Queen of Ambition

by Buckley, Fiona

  I had left the door open behind me and Rob had come quietly in. He was dressed, and looked decidedly better.

  “I heard,” he said. “I’ll see to it. I agree with you. I think Dale has been put-upon. Never mind, Dale. The queen’s visit begins on Saturday. The inquiry must end then, for good or ill, so whatever happens, you will be reunited with Roger by the end of the week. I am glad to see you, Ursula. My fever has completely gone. I feel a trifle weak but nothing worse and I feel the need of the open air. I intend to walk over to King’s College Chapel to look at the retiring room before the Gentlemen Ushers get to it. They are going to inspect it later on today. I daresay you’d like to come?”

  13

  Leaden Feet

  We left Dale stitching again, still with a despondent air even though she admitted that she had only an hour or so of work to finish and was glad to be told that she need not do the cushion covers.

  We were going out on the queen’s business, and although I hadn’t much spare time, I thought it worthwhile to exchange my dull gown and unbleached kirtle for something more dignified. Dale interrupted her task long enough to help me into a decent tawny overgown and cream kirtle, and fasten a neatly pleated ruff into place. The overgown, of course, had my usual hidden pouch and I transferred my lockpicks and dagger from my cookmaid’s dress. I wasn’t likely to need them in the chapel, but I was rarely without them.

  I made her hurry. “The minutes slide away when one is rushing here and there round Cambridge,” I said to Rob. “But I’d like to see the retiring room. I would rather have been a real harbinger, you know, than an imitation one, using it as a cover for these inquiries that lead nowhere.”

  It took longer than I liked to reach King’s College because Rob was still shaky from his illness and did not walk fast. However, when we did get there, we were pleased with what we found. The chapel was much quieter and cleaner than when we viewed Thomas Shawe’s body there. The workmen had gone, taking their saws and hammers with them. The dust had been swept away, the dark, richly carved timber of the rood screen glowed with polish, and on top of it, the retiring room in the rood loft was complete. The air now smelled of beeswax rather than wood shavings. Two men on ladders were still busy cleaning some of the intricate carving over the west door but otherwise the work was finished.

  “That’s better,” said Rob thankfully. “I have been going nearly mad, lying on my bed and wondering if the chapel would ever be ready on time. At one point, when the fever was very high, I had a terrible dream about Her Majesty arriving and being all mixed up with workmen. I’m not really here as a harbinger, any more than you are, but all the same, in spite of all the Yeomen of this and that and the Gentlemen Ushers, I still feel responsible.”

  “Here are some Gentlemen Ushers, I think,” I said, as the south door opened, letting in a stream of sunlight and a group of dark-gowned personages. “I know what you mean. I feel exactly the same. Rob, when exactly is Cecil due to arrive tomorrow?”

  “He and Dudley should both be here by midday. They’re expected to dine with Hawford, the vice chancellor.”

  “I must see Cecil as soon as I can. He’ll be expecting a report and if there isn’t much that adds up there are certainly some interesting factors …”

  “Dear Ursula, you sound like a mathematician!”

  “I’m serious, Rob! The last time we were here, we were looking at a young man’s body and …”

  “What’s the matter?” Rob demanded as I dropped my voice to a mutter and moved hastily around to the other side of him.

  “Woodforde’s with those ushers,” I hissed. “He’s in his university gown but that’s Woodforde all right. He mustn’t see me. He might come to the pie shop at any time and he mustn’t realize that there’s a court lady there in disguise.”

  Peering around Rob, I saw that the new arrivals had turned to look up at the carvings that the workmen were cleaning. For the moment, they had their backs to us. We were close to the rood screen. Stealthily, we retreated into the shadow of the deep arched door through the center. “We can go through and into one of the side chapels off the choir,” I whispered. “If we kneel down and hide our faces in prayer …”

  “Stop!” said Rob, peering warily out of the arch toward the choir. I peered too and saw that the choir wasn’t empty. A stage had been set up there and a dais built, with a thronelike seat on it for Elizabeth to occupy during the disputations and the Latin plays, and three men were examining it. I recognized them and they would recognize me. They were the Yeoman Purveyor, the junior Gentleman Usher, and the junior Officer of the Wardrobe with whom we had traveled part of the way to Cambridge.

  “What are they doing here?” I muttered.

  “Everyone’s been panicking. People are doing jobs that aren’t really theirs, just to get things done at all,” Rob whispered. “Like Dale.”

  “What are we to do?” I glanced back and saw that Woodforde and the ushers were now moving toward the rood screen. We were trapped in the archway.

  “Up here!” said Rob. “Into the retiring room. Quick!”

  I saw now that there was a door in the side of the arch. Softly, Rob opened it, revealing a stair. We slipped through, closing the door after us, and climbed quickly up. “I just hope,” I said as we emerged at the top, “that we haven’t made a horrible mistake. If they come up here as well …”

  I found that I was frightened, which in itself was interesting. It told me just how sure I was, in the depths of my mind, that Thomas Shawe had not died by accident. It also told me that although neither Jester nor Woodforde could possibly have killed him, I nevertheless believed that they had arranged it.

  If they thought I was a menace to whatever schemes they were laying, well, accidents could happen to cookmaids, too, especially in kitchens. In kitchens there were fires and meat cleavers and …

  We looked around us. On one side of the room there were glassed windows overlooking the choir. From these, we at once moved cautiously back. The room held a press for fresh clothes, a settle-cum-chest, upholstered in blue and silver brocade, a small curtained bed where the queen could rest, a toilet stand with a modern glass mirror, and a padded stool in front of it. There was some more curtaining at the far end, but when I looked behind this, it revealed only a privy.

  From where we were, we could hear the approaching footsteps of Woodforde and the ushers. They reached the rood screen and then, to our horror, we heard Woodforde’s voice, which I recognized by its high-pitched tone, suggesting that they should inspect the retiring room. “They are coming up!” Rob said. “Well, officially we’re harbingers. We’ll have to brazen it out and hope no one connects you with that pie shop.”

  I had no desire to do any such thing. The bed curtains were drawn back, but the bed itself was gracefully draped with a shimmering blue cloth of silver coverlet on which red and white Tudor roses had been embroidered. The edges of the coverlet swept the floor. “Just pray they don’t look under the bed in case someone’s hiding there as Woodforde hid under Lady Lennox’s,” I said, and dived into concealment.

  “Did he?” asked Rob in a bemused voice, stooping and lifting the hem of the coverlet to talk to me.

  “Yes, he did, and Rob, try to get into conversation with Woodforde and see if you can find out whether or not he knows who Mistress Smithson really is. Probably is, I mean.”

  “You give orders like Her Majesty in person!”

  “Rob! It isn’t funny. Please!”

  There was no more time. The Gentlemen Ushers and Woodforde were climbing the stairs. Rob let go of the coverlet and straightened up. A moment later I heard him say: “Good day, gentlemen! Master Robert Henderson at your service! I haven’t had the pleasure of meeting you before as I have had to keep my bed for a few days, but I am one of Her Majesty’s harbingers. As you see, I am about my duties again. I have just been making sure that all is clean and orderly.”

  “Quite, quite. Just as you should.” That fussy voice belonged to an usher I kn
ew slightly, having met him at court. He had a most unsuitable surname, for Sir Walter Large was no more than five feet four inches tall. He was also a great one for asking questions about fine detail. “This all seems quite satisfactory. The room is smaller than I expected but there is no time to alter that now. What’s through there?”

  I heard the rings of the privy curtain rattle and then a grunt as Sir Walter observed the arrangements it concealed. The curtain rings rattled back again. Rob was inquiring the names of those he had the honor of addressing, and I heard Woodforde explaining who he was and that he had been given the task of showing the ushers around the chapel, and introducing his companions by name. “Sir Walter Large … Lord Dunwood … Sir William Mallow … Roger Brockley you know, of course. He formerly served you, I believe.”

  No wonder Brockley hadn’t met me by the river. He was giving Woodforde status by attending him. The ushers themselves, more sure of their dignity, had left their servants behind.

  I lay still, breathing slowly and softly, relieved that there really had been some thorough sweeping under the bed. There was no dust to cause coughs or sneezes. I heard the door of the press being opened and shut and the lid of the settle being lifted.

  Then I heard Rob remark: “Master Woodforde, I wonder if you could spare me a moment. There is something I particularly wish to ask you, about this lady who is to present the flowers to the queen when first she arrives. I had heard that she is to represent the women of Cambridge but I now understand that she actually comes from outside Cambridge. Now how does this come about? Indeed, just who is she? Between one thing and another and my illness, I haven’t been able to pursue this matter.”

  Clever Rob. As smooth and easy an entrance into our inquiry as anyone could have devised. He ought to be a success as an agent.

  “Ah. Now this is a point I too wish to raise.” That was Large. “The vice chancellor assures us that she is a suitable person but it is our duty to examine everything and everyone concerned in Her Majesty’s visit.”

  “Oh, Mistress Smithson is ideal, I promise you,” said Woodforde. “She is Cambridge-born although she is at present in the household of Mistress Catherine Grantley of Brent Hay, just outside the city. When the idea was first mooted of having a Cambridge lady to present the flowers, a proclamation was issued asking for nominations, and Mistress Grantley put forward the name of her companion. Mistress Grantley is a woman of some wealth and she has been most generous in making gifts to the university. I think the authorities felt that to accept her choice would be a graceful return compliment.”

  It was nerve-racking, under that bed. At any moment, someone might take it into his head to lift up the coverlet and peer in. Even so, despite my thudding heart, I grinned. Cambridge, supposedly a seat of learning, of intellectual growth and avant-garde ideas, was as venal a place as any. Money talked in Cambridge just as it did everywhere else.

  “But,” Large was saying protestingly, “surely someone went to see the lady? Have you met her yourself?”

  “The vice chancellor has visited her,” Woodforde was saying. “I can assure you that she wasn’t accepted without being interviewed. No one unsuitable would ever be permitted to perform such a task, sir. No doubt the vice chancellor can tell you more, if you apply to him.”

  The subject of Mistress Smithson seemed to die out with my question unanswered. One of the ushers remarked in authoritative tones that they would now inspect the stage, and that he was wondering whether voices would carry clearly from it to the queen’s chair. “I would like to try it out. The chair can be moved forward if necessary, I fancy.”

  “I was thinking the same thing, my lord.” That wasn’t Large’s voice. It was presumably Mallow’s, since he used the words my lord and so must be replying to Lord Dunwood.

  “Perhaps you would attend us, Master Henderson,” said Dunwood. “Your opinion would be of value, I feel sure.”

  “After you, sirs,” said Woodforde.

  Rob had no alternative but to go as bidden, leaving me where I was. Feet moved toward the door and started down the stairs. I could still hear someone in the room, though, and peering from under the coverlet, I saw a pair of feet in buckled shoes and another pair in boots, following the others toward the door. They halted, however, just as Brockley’s voice, pitched for harmlessness and ingenuousness, a fraction slower and an iota more countrified than usual, remarked: “If I may make so bold, sir, I’ve heard tell that this lady, Mistress Smithson, is some relation to you. Would that be right?”

  My splendid Brockley had grasped Rob’s intentions and picked them up where Rob left off. In view of Woodforde’s habit of assaulting his servants, I felt that Brockley was showing not only initiative but a good deal of courage. To my surprise, however, Woodforde answered him quite calmly. “So you’ve heard that, have you? Well, well. How gossip gets about. A man’s business, and his family, ought to be his own. I learned only today that there’s been talk among the students that I’ve some secret scheme in hand, and I’m using their playlet to further it! Had you heard that too?”

  Under the bed, I stiffened. Brockley, his voice still even and harmless, said: “Really, sir? No, I hadn’t heard anything like that.”

  “Well, I’ll tell you something, fellow. Not that I want you talking about my private business to anyone and certainly not to Master Henderson …”

  “Like I said to you, sir, I was glad to leave his employment. He’s the last one I’d go chattering to,” said Brockley. I had never heard him sound so surly. I had once told Roger Brockley that he would have made a good strolling player and he greeted the idea with horror, but it was perfectly true.

  “Just as I thought. But you may say, if you hear such talk from other quarters, that you know for a fact that there’s no harm intended to any through the playlet. As it happens, I do have a secret scheme, but it’s as innocent and happy as a child’s lullaby, you can be sure of that.”

  “Indeed, sir?” said Brockley, on a questioning note.

  “It’s perfectly simple,” said Woodforde, somewhat irritably. “Maybe if there is talk going about, I had better tell you. Then you’ll know what’s going on and you’ll know better how to answer—provided you don’t let out to anyone what the plan really is. It’s true enough that the lady’s a connection of mine though I didn’t know that until after she’d been chosen to present the flowers to the queen. She’s my sister-in-law. Her real name is Jester, but she is calling herself Mistress Smithson just now. Due to a sad family misunderstanding, she is estranged from her husband although I must hasten to say that the matter is not one of scandal. She’s been living decently enough in good service, with Mistress Grantley. It was quite by chance that I learned who she is. I was calling on an old acquaintance of mine, a retired tutor called Dr. Edward Barley, who is one of Mistress Grantley’s tenants. That reminds me, when we leave here, we must go to my brother’s shop and break the news that Dr. Barley is dead. I have just heard. My niece was fond of him—he used to be her tutor. In fact, I recommended him. Well, to continue, as I approached his house on the day of my visit, I was most surprised to see my sister-in-law coming out of his gate. She didn’t see me and I didn’t call to her. I didn’t like to, in view of the estrangement.

  “She turned up the road toward Brent Hay and I went on to pay my call. I wondered where she was living, though, and in casual fashion, I asked Dr. Barley who was the lady I had seen. He said she was Mistress Smithson, who had come with a message from Brent Hay.

  “And I confess,” said Woodforde confidingly, “that when all this business of the students and their mad scheme to kidnap the lady sprang up, it occurred to me that I might now engineer a means of bringing my brother and his estranged wife together. It could be a most happy outcome of the royal visit, and I admit that I like the notion of doing it through a little playlet—it will add a touch of drama, a pretty conceit.”

  “I see,” said Brockley, sounding blank. “Or rather, I don’t see. I mean, sir, how exactly …
?”

  “The playlet will proceed, the lady will be whisked away into her husband’s very shop where he will be waiting for her—and what happens when they meet will be for them to decide. I wish for your discretion now, because it is possible that if the court harbingers knew of the plan, they might dislike it and spoil it, though I am sure that if, later on, the queen were to hear that she had been part of a joyful scheme to reunite two loving people, parted by a foolish muddle, she would be delighted. What do you think, Brockley?”

  “I’m sure you’re right, sir.”

  “I am looking forward very much to seeing the queen here in Cambridge,” said Woodforde. “I much admire such great ladies. I was once in the employ of Lady Lennox, you know.”

  “Were you, sir? I have heard of the lady, of course, though I have never seen her.”

  “She treated me ill, I’m sorry to say,” said Woodforde with a sigh. “Yet still,” he added, “I have the greatest regard for her. She …”

  “Where have you got to, Woodforde?” Rob had come back into the retiring room. “Your ushers are waiting for you. I would like to sit down here and make notes at that toilet table—I have seen one or two minor things that need attention, which have escaped even the ushers. Did I hear you talking about Lady Lennox as I came up the stairs?”

  “You did. A great lady, and an excellent wife and mother; an example to all women. She lives for her sons.”

  “And for the furthering of their ambitions, I believe,” Rob agreed.

  “Is that not a sign of a devoted mother?”

  “When one of the sons aspires to the hand of the Scottish queen,” Rob said, “it could also be the sign of an ambitious mother. I prefer Queen Elizabeth to Lady Lennox, any day.”