A Perilous Alliance

by FIONA BUCKLEY

  Sybil, seated next to me, clicked her tongue softly, clearly thinking that Ambrosia should have kept silent and not drawn the count’s attention away from me. As far as I was concerned, she was welcome to seduce and run off with him at her earliest convenience. Only, I could recognize Gallic gallantry when I saw it, and knew that it meant little. Gilbert Renard was here on political business, business with me, and Ambrosia, no matter how knowledgeable she might be about poetry, could not be more than a passing distraction.

  When the meal was finished and cleared, the count spoke quietly to Lestrange, who left the hall and returned with a lute. ‘Can we offer you some music?’ he enquired. ‘I see there is a spinet here and my lord count is a fine exponent of that instrument. I can accompany him with this lute.’

  The count had clearly sent Lestrange for the lute, but he now made polite disclaimers. He was overridden with equal politeness by Sybil and myself. The fire was made up, we gathered round it, and our guests began to play. But after a while, I saw Brockley in the doorway, signalling to me, and murmuring that some important matter must have arisen, but please, let the music not be interrupted, I went to him. ‘What is it, Brockley?’

  ‘Something I think you should see, madam,’ said Brockley grimly.

  He led me out of the hall, and out through the kitchens into the courtyard. There was a door straight from the hall into the courtyard but evidently he didn’t want it to be obvious where we were going. He picked up a lantern in the kitchen, and guided me across the yard to the stable block and the tack-room.

  Inside the tack-room, there was a table, benches and wooden mounts where saddles could be put for cleaning, and on the wall were hooks for bridles and driving harness to hang on, and long, thick pegs to accommodate saddles not in use. Brockley, lantern in hand, went straight to the hooks and lifted a bridle down. I recognized it at once, for it was of red leather with silver studs. It was the bridle worn by the count’s bay stallion.

  Brockley carried it to the table and set it down with the lantern beside it. ‘Madam, come and look at this.’

  He was pointing but at first I couldn’t understand what he meant. Then he jabbed at something with a forefinger and I saw. The curb bit which formed part of the bridle was of the usual pattern, meaning that it had cheek-pieces on either side, to give the bit good leverage, and that the part inside the horse’s mouth was arched in the centre, so that the bit would turn when the rein was tightened, and give the rider still more leverage for controlling the horse. What was different about this example was the height of the arch. Once I had grasped what Brockley wanted me to see, I gasped.

  ‘But that would bruise the roof of a horse’s mouth! It’s enormous!’

  ‘Quite,’ said Brockley, again in that grim voice. ‘I haven’t ventured to try and examine that stallion’s mouth – it’s a vicious animal and would probably have my hand off at the wrist – but I hardly need to. You’re right, of course. Also,’ he added with emphasis, ‘although I haven’t been close to the animal, I think I saw blood on its flanks when its groom was leading it to the stable. Our noble count uses his spurs rather freely, in my opinion.’

  ‘If the horse is very difficult to manage …’ I said hesitantly, but Brockley snorted.

  ‘Stallions can be difficult, yes, of course, but if they’re handled right they can also be the best of partners – trustworthy, intelligent, willing. This horse has obviously been mistreated and from the way I saw the count pull up when he came into the courtyard this morning, I think most of the mistreating has been his. Oh, I’ve seen worse than this, I grant you, in my soldiering days. I was infantry but we’d sometimes help with the horses. There was one so-called noble knight had a curb bit like this – only in his case, the bit was twisted, like a screw – with sharp edges to the thread.’

  ‘But that …!’

  ‘That horse always had bloodstained foam round its mouth when I saw it being ridden,’ Brockley said. ‘And it had a very savage temper. In the end, it threw its master and trampled him. I can’t say I mourned him much, but his squire had the horse’s throat cut. The animal was probably almost impossible to handle by then, anyway. It had become a killer.’

  I shuddered.

  ‘This isn’t that bad, but it’s quite bad enough.’ Brockley’s face was grave. I could see his lines of worry, even by lantern-light. ‘Madam,’ he said, ‘do not marry this man.’

  FIVE

  Welcome to Hawkswood Inn

  The next day was a Sunday. I and most of the household went to church in Hawkswood village as usual, but my guest said that with my consent, his chaplain would say a Catholic Mass in his chamber for him and Lestrange and the grooms.

  ‘I am no religious fanatic. I quarrelled with my family because I advised tolerance towards the Huguenots. But I like to worship in my own way, nonetheless,’ he said to me.

  He added that if any in my house were of the Catholic persuasion, he would be happy to let them attend, with my permission, of course. I said yes, Joan and Ben Flood were, and were welcome to join him if they chose. Ben did so, though Joan to my surprise did not.

  The day was wet and Brockley remarked that he wished we too had a chaplain in the house, to save us from riding in the rain. Dale, as I expected, disapproved intensely of Mass being said on our premises. I told her not to think about it but she shook her head at me and said that if I married the count, we’d all have to think about it. We should have no alternative.

  ‘I will deal with that, somehow, I trust,’ I said grumpily. I was worried and not just for religious reasons. Brockley’s lantern-lit face in the tack-room as he warned me against this marriage kept returning to my mind.

  The day seemed long. After worshipping in our respective fashions, everyone dined and then passed the afternoon in indoor pursuits. Sybil and I did embroidery; Dale brushed my clothes, Brockley got together with Adam Wilder over some accounts, Ambrosia and the count played backgammon and talked about poetry. The count and I had some conversation about poetry as well. What we did not have conversation about, was marriage. He didn’t mention it and I had no desire to bring the subject up. He might have been any guest, making a short sociable stay.

  On Monday, the household routine claimed my attention. It was washing day. On the ground floor, next to the kitchen, where water could be heated in quantity, there was a room set aside for baths, which on every other Monday became a laundry. A small room adjoining it had a table for pressing and a little hearth for heating irons, and rope lines were slung just under the rafters so that in bad weather things could be dried there, with the fire to warm the air. In good weather we used a small walled drying yard.

  Monday, in contrast to the previous day, was dry and breezy, with the high grey sky that doesn’t mean rain. However, washday as usual filled the house with steam and the smell of soap and fogged all the windows. The work needed all the pairs of hands it could get and I always helped. I had also decided that I must finally deal with the problem of Gladys’ dreadful brown gown. When I had finished helping to wring sheets, I took her up to my chamber.

  ‘Gladys, why do you keep wearing that terrible dress when you have much better ones? Look at it! Food stains everywhere – patched elbows – I can’t bear the sight of it any longer. It needs a wash, only it probably won’t survive one. Put on something else and give me that one. I’ll get rid of it!’

  ‘I’m fond of it. I like it ’cos it’s brown. I like brown. And it’s warm and it fits, look you. I’ve had it years.’ Gladys was sullen.’

  ‘That’s obvious! Sybil and I will make you two new ones to replace it – light brown worsted for warmer weather; dark brown wool for winter. And I’ll have some new ruffs made for you, too. That dress that you’ve got on now will be turned into dusters.’

  ‘Here, whose gown is this? I don’t want …’

  ‘Don’t argue, Gladys. I insist that … Yes, Dale, what is it?’

  Dale, who had just entered the room a little nervously, having no doubt h
eard the edge on my voice, said: ‘Ma’am, our visitor has gone out into the grounds. Mistress Ambrosia is showing him about. I think the smell of washday has driven him there.’

  ‘Good. But you needn’t have come to tell me that …’

  ‘I didn’t, ma’am. I really came to say that we now have another visitor. He has just ridden in and Wilder has put him in the East Room to wait for you. His name is Christopher Spelton.’

  ‘I’ve never heard of him!’ I said crossly. ‘What is happening to this house? First Ambrosia arrives out of the blue, then we have the count and his entourage; now this man … on washday too! I might as well run Hawkswood as an inn! I could hang out a sign!’

  Sheer irritation made me warm to my theme. ‘A fine heraldic inn sign! Field, vert. Or, two hawks in flight, side by side, dexter, holding in its talons a covered dish; sinister, holding in its talons a goblet. Below, a single hawk in flight, bearing in its talons a tester bed. That may not be quite the right way to word the blazon but it’s understandable, at least. And above, in gold letters, the words WELCOME TO HAWKSWOOD HOSTELRY! Oh, very well, I had better see this man, I suppose. Where is he from, Dale, did he say?’

  ‘The court, ma’am. From my lord Burghley.’

  ‘From Cecil?’ That was different. I went, in haste.

  Stepping off the staircase, I heard voices from the hall and paused to glance in, in case the unknown Master Spelton had been moved from the East Room, which was our name for the larger of Hawkswood’s two parlours. He was not in the hall, however. If Ambrosia had shown Gilbert Renard round the garden earlier, they had come back inside, however soapy the hall smelt (it did) and however fogged its windows might be (they were). Ambrosia, very nicely dressed, was perched on a window seat, and Gilbert Renard was seated at the table and writing. Just as I stopped to look in, he halted in his task to say to Ambrosia: ‘I can’t be sure I remember every word of Gascoigne’s poem quite right but I’ll do my best.’

  ‘I do like the poem as far as you’ve recited it to me. Please do write all you can recall.’

  ‘Your wish is my command,’ said Renard. He dipped his quill, and began once more to write. The quill spluttered and a blot flew on to the page. ‘Though I fear that wasn’t by your command! My apologies, madame!’

  Heavy handed with a quill as with a bridle, I thought, and walked on.

  In the East Room, standing by the window, sipping a glass of the wine that Wilder had no doubt provided by way of refreshment, and looking out into the flower garden, where a few crocuses were making patches of white and gold and purple and the green shoots of daffodils were poking through the soil, was a short, balding man, plainly dressed, with dusty boots. I said: ‘Master Spelton? I am Mistress Stannard.’

  He turned at once and bowed. ‘At your service, mistress,’ he said. He sounded as if he meant it. It was not mere gallantry and the smile in his brown eyes was genuinely friendly. ‘I have brought you a letter from my lord Burghley,’ he said. He handed it to me.

  Though I knew it was from Cecil, the sight of the familiar seal still sent a lurch through my stomach. I expected to hear from him, of course, because I had written to him about Ambrosia’s troubles, but perhaps it would not just concern Ambrosia; perhaps in some way it would release me from my own dilemma, from the queen’s need of me. Perhaps …

  I broke the seal.

  No. The letter hoped that Gilbert Renard had arrived safely and settled in for a visit and that we were enjoying each other’s company. Then it recommended that Ambrosia should avoid getting entangled in the law. The law would be abysmally slow, Cecil said. Mistress Jester would do best to advise her daughter to reconsider the marriage offered by her present in-laws.

  Love matches are not always successful. My daughter Anne’s love match with the Earl of Oxford has proved a sorry disaster. I am advising all my friends who have unmarried daughters to betroth them quickly, before they marry themselves off and choose badly.

  Ambrosia would not thank him for that, I thought.

  The letter had more to say, but it had nothing whatever to do either with Ambrosia or the count. It informed me that my French husband, or rather, ex-husband, Matthew de la Roche, was dead.

  I am well aware that you were once lied to concerning the death of Matthew de la Roche, Cecil wrote. This time, I assure you that it is true, and I also assure you that regardless of any agreement you may or may not reach with Count Renard, you are free to travel or send an emissary to France, to enquire into the facts for yourself.

  Our information is that de la Roche was travelling in France, raising funds for the cause of Mary Stuart as he so often did. He fell foul of some Huguenots in a hostelry where a first-floor room was being used as a card room. De la Roche and his companions were at one table; a group of Huguenots at another. They overheard some of the talk between de la Roche and his friends and a quarrel broke out. One of the Huguenots challenged de la Roche to a duel. Swords were drawn. The landlord, hearing the uproar, rushed up the stairs, followed by his wife and a serving man. The landlord tried to interfere but his wife and servant dragged him out of harm’s way. Meanwhile, de la Roche had sustained a wound to the chest and died of it an hour later.

  So Matthew was dead. And, as before, most opportunely from the point of view of Cecil, Walsingham and the queen. The rest of the letter consisted of conventional hopes that I was in good health; the usual platitudes.

  Would I be told the same lie twice? Perhaps not. Perhaps, this time, it was true that Matthew was dead. Later, I supposed, I would mourn for him but for the moment, all I could feel was doubt and a vague, aching regret for all that might have been, if only he had not had that absurd obsession with Mary Stuart. Only, then, I would not have known Hugh. I would not have Hawkswood. It was all too difficult. I folded the sheet and said: ‘Do you know what is in this letter?’

  ‘The gist, Mistress Stannard. I was not present when it was dictated, but my lord Burghley told me. Mistress, here in private, we may speak freely. I am aware that you are not all you seem. Lord Burghley has told me much about you. You have in the past carried out secret tasks for the queen. I do the same.’

  By this time we had seated ourselves on the comfortable settles with which the room was furnished. From the corner of his, he smiled at me. ‘Officially,’ he said, ‘I am a Queen’s Messenger with the added duty of acting as interpreter for Sir Francis Walsingham and my lord Burghley when they have dealings with the French, here or in France. I speak the French language well. But sometimes, I have other, more private, tasks. I have two at the moment and am on my way to France to carry them out. As you may be going to marry into the French royal family, you have a right to know of certain matters, so Lord Burghley says. If you are to enter a political marriage, you ought to understand its political context. He assures me that your discretion can be trusted.’

  ‘I have no wish to be privy to anything I need not know,’ I assured him, but he smiled again and shook his head.

  ‘My lord Burghley bid me tell you all. He said, Mistress Stannard must know exactly what she is doing before she gives her consent to the marriage.’

  Indeed? I thought. It sounded as though Cecil had a conscience about the way I was being used. As well he might, considering the way he had used me in the past. Master Spelton was continuing.

  ‘My first commission,’ he explained, ‘is to encourage feelings of friendship between King Henri and the French queen mother Catherine de’ Medici, and our own Queen Elizabeth. That I can do openly. But my second mission is contradictory – and therefore confidential. I am to encourage the Protestant leaders in France – the Huguenots – to uphold their rights and to feel that they have friends in England. Our queen needs as many friends as she can who dislike Spain as much as she does and that is certainly true of the Huguenots. It is said that even King Henri now feels that more tolerance towards French Protestants could be wise. That is why the quarrel between Gilbert Renard and his family has been mended, if somewhat reluctantly on th
e queen mother’s part, I believe. Similarly, certain French princes who have been out of favour because they feel that Huguenots may be better company than Spain, are now being reinstated – as Count Renard has been. I am to make contact with them and try to build diplomatic friendships between them and Elizabeth. Unknown to King Henri or his mother, of course.’

  ‘I see,’ I said, somewhat distractedly. A faint sound had caught my attention. The door of the room was closed but I was seated nearer to it than Spelton. I put a finger to my lips, rose and darted to the door. I jerked it open. There was no one there. I shut the door again and came back to my seat.

  ‘I thought I heard something. Soft footsteps and then something brushed against the door …’

  ‘Such as an ear?’ said Spelton quietly. ‘Your own ears are keen, Mistress, and the world is full of inquisitive ones. But I can hardly suppose that Catherine de’ Medici would plant a spy in your home. I think you imagined it.’

  ‘I hope so.’ I was doubtful, however. I was not given to imagining things. I had heard something, I said to myself. Aloud, I said: ‘I can’t suppose that any of my household would listen at doors! Which only leaves the count and his men, but why on earth should they want to eavesdrop on me? The count is here to propose marriage to me, and with the goodwill of the queen behind him, too.’ I sat back with a sigh. ‘No, perhaps it was just someone passing by, close to the door, and brushing against it for a moment. Anyway, I couldn’t see anyone. Never mind. Master Spelton, there is something I want to ask you, if I may.’

  ‘By all means. What is it?’

  ‘Would you undertake a commission for me – if time allows? If you know what is in the letter you have brought me, you know that it speaks of the death of one Matthew de la Roche, formerly my husband. His home is – or was – a chateau called Blanchepierre, in the valley of the Loire. I want to be sure that he is really dead. Could you find out for me? He was a well-known man; it need not be difficult.’