“The thing is, ma’am,” said Dale, becoming positively brisk, “we’re prisoners here and we’ve got to get out. Well, I’m ready. Even if we do have to knot the sheets together and let us ourselves down from that lamp bracket out there.”
“Dale!” I got up again and hugged her. “My dear Fran. My very dear Fran. No one ever had such a good friend. But I shan’t ask you to climb down any knotted sheets. We’d probably both break our necks and anyway, we’d still have two walls and gates between us and freedom. We could hardly try it in daylight and they bar the gates at night. But escape we must, somehow. You’re right there. Let me think.”
Dale said: “I wish they’d bring that wine. You could do with it, ma’am, and so could I.”
I looked listlessly around the room. It had been made ready for our return, the floor swept and a fire lit. It also contained a few things, including a backgammon set and a workbox, which hadn’t been there before. There was the chest that Dormbois had mentioned as well. I moved over to it and looked inside. Dresses and linen, as he had said, all of fine quality, and also some lengths of unused material. All were carefully folded and laid in dried lavender; Marguerite had no doubt had women attendants who had seen to that after she was gone. I pictured them, smoothing the lovely fabrics and maybe crying over them before they closed the chest. I hoped that Dormbois had let them take a few things for themselves, as mementos.
There was a jewel box in the chest as well, but I was in no mood to ooh and aah over jewelry. Closing the chest, I looked at the other things that had been provided for us. I wasn’t in the mood for backgammon, either, but I opened the workbox, which was made of sandalwood and was no doubt an import from some Far Eastern land. It contained needles, a little pair of shears, a good supply of silken and woolen thread in a choice of colors, and some folded papers, which when I opened them out turned out to be designs for embroidery.
“We certainly have occupation,” I said dryly. “We can amuse ourselves until tonight, but tonight . . .”
“You’re due, ma’am!” said Dale. “Tomorrow, for sure. Tell him it’s started. That’ll gain you some time. Oh, dear heaven, the linen squares were in my saddlebags that we’ve lost . . . oh, well, there’s linen in that chest. Let’s cut some of it up.”
We were engaged on this when at last the wine arrived, brought by Dormbois himself, who was not alone, but was accompanied by a short, dark-gowned man with a red face, whom I had seen before, although for a moment I couldn’t remember where. Dormbois, however, informed me.
“I’ve brought Father Bell to you,” he said in irritable tones. “He came to me and said he had heard there were ladies of his faith here in Roderix and should he no’ minister to them? Well, I said I’d not hinder you in matters of worship. Father Bell, this is Madame Ursula de la Roche.” He used my French title, ignoring my English one. “And this is her woman, of the same faith, nae doot. And here’s the wine I promised, ladies, to put some heart into you.”
He then sat down on a window seat and Father Bell regarded him with annoyance. “Sir, before I offer the consolations of the mass, which I wish to do, I must hear the confessions of these ladies.” Dale, who had a real loathing for what she called popish practices, bristled at my side, but I put a hand on her arm and gripped hard, keeping her quiet. From his voice, the priest wasn’t a Scot but more likely a well-educated Northumbrian. A man bred at Roderix Fort might have an unquestioning loyalty to Dormbois, but with luck, this man had not. “The confessional is secret,” he said to Dormbois. “I must ask you not to remain within hearing.”
“No, I cannot confess while Sir Brian can overhear,” I agreed smoothly. Dormbois stared at me, and I watched while it dawned on him just how embarrassing he would find such a confession.
“What are you about, cutting up that linen?” he demanded.
“Preparing to deal with the nature of women, Sir Brian. Forgive me for mentioning this before you, Father Bell. My nature, I’m afraid, has now manifested itself.”
Dormbois looked at me hard, as though trying to work out whether or not I was lying, but I simply stared back at him. “Don’t be too long over it,” he said to Father Bell, and withdrew. The priest watched him go and cocked his head to listen as Dormbois’s footsteps receded down the stairs.
Then, in a whisper, he said: “Madam. You have a manservant called Roger Brockley?”
“What? Yes, yes!”
“He’s my husband!” Dale gasped. “Is he all right?”
From within his robe, Bell drew out a small cylinder of paper and handed it to me. “This is from him. He needs your instructions. He is in my cottage. He turned to me as a man of God, hoping I wouldn’t fail him. He said that if I tried any double-dealing with him, he would kill me. He need not have worried. Sir Brian,” said the priest grimly, “is an apostate. I fear him, but I have little wish to help him in his present activities. Your man says that you ladies are prisoners against your will. He would be here himself, only he says Dormbois would recognize him. I supplied Master Brockley with writing materials.”
I unrolled the cylinder. Dale pressed close, to read it over my shoulder.
What a blessing, I thought, that Brockley was literate. He had learned his letters as a child and still wrote the hand he had been taught then, which was slow, simple, and legible.
And what it said was startling.
Mistress Blanchard:
I caught Fran’s horse and have your belongings safely. I rode the horse to Stirling but the queen and Darnley were away on a hunting trip and Master Henderson too and not expected back for three days. By chance, I met Adam Ericks at Stirling Castle. He is there with his master. He is very angry. He says he has recognized one of the men who urged him on to quarrel in the tavern and that this man serves Rene of Elbeouf and therefore is under the command of Sir Brian Dormbois.
This fellow told him (I think Ericks asks questions with fists and sword) that Dormbois ordered him to keep watch on Master Faldene when he arrived in Edinburgh, and see whom he met and where he went. He was given two companions to help him, strangers, not Scotsmen but English. Ericks now thinks it was Dormbois who told the authorities to seek out the tavern keeper and thus Dormbois who has tried to point him out as a murderer by night. Ericks also says you are surely at Roderix Fort and has told me where it is.
I am desperate with anxiety for both you and my wife. Are you still safe? How should I go about rescuing you? Do I go back to Stirling and wait for the queen’s return, or is there aught I can do here, and at once? I require your instructions.
I send you my duty as your servant and my hearty love to Fran. Tell her that I swear before God that we will be together again soon.
R.B.
I looked at Father Bell. “You realize that I have been brought here with a view to a forced marriage?”
“Yes, madam, so it is being said among the people in the cottages. These things happen in this wild place.”
“Will you help me?”
“As far as I can. I brought you the letter, did I not?”
“Then tell Brockley that we are both well. And tell him also—tell him—please take heed of this and repeat my words exactly . . .”
“Trust me, madam.”
“Tell him to seek help from Queen Mary as soon as he can but to avoid Master Henderson at all costs. Have you got that? And tell him—these very words, mark you—that the button belongs to Sir Brian Dormbois.”
“Ask help of Queen Mary as soon as may be but avoid Master Henderson at all costs. And the button belongs to Sir Brian Dormbois. I won’t ask you the meaning. There is more to this than appears on the surface, it would seem.”
“There is. But if you get that message safely to Brockley, I hope that rescue will come before long.”
After that, I made a confession of sorts, because Father Bell expected it. I had done the same thing when I lived in France with Matthew. Elizabeth was sometimes impatient with the fuss that people made over the difference between the old religion and the new.
It was nothing but a dispute about trifles, she said. I was inclined to agree.
In any case, since I had so little belief in a beneficent God, it scarcely mattered which rituals I took part in, for I usually felt that I was only paying lip service. I therefore went through the form of confession, though with caution, for I did not want to involve this decent man too deeply in the business of my cousin’s violent death.
I did not mention the bargain I had made with Dormbois; only that I had been constrained to spend the night with him, had given in to preserve a sense of dignity, but felt it still to be a sin. I said I might have to do the same again before I was freed, and would prefer not to hear mass until after my release. I also soothed Dale’s tension by explaining that she was in fact of the Reformed faith and would not confess.
After that, we all shared the wine, and when I had let Dale read the letter for herself and gaze awhile at Brockley’s writing, we thought it wise to burn it in our hearth. Father Bell once more repeated the message I had given him for Brockley. Then Dormbois returned.
“Oh, ma’am,” Dale whispered as soon as Dormbois had escorted the priest downstairs. “There’s hope now. I feel there’s hope.”
“So do I,” I said, and at that point a vague ache in the lower abdomen, which had been pulling at my attention for a good half hour, increased to a pitch that was unmistakable. “And there’s one thing,” I said cheerfully. “I think I really do need those linen squares now. What a mercy. I can keep Dormbois at bay for a while without bothering to lie.”
• • •
Dinner was brought to us in the parlor, and after that, we examined some of Marguerite’s gowns. They were of very good quality. They were all too small either for Dale or for me, but not by much. Since it would indeed help to pass the time, we each chose a gown and started to let out seams.
And then came the confrontation that I had known I must face sooner or later. Dormbois came back to talk to me.
“I am sorry for deceiving you.” He stood in front of me, feet apart, a brown fur-edged jacket swinging from his wide shoulders. But the front of it was open and I could still see those buttons, and the space where the missing one had been. I pushed my needle into my work and sat with my hands clasped, wondering frantically what Brockley was doing now.
“At least,” said Dormbois, “I find you calm and occupied. It gives me hope that you are thinking now with a clearer mind.”
“I am thinking only of the work I am doing,” I said in a trembling voice. And then added: “Needlework interests me. That is a well-cut doublet you are wearing. Did an Edinburgh tailor make it for you?”
“No. Marguerite made it, embroidery and all,” said Dormbois. “New it is not, but I am fond of it. Like the earthenware goblets, it is something that no one else has copied. Never mind my doublet. I didnae come for small talk. I hoped that there would be no need for the violence this morning, that I’d win you in those sweet hours we had together. I’m sorry I didnae succeed. Now, pay heed. I’ll not trouble you at night until nature’s run her course, but don’t think to hold me off longer. You’ll do better to make terms with the future, Ursula. Why not? It’s live with me as my concubine, or else as my wife. As my wife, you’ll be a highly respected lady and no one’ll think the worse of you because your husband won you by capture. Many a girl that lacks your magic’ll envy you and maybe go to some auld witch for a love potion to get some fellow to care for her as much. What’s the use of saying you don’t want to marry again? The time has to come and it’s against nature to defy it.”
I said nothing. I had put my theory to the test but the last faint hope that he was not guilty had gone. There was no possibility that someone else, wearing a doublet like his, had been in Edward’s room that night. It had been Dormbois and no other. Dale, seated apart and still stitching industriously, had understood too. She let out an inadvertent snort and Dormbois glared at her.
“Make that woman of yours know her place,” he said to me. “It’s no’ for the likes of her to comment. Listen, lassie. You’re no fool but a woman of the world, with a daughter. What of her?”
I was jolted into speech. “Meg? She’s safe in Sussex!”
“Aye, but reputations travel. One day she’ll be old enough to wed, but who’ll wed a maiden whose mother is living with a Scottish laird, and they’ve half a dozen children and no bond of marriage? When the first bairn is coming, I think you’ll gladly take me for your lawful husband.”
I went on staring at him and he grew impatient. “Why the big wide eyes? It’s a natural thing between a man and a woman. As well you know. How else did your Meg come into being?”
In my mind, a door opened, narrowly. Peering through the chink I could see a faint hope. As well as a vista of fear.
“If it’s children you want,” I said, “you would do best to find another lady. I had great trouble to bring Meg into the world. Since then I have miscarried once and had one stillbirth, which almost killed me. It isn’t only grief for Matthew that makes me unwilling to marry again. I want to live, Sir Brian. Force me into bearing your bairn as you call it, and you might find yourself mourning for me as you did for your first wife. She died in childbed, did she not?”
“You keep comparing yourself to Jeannie and Marguerite, but you are nothing like either of them. Jeannie was too young. You’re a woman grown. Most women have their bairns safe enough, or none of us would be here. Some trouble they have, but that’s the payment for the sin of Eve. You may have suffered, but you didn’t die, did you? Now what’s going through that elusive mind of yours? Something is. I see it in your eyes.”
I was thinking about Elizabeth. Elizabeth feared marriage because she feared to give herself into a man’s power. She had told me as much. But thinking now of her slender, fragile form, I found myself suddenly wondering if the danger of childbearing was part of that fear as well.
After returning from France, I had gathered from her other ladies that the council had once tried to urge her toward marriage by begging her to imagine the comfort and delight that beholding an imp of her own would bring, whereupon she had lost her temper with them and with tears of rage in her eyes shouted at them to be silent. The ladies knew about it because some of them were the wives of council members and their husbands had told them. Everyone, man and woman alike, assumed that the tears were born of temper but had they, perhaps, been caused by terror? Elizabeth feared death more than most, for she had experienced the shadow of the ax, and childbearing had killed two of her stepmothers. I remembered my own perilous confinement in France and I understood.
But Dormbois didn’t. “I’ll leave you now. You need time to settle and to think. Sweetheart . . .”
I ground my teeth.
“. . . sweetheart, don’t let it come to force. It didn’t last night; don’t let it be so next time, either. I want to love you, nothing more. Breeding bairns, that’s part of it, but that comes later. For now, it’s my sweet lady in my arms that I want and I’ve all the world to offer her. Only, I’m not a man to say no to. So—think well, my dear.”
He was gone. I put my face into my hands and Dale said: “Oh, dear Lord, this is terrible. What are we to do?”
“We’ve a few days,” I said. “Five—I sometimes go on for six. I doubt if that will help, though. Brockley said the queen would be gone for three days. Does that include yesterday or not? Not that it matters. She’ll have to start by ordering my release and then Dormbois will say no, and she’ll have to mount a siege. If she thinks I’m worth the effort, that is! Oh, I could kill Dormbois! Dear heaven, has he no sense of honor?”
23
Loading the Dice
I shared the big bed with Dale that night and I slept, because I was too worn-out to do anything else. My cramps had passed by then. In the morning, Dormbois did not appear. Breakfast was brought. Then Dale and I went on altering Marguerite’s clothes.
As we worked, we talked. I wondered if the letters I had sent through Henderson had been received at Fal
dene, by Mattie at Thamesbank and Sybil Jester in Cambridge, and whether any replies would ever reach me. “Am I truly cut off from the world in this place?” I said to Dale. “Surely, Queen Mary will try to set me free, and if she doesn’t, well, when Cecil and Queen Elizabeth find out, they will make representations . . .”
“I hope so, ma’am,” said Dale unhappily.
“I know,” I said. “But we’re so far from home!”
Dinner came: mutton stew with dumplings and bread, and a kind of tart made of thick pastry and filled with cherries preserved in wine. The flavors were pleasant but much more of this heavy fare with no exercise, I thought, and Dale and I would both have upset stomachs.
When the dishes had been removed, I suggested that we should walk about the room, but when we were doing so, our attention was caught by voices below, and we went to look out of the window.
Two visitors were crossing the courtyard from the gate, escorted by two of Dormbois’s plaid-draped soldiers. One of them was Father Bell. The other was Brockley.
• • •
Ten minutes later, Fraser appeared to say that I was wanted in the hall. “And ye’re woman had best come too, this being a place of men otherwise.”
He was polite enough to let us go down first. We arrived in the comfortless hall to find Dormbois there, with the visitors. The two men who had brought them in were standing back, but with an air of being on guard. All the faces were serious, to the point of grimness. Brockley was holding a piece of rolled parchment.
“Ah. Madame de la Roche. Come here.” Dormbois beckoned me. “This concerns you.” He looked at Brockley. “Speak your piece, man.”
“I come as a herald,” said Brockley. His plain brown clothes were splashed with mud from much riding and his face was both tired and unshaven, but he held himself with great dignity. Brockley had presence and knew how to use it.
“Madam, I have of course asked for your release and that of my wife,” he said. His eyes went briefly to Dale, and he smiled at her before continuing. “This was refused, which I expected. But I did not come principally for that purpose, but as an emissary from someone else.”
A Pawn for a Queen: An Ursula Blanchard Mystery at Queen Elizabeth I's (Ursula Blanchard Mystery at Queen Elizabeth I's Court) Page 24