A Pawn for a Queen: An Ursula Blanchard Mystery at Queen Elizabeth I's (Ursula Blanchard Mystery at Queen Elizabeth I's Court)

by Buckley, Fiona

  “I . . . no. I have this black gown, and another which is not in a good state after all my traveling, and that’s all. But if I have a week in hand, something can be done about that.”

  “Yes, that would be wise. My dear,” said Lady Simone, “one thing about you confuses me. From what you said when you spoke at the inquiry, it seemed that you have been living in England, close to your family of birth. But Matthew de la Roche, your husband, was in France, was he not? How did this come about? Were you living apart?”

  “No,” I said, relieved that here at least I could tell the truth. “We were both living at his home in France, but I have a daughter by a previous marriage and she was being fostered in England. I left her there during the civil war in France, but last year I came to England to collect her and take her back to France.”

  “Ah. But you did not do so?”

  “No, because Matthew wrote to me and said that plague had broken out near Blanchepierre, his château, and that I should stay in England till the danger had passed. Then I heard that—it had taken him.”

  “And you chose to remain in England? Living where? Actually with your family?”

  “No. I . . . I have a house of my own about five miles from theirs,” I said. There was no need to go into how and why Queen Elizabeth had presented it to me. “It’s called Withysham,” I said. “It was once an abbey, as so many houses in England used to be.”

  I was speaking casually, making conversation, wishing to appear quite at ease, but Lady Simone pounced, just like a sweet and pretty cat that has seen a careless sparrow.

  “And is that a worry to you?” she asked. “In case, one day, our queen should become yours?”

  “I have never thought about it,” I said, fairly honestly, since I did not see Mary ever superseding Elizabeth and therefore had had no need to think about Withysham’s future if she did. “But I have met people who do worry about it, yes.” I was thinking, of course, of the Thursbys.

  Unexpectedly, Lady Simone said: “My husband once owned one of those old abbeys—in the English Midlands. It was left to him by an English uncle. Robert sold it just before his own death, though. It was leased to tenants and we never lived there, but he visited it occasionally, to make sure it was kept in good order. On his last visit, he was approached by some emissary or other of Queen Elizabeth and asked if he would give an oath that he would back Elizabeth if ever there should be a war between England and Scotland. They told him that he might lose the former abbey if a Catholic ruler ever took the throne. He didn’t believe that. He said he was sure that our Queen Mary would never reward faithful followers by taking their homes away from them, and that this was nothing but a ploy, a cruel pretense of Elizabeth’s. But he decided that he was not easy in his conscience, owning a house which ought to belong to God, and sold it.”

  I wasn’t sure what to say in reply, and after a longish pause, inquired mundanely if Sir Robert had got a good price.

  “Oh yes. He gave some of it to the Church,” said Lady Simone. “Though not all. We are all human!” Her smile was enchanting.

  The maid came back with the writing materials and the Lady Simone wrote the letter of introduction for me. Then we talked for a while of other, harmless things, such as the winter weather and the embroidery she was doing, until I felt that it was the right moment to leave.

  “Chérie,” she said, as I rose, “I am sorry that you could not tell me what I wanted to know, and that in turn I could not help you, either. I am also sorry that a young woman like you should be involved in this unsavory business. Take my advice. It is no doubt a grief to you that Matthew is gone, and it is good of you to attempt to finish his work—but it would be wise to lose no time in marrying again. If you wish me to look about for a suitable parti for you, I will gladly do so.”

  For her parting comments, she had reverted to English. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Dale give a tiny, probably involuntary, nod. The pair of them, I thought indignantly, were like a couple of well-meaning sheepdogs, trying to shepherd me like a wayward ewe into a nice safe pen called Matrimony. Gravely, I said: “Thank you, Lady Simone. But it is too soon as yet.”

  “Ah well. You know your business best.” Lady Simone put out her hand to take one of mine. “I will pray for you, chérie, and that God may send you a man worthy of you. I will pray too that Sir Brian Dormbois has received and passed on the message that Edward was bringing, thus releasing you from the errand. Your husband and your cousin both longed for the day, my dear, when our sweet Queen Mary should be recognized as the true heir not only of Scotland but of England too, and for the moment when with her to lead the way, England will return to the true faith.”

  “It may never come about, you know,” I said gently. “There are many in England who would stoutly resist. From all I have heard, Queen Mary has much work to do for the faith here in Scotland. She has John Knox to oppose her.”

  Lady Simone sighed. “Indeed, she has had to tread carefully since she came here. You have seen for yourself what John Knox is like.” The frail fingers tightened around mine. “But all will be well,” she said earnestly. “God will guide us and bring our countries back to Him. Do your best, chérie, and trust in Him.”

  I had seen the religious civil war in France; I had been obliged, once, to listen while Uncle Herbert and Aunt Tabitha described a burning to me, in detail. I looked at Lady Simone kindly, seeing once again that innocence that had been so much a part of Matthew and was even part of my family at Faldene.

  “I will always do my best,” I said obliquely, and kissed her in farewell.

  • • •

  Brockley was ready with the horses. As we rode back toward our lodgings, I said to Dale: “That was difficult. She is so delightful. Who wants delightful enemies?”

  “Better than nasty ones, perhaps,” said Dale, with some asperity. “Less dangerous, ma’am!”

  “I’m not so sure about that,” I said. “One can so easily begin to feel sorry for them.”

  Some time later, when Brockley, having stabled the horses again, rejoined us in the lodging, he and Dale came together to my chamber.

  “Brockley has something to tell you, ma’am,” said Dale, her eyes sparkling.

  “I didn’t waste my time while I was waiting for you at Pieris House, madam,” Brockley said. “I did a bit of chatting with her servants, same as I’ve done here. It seems that her butler drinks in the same tavern where that fellow Ericks and your cousin had their fight. He saw it!”

  “Yes?” I was suddenly alert. “What did he have to say about it?”

  “Well, it was much as Ericks said, only according to Lady Simone’s butler, there were some strangers there, men he’d not seen in that place before, though by their dress, he thought they were someone’s retainers, like Ericks himself. You remember that it came out at the inquiry that some of the bystanders were encouraging the fight?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “Well, the butler said that that was mostly these strangers. He said they were urging Ericks on for the most part, shouting things like Go on, hit the popish bastard! and the like.” Brockley disliked strong language but came out with his quotation in valiant fashion.

  “You mean,” I said, “that someone was trying to . . . do what? Stir up trouble for Edward? Or for Ericks? What are you saying?”

  “I’m not sure,” said Brockley frankly. “But it struck me as just interesting and worth telling you. Suppose they’d been out for your cousin’s blood and thought of using Ericks? Getting him excited and hotheaded, and then, later on, bribing him to go further? And offering to help—to be the accomplices?”

  I surveyed Brockley thoughtfully. “I’m impressed. Brockley, you’re amazing. You disapprove of the way I live and yesterday you made it plain that you wished I would leave all this to the provost, and yet . . .”

  Brockley’s rare smile appeared. “Perhaps, at heart, madam, I respect your feeling for your cousin, and your desire to see justice done,” he said.

>   “Or perhaps,” I suggested, “when it comes to the point, you’re as much of a hunter as I am a huntress.”

  Brockley smiled once more. And then, as in the past, I saw Dale’s stiff face.

  We had done it again, Brockley and I. Once again, we had shared something that Dale did not. We were always doing it: private jokes, tacit declarations of partnership. Hurting her by accident.

  It must end. I did not think I could simply go and marry again, but I could find another lady’s maid and another personal manservant, and so release Dale to devote herself to Brockley, and Brockley to be the steward of Withysham. I would put distance between us and lay the past to rest.

  Once I had found Edward’s killers and tracked down that list.

  • • •

  We were all thankful to do no more traveling for a while. I was sleeping badly, in any case, constantly troubled by a nightmare in which I lay helpless in my bed, staring at a window and watching while a faceless figure with murderous intentions forced a way in and came toward me, at which point I would awaken, crying out.

  During the day, I was busy. Dale and I spent the following week obtaining new clothes, suitable for me to wear at Queen Mary’s court. I provided myself with several outfits, the finest being a silvery gray brocade overdress and sleeves, with kirtle and slashings of a shot silk in which silvery gray and pale violet were subtly mingled. This would do for any formal occasion.

  When I had taken delivery of the new clothes, I made a small addition of my own to my new overgowns. It was an addition that already existed in the gowns I had brought with me from home. Inside each of the new open skirts, I sewed my usual hidden pouches. To carry, as before, some money, a set of lockpicks, and a small but very sharp dagger. And the black and silver button.

  • • •

  During that week I also visited a number of tailors to show them the black button with the silver crisscross pattern on it, which we had found in Edward’s room. I thought that one of them might recognize it, might be able to say yes, I supplied a doublet with buttons of that pattern to such and such a man.

  None of them, however, had ever seen it before.

  On Monday the twenty-sixth of February, Queen Mary having been back in Edinburgh for two days, I armed myself with the letter of introduction from Lady Simone and rode to Holyrood Palace through a misty gray morning. The mullioned casements and many-windowed towers of the palace reminded me painfully of Château Blanchepierre, where I had lived with Matthew and which I would never see again. My eyes stung. Ah well, let them. After all, I was here as Matthew’s widow, Madame de la Roche, anxious to pay my respects to the queen he had served so loyally.

  10

  Elegance and Ice Water

  I am recounting this tale this many years later, looking back across time. I was born before Mary Stuart but I have long outlived her. She died in her mid-forties, on the block in the great hall of Fotheringhay. By then, she had become one of Elizabeth’s most dangerous enemies, and although she went to her death declaring that she was a martyr for her religion, she was actually condemned for plotting herself cross-eyed in an effort to get Elizabeth assassinated. I know. I know.

  But I have never found it easy to think of someone I have met and talked to meeting a violent end, and besides, whenever I think of Mary Stuart, I find myself remembering her as she was when I was shown into her presence at Holyrood.

  She took me completely by surprise. Here, against all expectation, was yet another delightful enemy.

  While Dale and I waited for my letter of introduction to be taken in ahead of me, I had passed the time in wondering what Mary would be like, for I had heard little good of her. She was said to believe herself to be the rightful queen of England, on the grounds that King Henry had not been legally married to Elizabeth’s mother, and the English courtiers, outraged that someone who was already a queen in both Scotland and France could want any more crowns, usually referred to her as a greedy little brat.

  Then, when at length a page came to say that she would receive me, we were led through an anteroom where some of her Scottish nobles were standing about, talking to each other, and my first impression of the Scottish court was not exactly one of civilized elegance. They all seemed to be bulky men with beards, and most of them were draped in thick, belted plaids or fur-edged cloaks. Like Bridget on Brockley’s pillion when we set out from Withysham, they reminded me of bears. They made Dale nervous, and as we passed them, she kept close to me.

  Greedy brat. Anteroom full of hirsute males. Unlikely visions danced in my head. But Mary Stuart was a grown woman and had been reared at the sophisticated court of France. She couldn’t be either hairy or furry, and surely she wouldn’t have a blatant resemblance to a grasping child. No. She would be intensely dignified and formal. After all, she was a queen. My first encounter with Elizabeth had been very formal indeed.

  But instead of showing us into an audience chamber to meet a bejeweled lady enthroned on a dais, the page led us into a pleasant parlor, with padded stools and window seats, and cushions everywhere. The only fur was in the form of the rugs on the floor. A good fire sent waves of heat through the room, and Mary herself, seated at a little distance from it, was embroidering and talking quietly in company with a couple of young women, while two men—one small and ugly, with a grotesquely big nose and large dark eyes under heavy lids, the other tall and handsome, but both beautifully dressed—stood nearby, tuning lutes.

  A group of other men, also much better dressed than the gathering in the anteroom, stood by a window, looking out over the town and talking and the words hawking party drifted toward me as I entered.

  “Madame de la Roche!” announced the page. Dale and I both curtsied, but Mary had risen at once, handed her embroidery to the young girl on her right, and was advancing with hands outstretched.

  “Madame! I am most happy to see you!” She spoke to me in French. “No, no, please get up!” She raised me to my feet. She was far taller than I was but as graceful and pliant as a sapling; she didn’t tower over people but leaned benevolently down to them. Turning her head, she addressed the second young woman, who had very sparkling eyes and was by far the livelier-looking of the two girls. Still in French, she said: “Mary, take Madame de la Roche’s maid to the women’s chamber and see that she is looked after. Madame, come and sit beside me. This is such a pleasure.”

  It was genuine. There was no doubt about it. She really was glad to see me; my arrival really was a pleasure. I was handed into a seat and I sat down bemusedly, because if all this unaffected charm had come as a surprise, Mary Stuart’s appearance was an even bigger one.

  I had not thought she would have a family resemblance to her cousin Elizabeth.

  It was mainly a resemblance of coloring, for she had far more inches than Elizabeth, and she lacked the long, pointed chin that made Elizabeth’s face look so much like a shield, behind which whatever Elizabeth was thinking could be concealed. Mary’s childlike oval features, on the contrary, offered all her moods and thoughts openly for inspection.

  But like me, Mary was a widow and she was wearing black, which threw the clear pallor of her complexion into contrast. That fine pale skin was just like Elizabeth’s. So was the light red hair arranged in bright waves in front of the lace-edged cap, and if Elizabeth’s eyes were not so markedly almond-shaped, they were exactly the same shade of golden brown.

  I hadn’t expected any of that. No, indeed. Feeling as though the breath had been knocked clean out of me, I tried to be attentive as introductions were made, in a curious mingling of French and Scots-cum-English. The girl to whom she had passed her embroidery was her dear friend Mary Seton, who, I realized, was Lady Simone’s kinswoman. The other young lady, the lively one with the sparkling eyes, who had taken Dale off with her, was Mary Livingstone.

  “Who is to be married next month, the first of my dear Maries to wed,” said Mary Stuart, as merrily and confidingly as any girl hoping to dance at the nuptials of a friend. “I ha
ve four Maries altogether,” she added, “at least, in Scots and English they are all called Mary, like myself, but in French we say Marie, and here in Scotland, the word Marie means a maid of honor. So I call my dear girls my four Maries. It is a play on words. Mary Fleming is at a music lesson and Mary Beaton is at my behest taking medicine and soup to a sick guest. These northern winters cause so many agues and fevers.”

  She held out her hand to one of the men with the lutes, the handsome one. “This young gentleman is a visitor from England, Henry Lord Darnley, a cousin of mine and most welcome to my court.” She wasn’t using the royal plural, I noticed. Darnley, bowing to me with a delightful smile, said: “This is such a pleasure, madam,” and I rose to make a correct curtsy to him. I had glimpsed him before at Elizabeth’s court, when he came there with his mother, Lady Lennox, who was not only a cousin of Elizabeth’s but also had the reputation of being the most ambitious woman in England. She had long harbored dreams of marrying him to Mary Stuart if she could. Now, the English government had decided to let him have his chance.

  I wondered what Mary had made of him so far. He was elegantly tailored, his blue velvet doublet fitting across his broad shoulders with the perfection of a skin, not a wrinkle to be seen. His manners were polished, but now that I saw him at close quarters, I noticed that his good looks had one flaw. His ears were so pointed that they gave him an oddly pagan appearance, as though he were a faun out of Greek legend. I found it difficult not to stare at those ears.

  They didn’t seem to worry Mary. However, as yet, she appeared to regard him as just a straightforward visitor. Her gaze didn’t linger on him, but moved on at once to the small, ugly man, whom she introduced as David Riccio, new to her court, her recently appointed secretary for French correspondence and already one of her favorite musicians. Riccio also bowed over my hand and greeted me in a marked Italian accent. Well, Mary had spent most of her life in Europe and European influence was to be expected in her circle.