I would leave it to Rob to question the Thursbys and Hamish Fraser and arrest them if he felt it right. If this were the answer to Edward’s death, then Rob could have the credit for finding it. Perhaps that would mend the breach between us.
19
The Uncouth Wooing
We left St. Margaret’s the next day, a Tuesday, once more riding our own horses. We announced that we were off to London, waved good-bye, rode away, and as soon as we were well out of sight, turned north instead of south and made for Edinburgh. The weather stayed dry and we were there by midday on Thursday, which gave us time to look for lodgings. I didn’t wish to go back to Holyrood, nor did I think it right to lodge with the Keiths or Macnabs or even in the place where we had stayed before, because they all had links to the Thursbys. It would be best, I thought, if the Thursbys didn’t learn where I was. Brockley had duly tried to find out what he could about Hamish Fraser, and he said that Hamish was regarded by his fellow servants as a thoroughly dutiful steward. I didn’t want him creeping in at my window with a thoroughly dutiful blade in his hand.
We found lodgings in the house of a merchant. It was as plainly furnished as most houses in Edinburgh seemed to be, except for Lady Simone Dougal’s, but the fires were good and our room had both a box bed and a four-poster. The Brockleys could have the box bed, I said.
I had to send Brockley to Holyrood anyway, because I wanted to see Rob Henderson. He came back, however, with a long face. “The queen’s gone to Stirling, madam, and Lord Darnley’s with her and Master Henderson, being part of his suite . . .”
“Has gone to Stirling too, I suppose,” I said. “Yes, I see.” The three of us were all together in our hired chamber, Dale, who was tired, resting on the box bed, with the door to it open, while I sat on the window seat, where I had been passing the time with a little embroidery until Brockley’s return. I had put it down on my lap while I listened to Brockley’s report and now, studying his face, it struck me that Brockley looked almost as tired as Dale. For the first time ever, I thought: he’s growing older. When I first met him, over four years ago now, his hair had been brown and wiry, with only a few silver threads at the temples. Now the silver had scattered itself all through the brown, and his hairline had receded still farther from his high forehead.
“Brockley,” I said on impulse, “how old are you?”
If the question surprised him, he didn’t show it. “I shall be forty-eight years old in May. Fran will be the same age in August.”
“Sit down,” I said, indicating a settle. “You look exhausted. I’m sorry, Brockley. I’ve been driving you too hard as well as Dale.”
“I’m fit enough, madam,” said Brockley, slightly aggrieved. “I wouldn’t like to join an army and go on campaign, I admit that, but I can still do whatever you’re likely to want of me.”
All servants grew nervous when their employers began to imply that they were past their best but neither Dale nor Brockley had anything to fear from me. I looked from Brockley, now seated on the settle, with one brown-hosed ankle over the other knee, to Dale, propped on her elbow on the box bed, and thought: it’s true what everyone has been telling me. I should give up this way of life and give my servants an easier time. And for their sakes and mine, I should find another husband.
I only wished that something in me didn’t shrink from the prospect. It wasn’t only because my bereaved heart had not yet healed from Matthew’s loss—or even, I sometimes thought, from the earlier loss of Gerald. There was something else. Meg’s birth had been difficult, and since then, I had had two failures, one of which had almost killed me. I did not want to face that battlefield again. There is a widespread belief that all women so passionately desire babies that they are indifferent to the dangers. It isn’t true. I was anything but indifferent.
“I will always look after you two,” I said gently. And then, of course, I added: “How far away is Stirling, I wonder?”
• • •
Our landlord’s name was Master Alexander Muir. He was a widower, though he had several children at home. He was a well-fed, well-dressed man, and he made his living by importing furs from Norway and Sweden (a benefit to us because we had warm fur rugs for our beds). Later that afternoon, he invited me to his firelit parlor for what he called a welcoming dram, by which he meant a glass of the amber-colored spirit that the Scots call whiskey. During my time in Scotland, I got used to it, and I grant you that nothing warms you better on a cold day, but it was so fiery that I always coughed at the first mouthful. Having got over this stage, I seized the chance to ask him if he knew how to get to Stirling.
“Stirling? It’s away up at the head of the firth, thirty miles and a bit, as the crow flies. It’s a guid place for trade. I’ve a hoose there and I have my captains put in there as often as not. It’d tak ye no more nor a day to get there on horseback, or ye micht go by water . . .”
I opened my mouth to ask for more details, but before I could speak, a brisk hammering on the street door interrupted us. Master Muir looked annoyed. “Now who might that be? I’m expecting nae callers this afternoon. On Thursdays after dining, I work in ma coontin’ hoose, always, and mostly I’m still there at this hoor . . .”
A maidservant appeared at the parlor door and said something. She spoke broad Scots, and as so often, I couldn’t understand it, but Master Muir at once rose to his feet and said: “Well, bring him in, then!” The maidservant bobbed and disappeared, coming back a moment later with, to my surprise and disquiet, Sir Brian Dormbois.
Dormbois acknowledged Master Muir with a nod and made straight for me, hands outstretched. “Madame de la Roche! I heard you were back in Edinburgh, for your man called at Holyrood today, did he not, inquiring for Master Henderson. One of my own men was by and realized who he was. But why are you here and not at Holyrood? The queen has received you; there’d be no difficulty . . .”
“Madame de la Roche?” said Master Muir, eyeing me with doubt. “I understood that ye were Mistress Blanchard.”
“I’ve been married twice,” I said. “I sometimes use my first husband’s name when I wish for privacy. I am in Edinburgh on a very private matter, which is also why I didn’t seek shelter at Holyrood.”
“This lady is known to and approved by Her Majesty Queen Mary,” said Dormbois brusquely. “And now, Master Muir, I wish to speak with her alone.”
Whereupon, Alexander Muir, substantial merchant (in every sense of the word), paterfamilias, and no doubt a prominent citizen of Edinburgh, quitted his own parlor like a meek lamb.
“You’ve just ordered him out of a room in his own house!” I said in amazement.
“He respects my reputation,” said Dormbois. “I am known to have a short temper, a ready fist, and a sharp blade always to hand. I also buy furs from him, and there’s no respect like that of a merchant for a good customer.” Dormbois favored me with one of his spectacular grins.
“Would you assault a man for staying put in his own private parlor?”
“Aye, if necessary. But enough of that. May I sit?”
“Please do. It is Master Muir’s parlor, not mine.”
He sat down on a settle near me. “These lodgings are not too bad, I’m glad to see,” he remarked. “As comfortable as anywhere in Edinburgh, I fancy.”
“Yes, indeed.”
A silence fell. Outside, although sunset was more than an hour away, the sky was dimming with the approach of rain. The parlor faced north and was shadowy enough at the best of times; now it was so dark that only the firelight let me see Dormbois’s face. His eyes were fixed on me with a searching look, which I found so disturbing that when at length I felt that the silence had lasted long enough, I said: “What is it?”
“I’m wondering what words to use to ask a question and what you’ll say in answer.”
“Should you not just ask the question and see?” I said uneasily.
He gazed at me for a few more silent moments and then said: “God knows . . .” and stopped.
/> “God knows what, Sir Brian?”
“What’s going on in your mind and why I feel like this! About a woman like you! You’ve a tongue like the edge of a saw . . .”
Matthew had called me Saltspoon because he said my conversation had so much salt on it. In my head, I heard him whisper it as he had so often done in the darkness and intimacy of the night, and I was shaken to the depths of me. Matthew. Oh, Matthew . . . !
Not for a sackful of gold would I have shared the darling secret of that pet name with Dormbois, who now said harshly: “You’re not listening!”
“I’m sorry. Please go on. I’ve a tongue like the edge of a saw . . . ?”
“Aye. You have. You can speak words to tear the spirit, and all said as sweet as if you were asking a guest to sit down and take a dram, while you help him off with his boots.”
“If you tried to drink whiskey while someone was pulling your boots off, I think you might spill it.”
“Hell and damnation! You’re doing it again! And every time you do it, my heart turns somersaults and I can scarcely keep my hands off you and I don’t know whether it’s to throttle or to . . . hold you to me till you melt right into me and we’re one for the rest of our lives. Will you wed wi’ me, Madame de la Roche?”
“Will I . . . ?”
“I’m offering you my hand in marriage and my name. You’ll be Lady Brian Dormbois, of Roderix Fort, and I’ll not keep you from your home in the south, either. We can go there each winter and keep Christmas there, if that’s what you’d like. I’ll treat your daughter as mine and find her a nobleman to marry when the time comes. There’s something else that I need to tell you, to show my good faith, but I hope it’ll not make a difference. I’m no longer Catholic. So far I’ve kept up a pretense of it at court, so as not to upset the queen, though I’m open about it outside of the court and she’ll find out sooner or later. That will all just have to take its course. A year or more ago, I heard a sermon by John Knox that changed my mind. It has its advantages,” he said, his grin taking on a ferocious tinge. “The queen’s brother Moray is ardent for the Reformed faith as are many of the lords of her council. Do you mind on the hawking party, when you saw me come from the house, wrangling with my secretary, Father Bell?”
“Yes. You said he was reminding you of letters to be written, or something of that kind.”
“Aye. So I said, but the truth is, he was at me about my religion and my falling away, as he put it. He canna accept what I’ve done. He’s good to the Catholic folk on my land and he’s a good secretary so I keep him on, but there are times I get gey tired of listening to him, and more than once I’ve threatened to cast him off. He can marry us, though, if ye wish it, and minister to you with the mass and the like, once we are wed. I’ll not hinder your way of worship, never fear it. I’m no’ so extreme as Master Knox. I’ve not mentioned before that I was at the inquiry into your cousin’s death, since I’ve so far wanted you to think I was of your persuasion. But do you mind, at the inquiry, one of his friends pulled him down from the pulpit when he tried to take command?”
“Yes,” I said. “I thought, when we first met, that I’d seen you somewhere before. That was you, wasn’t it?”
“Aye. Knox can go too far, I grant you. He hates having a woman on the throne, too. I’ve no objection mysel’. To my mind, there’s a magic in women that can water a land, and make it prosper, if they use it right.”
I sat there blinking. Not knowing what to make of my silence, he added: “The time might come when I’d be glad of a home in the south, in Elizabeth’s country, maybe. It remains to be seen which way Scotland will go in the end, to the Romans or the Lutherans. But that’s a small thing and not why I’m seeking you in marriage. I’ve plenty to offer in return, to even up the balance, anyhow. I can give you jewels and fine clothes and good horses, all you could wish. I want you in my bed, Ursula de la Roche. Now, how do you answer?”
I said all the right things. It was a serious proposal and this was no time for clever replies. I said that I recognized that he had paid me a compliment and that I thanked him for it and did not underestimate the benefits he was offering. I pointed out that although it was true that I had a Sussex manor house, and came of a family with a tradition of court service, I nevertheless had no noble connections, such as he had. I reminded him that I was only a natural child, with no known father.
He began to brush this aside as unimportant but I hastened on, saying I had had no idea of the depth of his feelings and apologizing for having accidentally inspired them. I had not meant to do so. I was sorry to give him pain.
But, I said earnestly, I couldn’t marry him. I wasn’t ready yet to marry again, and I wanted to go back to my home and stay there. I didn’t want a life divided between homes more than four hundred miles apart.
“I feared ye’d say that,” he said. “Ye wouldna wed me even to learn who’d pointed the finger at Erichs, though ye say ye’re after the blood of whoever killed your cousin. But what if I name the man who ordered the killing? Not the name of the fellow who did the deed, no—but I know who ordered it.”
The room had now become very dark indeed, except for the flicker of the firelight. The rain had begun, pattering at first and then blowing against the window as a north wind began to gust. “And,” I said, “you’ll tell me if I agree to marry you?”
“Aye. Another inducement. It could count as an extra emerald pendant, maybe?”
“I have no need of it. I think I already know who it was,” I said.
He let out his breath in a long sigh. “I might have guessed that you would. Yes, I see.”
“I’m sorry. I’m really very sorry. I hope you find some more suitable lady—a Scottish lady—who can share your life with you. Sir Brian, I think you should go now.”
A little to my surprise, without further demur, he went, walking obediently out into the rain.
At that moment I felt genuinely sorry for him.
• • •
“I know, Dale,” I said as we trotted along a stretch of track flanked by heathery hillside, traveling northwest, bending our heads against a keen wind and hoping that we were on the right road for Stirling. We had occasionally passed other riders and people trudging sturdily on foot, but not many, and just here, the road was empty apart from ourselves. “But I promise,” I said, “once I have seen Master Henderson, we’ll leave for home. I’ll let him finish the investigating and bring my cousin’s killers to justice—if there is any, in this country.”
“And then we’ll go home, ma’am?”
“Yes. We will. We’ll be riding south in a few days now, and we won’t hurry. We’ll go by easy stages. We’ll be home for the best of the spring. After that, I don’t intend to go traveling anymore. Now what are you shaking your head for?”
“I’m sorry, ma’am. I didn’t mean to shake my head. I didn’t mean anything by it.”
“You mean,” I said resignedly, “that you don’t believe me. That you are quite certain that I shan’t be at home five minutes before I’ll be off again on another mad adventure.” I looked at Brockley, who was jogging on the other side of me, wearing a very large hat and looking unusually broad of chest. “And you,” I said, “are wearing your old helmet under that hat, and your old breastplate under your jacket. I didn’t even know you had them with you!”
“Stuffed into my shoulder bag, madam, from the outset,” said Brockley. “I’ve always heard that the north was wild. Now that we’re seemingly on the track of your cousin’s killers, I felt it was a good time to put them on. As for Fran’s doubts—forgive me, but they’re hardly to be wondered at. In view of the past.”
“I was younger then. I’m beginning to feel more staid as time goes on and I realize that I often ask too much of you, both of you. When we reach Withysham, we’ll stay there.”
“I should like to. The sooner we’re back at Withysham, the happier I’ll be. As steward, I shall find plenty of work waiting for me,” Brockley said. “There always
is in spring.”
“Yes, I know.” The three of us began to discuss Withysham, spring sowing, and an idea I had had for buying a new ram to improve our sheep flock. I spoke of my plan to find a tutor who could instruct Meg and myself in Greek, and a lady who could act as a companion for me. As we rode and talked, I scanned the terrain, wondering how many miles we still had to cover. We should be riding parallel to the firth, which ought to be somewhere over to the right, but the road was lowlying and the distance was hidden by folds of heathery hillside.
The firth was surely there, though, for now and then seagulls glided over from that direction, and the mewing of gulls mingled with the croak of a pair of ravens disturbed by our hoofbeats. Despite the cold, I wished that we were using the firth, that we had hired a boat and were going by water instead, but Brockley had been worried about leaving the horses in a strange livery stable (“You never know how careless they’ll be if you’re not there to keep an eye on things, madam”) and I myself had wanted to set out southward, straight after leaving Stirling, rather than return to Edinburgh to collect our mounts.
I was however finding the ride unusually arduous. We were burdened with our luggage, which meant bulging saddle-and shoulder bags, and also, I had been sleeping badly again, to the point that on the previous evening, Dale had given me another small dose of the poppy draft.
Queen Mary had provided a generous amount and we still had enough for several doses. I had therefore slept well enough the night before, but the fact is that although sick headaches do no lasting harm, they can leave you unsteady for a while, and my two attacks had been vicious. Despite the eight drugged hours just behind me, I was feeling as weary as I knew the Brockleys were. My grip on my saddle pommels wasn’t as secure as usual.
Brockley was also glancing about him while he talked, as if he too wanted to make out where the firth was. Then, in the midst of suggesting that the Withysham vicar ought to know Greek and might be able to recommend a tutor or even teach it himself, he suddenly stiffened and broke off, twisting in his saddle to look behind him. “There are riders behind us, madam, coming at a gallop. They’re catching up fast.”
A Pawn for a Queen: An Ursula Blanchard Mystery at Queen Elizabeth I's (Ursula Blanchard Mystery at Queen Elizabeth I's Court) Page 20