The Reluctant Assassin

by FIONA BUCKLEY

  ‘Take your time,’ Brockley said to me. ‘We all want to know what happened to you after that but you must speak only when you’re ready.’

  ‘Brockley!’ My faint had blurred my mind for a moment but it was clearing now. ‘Brockley, when I went out yesterday, you were going to see Sir Edward Heron and then going on to Woking to see Miller’s mother. What happened? Did you see Heron? This is important! Tell me quickly!’

  ‘I saw him, yes. But you know what he’s like, madam!’

  I certainly did. Sir Edward Heron, Sheriff of Surrey, had once had me accused of witchcraft. I had proved him wrong then, and had proved him wrong on another occasion since. He regarded me as a nuisance of a woman who ought to stay out of public matters.

  ‘What happened?’ I demanded.

  ‘Heron said it was sure to be a matter of a ransom demand and we should wait for that. There would be instructions about how to pay, and that might give us a chance of laying an ambush. We should let him know when the demand arrived. He had a great air of being busy and, well …’

  ‘Looking as though he was thinking: that woman again! I can imagine.’ I had steadied myself by now and was able to sit up. ‘And then you came home and found I was missing as well as Harry.’

  ‘Yes. And I didn’t feel inclined to go back and report on your disappearance as well. I was more concerned – we were all more concerned – with looking for you!’ Brockley looked awkward. ‘Perhaps I should have gone back to him, but he made me angry.’

  ‘Thank God for that. Brockley, we must not involve Heron any further. Now. I have something to tell you – all of you – that will horrify you, but it is also something that you must not repeat. Never a word outside these walls or to anyone except each other. Do you all understand? Oh, dear God!’

  I had remembered something else. ‘Brockley, when Harry was lost, we called at White Towers, looking for him! They lent men to help us search. Did they do that again when I was lost? Brockley, whatever happens, they mustn’t go talking about it either, to anyone!’

  ‘I don’t think they will, madam. They did help us look for you, but I warned them not to spread the word. Knowing the things you have sometimes been caught up in – well, I felt we should be circumspect, until we knew more. I told them so.’

  ‘Thank God. But I must make sure. My writing things,’ I said. ‘Paper, ink, pen. I must write a note and you must take it to them. At once!’

  A writing set was brought and I wrote the note. My hand shook as I did it. When I finished, and sealed it, I gave it to Brockley. ‘Please go as soon as I have explained what all this is about. It’s dreadful.’ I looked earnestly at my assembled household. ‘I know I can’t keep it a secret from you. I can only beg you to keep it a secret from the rest of the world until, well, until there’s no longer any need.’

  Every head nodded and I knew I could rely on them. I trusted my household. They all knew of the strange duties I sometimes carried out and there was no one now in my employment whose discretion I doubted.

  I took a deep breath and then, as succinctly as possible, I described my experiences, and the monstrous choice that now faced me. There were horrified gasps and exclamations of Poor Master Harry!

  ‘It’s a blessing,’ I said, ‘that Sir Edward did not start a hue and cry. I can’t impress on you too strongly that my captors warned me that if there were any attempt to pursue them or hunt for Harry in any public way, they would carry out their threat to – sell him.’

  I scanned their faces. Many had gone white. Sybil looked ready to faint. Dale and Margery were both crying. I said: ‘Harry’s captors do realize that I can’t do anything unless I can get into Sheffield and to do that I must first visit the court and see Walsingham. I can seek him out without taking a risk, which means that I can ask his advice. In a way, my captors have put themselves in a cleft stick. They want me to murder Mary Stuart and I can’t do that without entering Sheffield and I can’t enter Sheffield without talking to Walsingham. Brockley, what happened about Mrs Miller?’

  ‘I went on to Woking as instructed,’ Brockley said. ‘Laurence Miller’s mother is a partial invalid, looked after by her servants, a married couple. Miller hadn’t been there at all, lately. She hadn’t seen him for weeks. He was lying. Then I returned here and found everything in chaos. You and Philip were both missing and your horses had come home without you.’

  I found myself drooping again, with exhaustion truly setting in. Sybil said: ‘Ursula, you must rest. Let us help you to bed. We can all discuss what to do, after you wake up.’

  ‘I’ll make a potion for you.’ That was old Gladys. ‘All-heal and camomile, and I’ll put it in wine. You’ll be off like a baby in no time, indeed.’

  Brockley, putting my note to White Towers in his belt scrip, bade me farewell and departed. I let myself be taken care of. Sybil gave me an arm upstairs and she and Dale got me out of my crumpled gown – it was a durable riding dress but two journeys wrapped in a carpet and a trudge through the woods had done it no good – and slipped a clean nightgown over my head. They helped me into my bed. Cool sheets and a cool pillow received me and Gladys appeared with her promised medicine which I gratefully drank.

  Dale said she would stay in the room and watch over me. She would leave the bedcurtains open so that she could see me, she said, but would close the window curtains. I nodded. I closed my eyes. And was gone.

  When I woke, the light that had been filtering through the window curtains, which were not thick, had faded, by which I knew that several hours had passed. Dale was still there. As I stirred, she rose from her seat and came to me. ‘Are you better now, ma’am? Rested?’

  ‘Yes.’ I even felt hungry. The body, it seems, persists in demanding that its needs be catered for, whatever else may be happening. I threw back my covers. ‘I must dress. I need … what time is it?’

  ‘Not quite supper-time. About six of the clock. Brockley is back. He delivered the note safely.’

  ‘That’s a relief,’ I said. ‘I must dress and then I need some food, something quick. And then, I will have things to talk about and decide.’

  Before long, with cold meat pie and some spiced wine custard inside me, I was seated in the little parlour, along with the Brockleys, Sybil, and Gladys. I hadn’t actually asked Gladys to be present; she had invited herself. But then, that was Gladys. I was used to it even though I knew she was liable to foretell disaster, whatever decisions were taken.

  ‘I said when I got up that there would be things to decide, but of course, it doesn’t amount to much.’ I told them. ‘My captors expect me to go to Walsingham and indeed, I don’t see what else I can do. I must have his advice! He won’t start a hue and cry. He’ll understand why he mustn’t. I don’t like Walsingham very much but I can trust him for that. He likes to work in the dark, anyway.’

  ‘Will you seek his permission to go to Sheffield?’ asked Brockley.

  ‘I will have to ask him that. But I must do something! I can’t abandon Harry. And I can’t see either how I can possibly do what these people have told me to do … well, as I said, I need Walsingham’s advice.’

  ‘If I were you,’ said Brockley, ‘I would go to the queen first. She is caught up in this, after all. It’s her possible marriage with Alençon that is at the heart of it all. Your captors seem to think that the marriage would be a good thing.’

  ‘Yes, and I don’t agree with them, though it’s her business, not mine,’ I said. ‘That doesn’t mean I don’t realize that Mary is a menace. She’s been that for years! But to … to murder her! I can’t!’

  ‘Maybe someone else could,’ said Dale, quite matter-of-factly. I supposed that over the years, my people had become inured to strange and even violent situations. From her tone, Dale might just as well have been saying, Perhaps, this time, someone else could make the pastry, rub the mare down, bring in the washing. ‘Maybe Walsingham could arrange it,’ she said. ‘It wouldn’t matter who, surely, ma’am.’

  ‘I’m quite
sure he’d do no such thing!’ I said. ‘He’s a man for the law. Really, Dale!’

  ‘It’d be a way out,’ remarked Gladys.

  I began to fear that contact with me and my curious calling had contaminated my associates. More desperately than ever, I needed advice, but it had better not be theirs.

  ‘I will have to see him, or the queen, or both. Yes, that’s clear enough. I’ll go to the court tomorrow. I believe the queen is at Greenwich just now.’

  ‘There’s something else,’ said Brockley sturdily.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Well, wouldn’t it be best of all if we found Harry ourselves and rescued him? I think we should try.’

  ‘They said they had ways of keeping watch on me,’ I said.

  ‘Are you thinking of Laurence Miller?’ Brockley asked.

  ‘Yes, I am. Though we can’t be sure. He lied about Woking but maybe he really was just seeing a paramour in Guildford.’ I rubbed my forehead. My brain felt as though it needed encouragement. ‘He can’t keep a very close watch on me, can he? He doesn’t live in this house, or even come close to it very often.’

  ‘No. But he knows those who do. He can learn, in a casual fashion, a good deal about your movements. He may well be our man.’ Brockley ran a tired hand over his gold-freckled forehead. ‘If only we could be more certain. Bullying him won’t work. I’ve already tried it! I will try to make sure someone keeps an eye on him.’

  ‘Well, he’s welcome to know that I have gone to Greenwich,’ I said. ‘Walsingham is usually with the court; if Miller is a spy, and through him that news gets back to Miller’s unpleasant employers, they’ll suppose I went to see him to arrange a visit to Sheffield and that’s what they want. If I go to Greenwich, that should keep Harry safe for the time being, at least. Let Miller, if he is the spy, do all the reporting he likes. For now.’

  ‘Tell me, madam,’ said Brockley, ‘how long was the journey between the house where you were held and our woodlands? And could you sense the direction? That might give us a start.’

  We mulled that over, but without any very definite result. Gladys gave me another potion that night, and once more, I slept.

  In the morning, with Brockley as my escort, and Dale once more uneasily perched on Firefly’s pillion, I set off for Greenwich.

  I was not expected and so could not be sure that we could be accommodated. Therefore, we found an inn not far from Greenwich Palace, left the horses there and continued on foot. We found that I had guessed right. As the queen’s half-sister, I was a privileged person to some extent, but no, there was no accommodation for us, and worse, neither Elizabeth nor Walsingham could see me yet, either. The French embassy had arrived, complete with a full suite of aides and servants, and were still with the court.

  I decided to see Elizabeth first, if I could, but I had to wait another three days before I was granted an audience.

  On the morning of that third day, I saw the French visitors take their leave, by river, a major operation with a string of ornamental barges and numerous servants carrying baggage down from the palace. On the following morning, a message came that the queen would receive me. She saw me alone, as she usually did. Dale and Brockley were left to wait in an anteroom while she had me shown into her private study. It overlooked the river, though the leaded window had such thick glass panes that it had to be open before one could see out of it. There were numerous candle-stands, so that Elizabeth could work there after dark if she so wished. There were some tapestries, and a spinet, and a polished wooden floor, and a settle as well as a desk and some chairs. She sat down on the settle and I remained standing until she waved me to a chair.

  ‘Well, Ursula. What news? I gather that you have been persistent in seeking to visit me, so I take it that something is on your mind.’

  I told her my tale. She listened without interrupting, her eyes searching my face as though trying to read more in it than I was telling her with my tongue. When I reached the dreadful errand that was the price of Harry’s freedom, she nodded.

  ‘I wondered what was coming. It seemed plain, before you actually said it, that Harry was to be a lever to force something on you. I thought at first that they were going to ask you to assassinate me! So their target is Mary. Well, well.’

  She got up and walked restlessly about the room. I twisted on my chair, to follow her with my eyes. Once again, she was wearing loose, informal clothes, but her skirts, of ash-grey brocade, swept the floor as she walked.

  Abruptly, she said: ‘Mary is a fool, with her ambitions. Her health is not good. Suppose she did manage to have me murdered and managed to seize my throne? How long would she live to occupy it and who is to come after her when she dies? Unlike me, she has an heir of her own body, a lawful son. But he is in Scotland, being brought up as a Protestant and at the moment he is my heir as well as hers. What use is Mary to the Catholic world if she cannot pass her religion on to her successor? The woman has no sense at all.’

  ‘But she does still have her ambitions,’ I said grimly.

  Elizabeth was silent then for some moments. She went to the window and pushed it open, letting in the smell of the river and the cry of gulls that had flown upstream from the sea. There were always ships at anchor close to the queen’s riverside palaces, and where there are ships, there are pickings in the water for hungry seabirds. I watched my sister in silence, wondering what thoughts were in her head.

  Eventually, without turning round, she said: ‘The French embassy are anxious for the marriage to go ahead, and they did indeed express fears about Mary. Suppose the wretched woman did seize my throne. She would need outside help, which has to mean Spanish help. Which would mean war. She could not take the crown without it. And suppose she then reigned, re-imposed the Catholic religion on England, and in due course died, as we all must. What do you imagine would happen then, Ursula?’

  I was puzzled. ‘Her son would be her heir.’

  ‘Her Protestant son. How would Spain react to that, I wonder?’

  ‘Dear God!’ I suddenly saw what she meant. ‘I think Spain would intervene. If King Philip were still alive, he might try to take England over himself. But if Mary’s son James had supporters … there would be another war!’

  ‘There would indeed.’ Elizabeth swung round and looked at me with an extraordinary triumph in her golden-brown eyes and suddenly I had a horrible feeling that I had somehow walked into a trap.

  ‘My marriage with Francis would be a protection against Mary,’ Elizabeth said. ‘But he seems to feel that if he pursues the matter, he would need protection against her. The French government seem to agree – the embassy I have just hosted asked innumerable questions about her; how close she is kept, whether visitors or letters or gifts are allowed to her. De Simier has returned to France. His visit here was private and he left before the French embassy arrived – to tell his master what you told me at our last meeting. As I said, his government want the match but it remains to be seen whether Francis will come to me – or not.’

  ‘Do you want him to?’ I found myself asking.

  She had turned back to the window. ‘One cause of anxiety is removed. It is no longer at all likely that I can conceive a child. That time is probably past. I am forty-seven and already … well, shall we say that certain things have largely ceased though not entirely as yet. That being so, one of the reasons for me to marry is, well, fading, and I wonder now whether Francis will wish to pursue his suit, with or without the threat of Mary, for I believe that he wished for an heir. As do my council,’ she added dryly, ‘but they are now resigned to disappointment.’

  I said nothing. Still gazing out at the river, she said: ‘I miss Francis. He is the most interesting, amusing, intelligent man I have ever known and he is attractive. Despite his pockmarks, he has magnetism. In me, he rekindled a fire that I thought was dead for ever. It seems that there was still an ember and he has blown it once more into flame. And yet …’

  She was implying that there had been an earl
ier flame. I did not ask who had lit that, for I knew. It had been Robin Dudley, of course, now the Earl of Leicester, handsome, flamboyant, adventurous, her playmate in childhood and still her best friend. For the first time, I found myself wondering whether, if only his wife Amy had died naturally, in her bed, Elizabeth might after all have married him.

  I doubted it, though. She feared marriage. Her father, King Henry, had condemned her mother to death, and later on, her young stepmother Katherine Howard. Elizabeth had been too young to understand her mother’s terror, but she had witnessed Katherine’s, and would surely have understood it then. To her, marriage meant placing one’s very life in the hands of a man. And then Amy had died, not peacefully and in accordance with nature, but mysteriously, of a broken neck at the foot of a stair.

  And Robin Dudley had been suspected of arranging it.

  It was not true. I knew that and Elizabeth knew it too but nevertheless, the suspicion had been aroused, and uttered, by a good many people and the old demon had been awakened. Marriage is dangerous. Men sometimes kill their wives. To be a wife is to be in peril of one’s life.

  The demon had never gone back to sleep. Elizabeth might well desire the attractive Duke of Alençon and Anjou. She came, after all, of lusty stock on King Henry’s side, and her mother, Anne Boleyn, had by all accounts been nervous, tense, like a well-bred horse, but not cold. But fear could be stronger than desire, and Elizabeth was at times as nervous, as high-strung as her mother had apparently been.

  King Henry was my father too, but I had never known him and he had not murdered my mother. I had escaped the fear that haunted Elizabeth.

  She swung away from the window and came back to the settle. ‘Your captors have tried to simplify things too much. They are as foolish as Mary. They seem to think that with her out of the way the road is clear for the marriage between me and Francis but they are wrong. There is still the feeling in the country, as you yourself have made clear to me. There is the possibility of his hesitation because, as I said, he desires an heir. And there are my own … private doubts.’