‘She might not understand much of what you were jabbering about,’ Gladys told him, ‘but there might be a word or two she got right and maybe it weren’t about the latest fashion in doublets! What I said, and what I think about what I showed you, I stand by.’
Her dark eyes, which were still bright despite her age, were flashing, and her back, usually somewhat bent, had straightened. ‘And yes, there did ought to be an enquiry, look you! That’s what I wanted, what I spoke up for. If old Gladys has made you stop pretending and find out what happened, then old Gladys is proud of it and you can keep your snooty reprimands to yourself!’
‘No one is pretending anything,’ I said furiously. ‘Accidents are accidents. It never occurred to any of us that this was anything else until you thrust your crazed ideas at us!’
Ben, scarlet with embarrassment, said: ‘I don’t know if what Master Wilder thinks is right or not. Joan and me are … were … affectionate and one can’t always remember …’
‘This is all absurd!’ Renard was angry. ‘Of course this can be nothing but a most grievous mischance! Mistress Stannard has enough on her mind already, and should not be made anxious by these wild imaginings.’
‘Indeed, such talk is unhealthy and improper.’ Father Ignatius had been quiet up to now but suddenly spoke with authority.
Brockley, ignoring him, said: ‘I consider, as Master Wilder obviously does, that there should be an inquest.’
‘So do I,’ I said.
Yes of course there should. Gladys had realized what I had not. In a house where confidential matters of state have been discussed, a servant is caught listening at a door and next day, has a most unlikely accident! Questions must certainly be asked. And with that, a huge wave of pure exhaustion broke over me, worse than the weakness that had attacked me in the courtyard. I could no longer cope. To the demands of the queen and the simple fact of Joan’s death had now been added this lurid possibility. I didn’t know what to do with it. I did know, however, that I must do something. I must do several somethings. I must … yes … organize an inquest and a funeral, comfort Ben and then – God help me – arrange my own wedding. Yes, it was all beyond me. Miles and miles beyond me.
I sank on to a settle, leant back and closed my eyes, for dark specks were swimming before them. I heard Sybil and Dale exclaim, and then they were beside me, and so was Ambrosia, and the three of them were helping me to my feet, steadying me back upstairs. Vaguely, I recall being undressed and got into bed. I heard Brockley’s voice outside the door, saying to someone that madam had had enough. Then I slept.
I woke next morning with a savage migraine, worse than either of the attacks I had had when Captain Yarrow was in the house.
I was abed with this one for two days and when it had passed, I developed a fever which lasted for two more. Meanwhile Brockley and Wilder between them arranged the inquest. In Hugh’s day, Hugh himself had been the local coroner when necessary; now, the task had fallen to Dr Fletcher, the Hawkswood vicar, but the business was still, as always, held in an upstairs room in the Hawkswood tavern, the White Falcon. My fever was down when Joan’s inquest took place but I still felt too weak to attend. Brockley, however, told me about it.
It was a brief and formal affair, he said. There was a jury drawn from respectable Hawkswood families plus two men from Woking, our nearest small town, and they unanimously brought in a verdict of accidental death.
‘Dr Fletcher said that sadly, snooping servants were a commonplace,’ Brockley told me. ‘Then he said that they rarely got themselves murdered on that account, and the stairs were obviously known to be hazardous because they were deliberately not polished. Master Wilder’s theory about the marks on Joan’s neck occasioned some laughter.’
‘I daresay. Did anyone mention Master Spelton?’ I asked.
‘No, madam. Should they have? He was only a courier from the court, gone from the house before Joan’s death.’
‘I suppose you all know that I accused Joan of eavesdropping on me and Master Spelton,’ I said flaccidly. ‘She may have overheard him speaking to me of some confidential matters. Just as I fell ill, I was wondering if that was relevant somehow but …’ I had had time to think and doubt had grown. Whatever Joan had heard Spelton say, I couldn’t connect it with the count. It was all a muddle. ‘I think my idea was wrong,’ I said. ‘And Spelton wouldn’t have liked his business to be mentioned in public. I am glad it didn’t arise at the hearing.’
Joan was buried the next day. I felt better by then, and managed to be present, riding slowly to the church with Brockley watchfully beside me, and leaning on Sybil’s arm during the service.
On the following day, a Thursday, the count once more requested my answer to his proposal. Unable to see any way out, I told him (though getting the words out nearly strangled me and sent a menacing bolt of pain through my left eyebrow) that I had accepted his suit. He bowed, expressing pleasure, but so formally that I wondered whether he was any more enthusiastic about the prospect than I was. We exchanged a kiss. That too was formal.
‘So when is the wedding to be?’ Sybil asked me that evening. Everyone else had retired but shaky though I still was, I had asked Sybil and the Brockleys to join me round the fire in the little parlour to talk for a while before bed. My betrothal had given me no joy. I felt very lonely and longed for the comfort of good and trusted friends. I hadn’t wanted to talk about the wedding, but it was on their minds as much as it was on mine.
‘Saturday week,’ I said. ‘I told Count Renard that I needed to regain my strength properly. I would have waited longer, out of respect for Ben Flood, but the count thinks the death of a mere servant doesn’t warrant any more delay.’ I added, rather grimly, ‘The count brought a licence with him.’
‘That man,’ said Brockley, ‘is heartless and presumes too much. I am sorry to speak out of turn, madam. But I wish you would not do this. Why can’t you just say no? I say this man has no heart and your heart surely isn’t in it.’
‘I am marrying for policy,’ I said. ‘The queen’s policy. Hearts are irrelevant.’
‘It may be all right,’ said Sybil. ‘He spoke very well at the inquest. He made a good impression on the jury and on Dr Fletcher.’
‘He was persuasive, right enough,’ said Brockley. ‘But he is also the brother of a foreign king and the jury was afraid of him. I could tell. He tried to talk us out of holding the inquest at all, you know!’
‘He only asked us whether it was really necessary,’ said Sybil moderately. ‘He didn’t really protest much, just seemed surprised that so much to-do should follow an unlucky accident to a servant. Ambrosia protested more than he did! She said it would be so embarrassing for him, poor man, if there were any suggestion that he had anything to do with Joan’s death.’
‘He has enough sense to know that if he objected too much, that would look suspicious in itself,’ retorted Brockley.
‘We did right to hold the inquest,’ I said. ‘Gossip assuredly would have got round. Too many people knew Joan had been caught listening at the count’s door the day before she died. That kind of talk would be embarrassing, all right.’
Brockley shrugged. ‘It came out that the count and Lestrange and Father Ignatius were all seen out in the garden at the time the accident happened. Everyone’s content with the verdict, except Gladys, of course, but we all know how awkward and opinionated she is!’
‘And you agree with her!’ said Sybil.
‘Let us say, I have doubts,’ said Brockley sombrely.
I was holding my peace about them, but so had I. Years ago, when gossip had been rife concerning the queen’s relationship with Dudley, his wife had died by falling down a flight of stairs and the scandal had rocked the nation. The inquest then had brought in a verdict of accident. I was one of the few people who knew that the verdict was wrong. Perhaps that was why I now, unwillingly, shared Brockley’s uncertainties. I said: ‘Pushing someone down a staircase isn’t a very sensible way to go about killing
them. It’s too chancy. Joan might have landed at the bottom with nothing more than a few bruises!’
‘Bah!’ said Brockley inelegantly. ‘What about the bruises she did have? They’re why I’m wondering now. Once when I was in France, on campaign with King Henry, I had to kill an enemy sentry. I broke his neck by putting an arm round his throat – it’s not difficult if one is strong enough. As I did it, my fingers dug into him just where those marks were on Joan’s neck.’
‘Did you say that at the inquest? You haven’t mentioned it before!’ I said sharply.
‘No,’ said Brockley. ‘I wish I had but I’ve only just remembered it. It was so long ago. But I tell you this, the count has surely had martial training. Probably Lestrange has, too. They would know how to grab her and break her neck for her and then thrust her down the stairs. There’d be nothing uncertain about that.’
‘Dear God!’ said Sybil and Dale, both together. I stared into the fire, questioning myself. Was I really preparing to marry the man who might – just might – have been responsible for the death of Joan?
Yes, I was. For Elizabeth’s sake and for the safety of the realm. The inquest verdict was perfectly reasonable and might well be the truth. I could not back out now because of my suspicions. They were so shadowy. Little bruises, Brockley’s wartime memories of killing a sentry … And Count Renard was half-brother to the King of France! To accuse him now would start a monstrous scandal. Joan was at peace for ever in Hawkswood churchyard and there I must let her rest.
It was too late to do anything else. I had not enough strength to face trying and I assuredly did have much on my mind. Such as my wedding.
EIGHT
Wedding Morning
I went towards my wedding with feet that dragged. I settled with Gilbert, whose Christian name I was now dutifully using, that it should take place in Hawkswood village church. I found that my bridegroom had no wish for any kind of state affair, and when I had sent word to Cecil and Walsingham to tell them that the nuptials were to go ahead, but that we wished for a quiet ceremony, they replied that this was in accordance with the queen’s wishes, too.
After all, their joint letter pointed out, this was not a union of heads of state, or even – please would I forgive them for saying this – even of their official relatives. If it took place quietly, its significance to the two royal houses concerned would not be diminished but the delicacies of protocol would be preserved. There would be a proclamation about it, naturally, after it had taken place, and once Dr Fletcher had informed the court that this had happened, the treaty that the marriage was to strengthen would be signed.
So we would wed in Hawkswood. Brockley would give me away and Dr Fletcher would marry us. It would of course be a Protestant ceremony but Gilbert said he did not mind. It would ensure that our union was lawful in England, and after all, we could have a Catholic ceremony once we reached his chateau in France. I in turn accepted that.
Time seemed to speed up, as the days no doubt do for those facing execution. Meanwhile, I did my best to create the right atmosphere. I walked and rode and talked with Gilbert, determined to get to know him and encourage myself into affection for this man in whose company I had agreed to spend my life. Oddly enough, I had a feeling that he was doing much the same thing. He told me of his first marriage and his grief at the death of his wife. ‘It was a fever that would not abate whatever the physicians could do.’ He held out his right hand, where the great square-cut ruby flashed. ‘This was her wedding gift to me. I used to wear it on my left hand but I changed it to the right when I decided that I would marry again. One can’t mourn for ever. All the same, will you mind if I go on wearing it?’
I assured him that I would not, and said that I too would like still to wear Hugh’s wedding ring – on my right hand. Gilbert went on to tell me more of his home in France, of the amusements that it would provide for me and the interesting guests we would entertain there, and he reiterated the promise that we would spend a few months of each year in England, visiting Hawkswood and Withysham and perhaps the court.
‘I understand that you are attached to your houses and I would not deny them to you. I love my home, too. It was a terrible grief to me when I was exiled and cast out of it. And since you are sister to the queen, it is natural that you should attend on her now and then.’
In response, I told him of my past, the tasks I had undertaken for the queen and Cecil; my three marriages; even my one affair, which I had been forced into. I think I had a slight hope that hearing of that would discourage my suitor, but it didn’t. He had apparently been told about most of my past before he started out for Hawkswood. He accepted it without any sign of disapproval.
An uncertain friendship did burgeon between us, but there was no real warmth in it. We exchanged kisses sometimes but there was no passion in them and he never attempted to go further. Knowing that he was well-read and liked poetry, I sometimes talked to him about that and such conversations were interesting, but he often discussed literature with Ambrosia as well, usually over dinner, and I noticed that he seemed to enjoy that more than he enjoyed such discussions with me. I knew I should mind but I didn’t. Indeed, I was grateful that the count had agreed that Sybil and Ambrosia could both come to France as my attendants. Unlike Captain Yarrow, Gilbert was quite happy to leave my choice of companions to me and didn’t even cavil at the prospect of Gladys.
I paid attention, of course, to choosing a gown to be married in. Dale and Sybil helped me and we spent much time over it, yet the merriment and deep interest which should accompany such a task was lacking. It was a duty, nothing more.
On the wedding eve I arranged a feast but unlike the dinner which graced Renard’s arrival, it was not a success. Even Hawthorn’s cooking was flawed: the soup lukewarm, the roast overdone and the conversation stiff. I retired early. The deep pink dress with silver trimmings that I had finally chosen for the morrow had been hung on the handle of the clothes press. I lay in bed for a long time looking at it by the light of my candles. Then I snuffed them and tried to sleep, and for hours could not. It was nearly dawn when I finally fell into a heavy doze, and half-light when I woke again, to see grey skies beyond my window and to feel a matching greyness in my mind.
And then I knew.
I couldn’t do it.
My reasons paraded themselves relentlessly round inside my head. I had been so sure that Joan, because she had eavesdropped on the count, must also have been the one who did the same thing to Master Spelton and me. Yet, recalling her denials now, they had the ring of truth. I still didn’t believe that anyone else in my household would have done such a thing, but someone had; I was sure of it. I had heard sounds like someone pressing against the door. Not brushing it in passing, but pressing close to it. So who else was there?
Count Renard and his companions, that was who. However improbable it might seem, I really had had two eavesdroppers under my roof. And Joan had said she had seen Lestrange coming out of my room. He said he had just opened the door and looked in. That wasn’t the same thing. Whatever had induced Joan to put her ear to the count’s door had surely been something more than just seeing Lestrange open a door and look inside. She said she had seen him coming out of my room. And next day, she had fallen down a straight flight of unpolished stairs and broken her neck.
It made a pattern, a chain of events. A shaky chain, a thin chain, but a chain. Gladys had been right. She had glimpsed it and so had I.
And in any case …
Even if he were utterly innocent of Joan’s death, I still did not want to marry Gilbert Renard. I didn’t like him enough. I didn’t like him at all! He had no attraction for me, physical or otherwise. I didn’t want him. I didn’t want him in my bed, my life, my world. I certainly didn’t want him inside me. I could not, not, walk to an altar on Brockley’s arm and say I will to Gilbert. The vicious curb that Brockley had shown me still haunted my imagination, as did the count’s heavy-handedness with my own horses. I didn’t want to be marr
ied to a man who treated his horses as he did.
I couldn’t, wouldn’t, marry Count Renard, not even for Elizabeth, not even for England. The queen must find another substitute. If Hugh had lived, she would have had to, anyway. I was her sister, yes. I was her subject, yes. But I was not her slave. I remembered Billington saying so, standing there among the trees of Hugh’s woodland and looking at me with those steady blue eyes. Even Robert Dudley, Earl of Leicester had said it. He had himself defied the queen’s orders about marriage – and survived it. Even Cecil had wanted me to understand fully what I was doing. Cecil surely had doubts too.
I sat up, feeling my sleepless hours like a weight between my eyes. In decency, I must tell Gilbert first, and do so at once. I had slept with my bed curtains partly open, as I usually did. Now, I pushed them wider, thrust my feet out of the bed and opened my mouth to call for Dale to help me rise, but before I had uttered a word, Dale herself came into the room, accompanied by Sybil. Sybil was crying. Dale on the other hand looked like a cat licking stolen cream off its whiskers. I stared at them in astonishment.
Dale said: ‘Ma’am, there can be no wedding today. I’m so sorry.’ She didn’t sound sorry. ‘Your bridegroom has …’ and now she did hesitate, evidently feeling that she had been too bald-spoken. But she drew a fresh breath and continued, almost in a gabble. ‘Your bridegroom has run away.’
‘In the night,’ said Sybil tearfully. ‘And not alone! Ambrosia has gone with him! They left letters! On the big table in the hall. One for me, from Ambrosia; one for you, from the count. Ambrosia’s says that she is sorry to grieve me, her mother, but she and Gilbert – Gilbert! So familiar! – want to be together. She says he has promised to get her sons back for her. For the meantime, they are going to France and Father Ignatius will marry them when they reach his chateau of the birds, because Count Renard wants to share the celebration with his tenants.’
A Perilous Alliance Page 8
