleep, no matter how stifling the weather. But Matthew was far away. I must endure as best I could.

  The storm and Phoebe’s pathetic fear of the sizzling lightning and the prowling thunder took my mind off both my discomfort and my yearning. Because of the heat, we had left the window open and when the rain began, it blew through the window and spattered our faces. Ambrosia got up to shut it, remarking that we were lucky that her father had had the thatch repaired in the spring. “It was leaking then and we were all glad we weren’t sleeping on the attic floor.”

  “What’s on the attic floor?” I asked casually. “If no one sleeps up there, what’s it used for?”

  “Father has a study there,” Ambrosia said. “He does his accounts there. And I’m allowed to keep some books there and sometimes I go up there to write to my old tutor. There’s a lumber room too, with all sorts of odds and ends in it, leftovers from my grandfather’s day. He had this whole row of houses built, did you know?”