A Perilous Alliance

by FIONA BUCKLEY

  Arthur Watts and Simon came to meet me as I clambered out of our own more modest vehicle. ‘You have guests, madam,’ Arthur said.

  ‘So I see! I take it that Wilder and Brockley are looking after them.’

  Five minutes later, I had joined them in the great hall, and there was Sir Francis Walsingham, dark and stark as ever but not quite as stark as he sometimes was, for he smiled broadly as we entered. With him, as I had guessed, was Robert Dudley, Earl of Leicester. Brockley, Dale and Gladys were there too, and pounced upon me, all three wanting to embrace me at once. When the first transports were over, Walsingham cleared his throat and explained that Lord Burghley was laid up with gout.

  ‘It plagues him sore,’ Walsingham said. ‘Or he would have come as well. Luckily, my own health, just now, is not too bad. We bring a letter from her majesty, Ursula, and other news too. Do you wish to refresh yourself before we settle down to talk, or …’

  ‘I want all the news here and now,’ I said. ‘I don’t know if Kate or Sybil, or Master Spelton …’

  A chorus of voices assured me that they too could leave washing and changing for a while in favour of hearing the word from the court.

  There was plenty of it. The queen’s letter was a great relief to me, for I now knew that those I wished to protect were no longer in danger. I was duty bound, said her majesty, to reveal who the people were who had killed and buried Count Renard, but although there would have to be an inquest, a free pardon would be forthcoming if any were needed. The disgraceful nature of the count’s attempt to suborn an honest young man had been noted. It also appeared that under questioning, Pierre Lestrange had admitted to the murder of Joan Flood, in accordance with orders given by the count. My suspicions were justified.

  Under persuasion (I preferred not to enquire what kind of persuasion), Lestrange had apparently come up with a good deal of interesting information. The queen and her council now knew of the many things the count had managed to learn that he ought not to have learned, and it was a matter of great regret that his chaplain had got away to France and must have passed this information on to the French court. It would do England no good, and various policies would now need rethinking. However, queen and council at least knew of the disaster and could set about mitigating it.

  In addition, I need not fear for Alfred Bones or Marcus Clay, though this was not a matter of clemency. The Lucille had been seized when she recently put into Dover but Mr Bones, Mr Clay and Mr Bones’ nephew Jacky were not aboard. According to the rest of the crew, the ship had first put into a French port, and the trio had gone ashore and not returned. All the crew said the same and there was no reason to disbelieve them. I could assume that though they might now be struggling with the French language, they were safe from arrest.

  From what you have reported of the Lucille and the crimes committed by her crew under Captain Garnett, the pardon you seek for these men might have been difficult to grant. As it is, they are out of our jurisdiction. I was glad.

  ‘You, Mistress Stannard, are commended,’ said Walsingham, ‘for bringing the Lucille to the attention of her majesty’s officers. A scourge and a menace has gone from our seas.’

  He gave me a sardonic smile. ‘It is known that you once refused a proposal of marriage from Captain Yarrow, the Assistant Constable of Dover Castle. He was very downcast at your refusal, but overjoyed at the opportunity to take part in the capture and questioning of the Lucille’s crew. He sends you his warmest thanks and says that he forgives you.’

  ‘Well, really!’ I said.

  Walsingham, blanking the amusement out of his voice and face, said: ‘We intend to make a renewed effort to clear out the wasps’ nest on Lundy. Your attempt to save Master Spelton, which brought you into such peril, is also commended. The queen is so very thankful that he made his way safely home after all.’ I nodded. All of that was in her letter, too.

  ‘We will have a feast tonight,’ said Robert Dudley cheerily. ‘We have our own cooks with us and have brought the necessary viands. There will be no expense for you.’

  Perhaps not. Though once more, my temperamental chief cook John Hawthorn would probably sulk at the prospect of alien cooks in his kitchen. ‘He’s doing that already,’ said Gladys with a knowing leer, when I said as much.

  There was laughter. Later, there was feasting. My guests left, however, the next day. When, from Dover, we sent word ahead to Hawkswood and the court, we couldn’t give a definite day for our arrival. Travel is too uncertain for that. Our guests had been fortuitously lucky to arrive only just before we did and said considerately that they had no wish to burden my household with themselves and their servants any longer than necessary. Christopher, though, asked if he could stay on for a few days.

  ‘Even hardened Queen’s Messengers and secret agents can get tired,’ he said to me. ‘What we’ve all gone through has been enough to wear anyone down. I have been granted some leave of absence from the court.’

  ‘You’ve earned it,’ I said.

  A sunny April morning. There was new growth in the rose garden, but that day I chose to sit in the flower garden next to it, where the daffodils were out and tossing in the breeze. I was watching while Harry played ball with his nurse Tessie.

  My household was returning to normal. I had soothed John Hawthorn’s feelings and made a special point of telling Ben Flood in detail of the count’s death. He was a downcast man after losing Joan, but he was a little comforted by knowing that the count was now under the ground himself. I promised him a rise in wages and agreed with him that when he went to the house where he occasionally heard Mass, Kate should sometimes go with him.

  My guests had not left until the afternoon on the day of departure and before they went, I had talked with Dudley about horseflesh. He was, after all, the queen’s Master of Horse. I had admired his blue roan stallion, who was called Blue Agate, asked his opinion of trotting horses and found that it agreed with mine and not with Hugh’s, and discussed with him how best to find a first pony for Harry. Dudley knew of a breeder not far from Guildford who could provide a suitable animal.

  ‘He trains them himself. You need a well-mannered pony, narrow enough for a young child. For all the old king’s ranting about runts and scruffy ponies,’ Dudley said, ‘ponies are valuable. Children must learn to ride and you can’t put them up on trotters or towering monsters sixteen hands high! Ponies make splendid pack animals, too.’

  It was a comfortable, normal conversation, all the more enjoyable because I had called Brockley to join us and the three of us had sat in the little parlour, sharing a flagon of wine as we talked, the kind of practical, everyday talk that I missed when cut off from it.

  Now as I sat in the garden, I had a notebook on my knee and a writing set on the bench beside me. I was making notes of some of the things we had discussed. Also, there were other plans I wished to make for the future. I wanted to extend the rose garden and – oh yes, indeed! – provide the grooms with bed-sheets. I had not forgotten the decision I’d made back on the Lucille. Between my notes and my benign glances towards Harry and Tessie, I did not notice Christopher Spelton coming towards me until he was actually there. Then I laid down my quill and smiled at him. ‘Good morning to you, Christopher. You breakfasted early, I believe. You were gone before I came downstairs.’

  ‘I was anxious to go out and walk, and think,’ he said. ‘I have something to ask you and I needed to decide on the right words.’

  ‘Concerning what?’ I moved the writing set to the ground. ‘Do sit down.’

  ‘That wouldn’t be quite in order. Not for this.’ For the first time since I had known him, I saw that Spelton was nervous. He was wearing a hat but now he swept it off and knelt down at my feet. ‘Mistress Stannard, we have both been through some terrifying adventures and we have travelled far together. Of all the ladies I have ever known, I have never found one so courageous and full of endurance as you. You have filled me with admiration. Will you honour me by ceasing to be Mistress Sta
nnard and becoming Mistress Spelton instead?’

  I gaped at him, literally. I had never for one moment expected this. Nor did I want it. I had got rid of Captain Yarrow, it seemed, only to find Christopher Spelton in his place. I raised a hand to stop him, but he gently put it aside.

  ‘Hear me out before you decide,’ he said earnestly. ‘I am a widower, these last three years. I have no children, no dependants. I have a home, near Kingston-on-Thames. It’s just a small house, but it is pretty, with a view of the river and a pleasing garden. I have a married couple to look after it when I’m away, and to look after me when I’m there. You might not want to live there, as you have Hawkswood and Withysham, but I could let it and join you here. I have a good income from my work at court. You would gain, not lose, I promise. And the queen could never again try to use you as a substitute for herself, in a foreign marriage of convenience. You would be safe from that. What do you say?’

  Staggered, I said: ‘I have to think. I can’t decide all in a moment. Give me two days.’

  But I gave him my answer the following morning.

  It was a close thing. I almost said yes, for Christopher was as nice a man as I have ever known. The woman who married him would have a good husband, just as Ambrosia now had. I would not have to leave Hawkswood and Christopher was right when he said that I could not be used again as a marital pawn on the royal chessboard.

  But I had been married three times and it was enough. I would gladly have stayed with Gerald for ever but Gerald was gone and after him, I had known the heights and depths of passion with Matthew and found out that they were no guarantee of happiness. Then there had been Hugh, calm, loving Hugh, and that had gone so very deep that I did not think I could create anything like it again and a marriage that did not have that depth, could not now satisfy me. I didn’t want, even with this likeable Christopher Spelton, the emotional strain of trying to form it. I didn’t want another marriage. I didn’t want upheaval, disruption, disturbance.

  I didn’t want any more children, either. I had had too many bad experiences of that business and though Harry’s birth had been easy, it was the only one that was. Nor was I was getting any younger.

  No. I wanted to stay where I was, and make plans. One of the things I had discussed with Dudley and Brockley was the idea of buying a couple of trotting stallions and making a business of it. I would move the trotting mares from Withysham to Hawkswood, where there was more space, and develop a stud. If I made a success of it, it would create a fine inheritance for Harry. And I would not have put myself at risk, providing siblings for him.

  So Christopher and I parted as friends, with a handclasp and a long kiss, which, yes, was more than simply friendly, just before he mounted his horse.

  But it went no further than that. I knew my decision was right because of the sense of relief I felt as I turned to go back indoors. I found that Brockley was beside me, and glanced at him.

  He said: ‘Madam, may I have a private word?’

  In the little parlour, where, earlier that morning I had had my final interview with Christopher, Brockley and I stood face to face. ‘Madam,’ he said, ‘perhaps I have no right to ask this, but did Master Spelton propose marriage to you?’

  I never lie to Brockley. ‘Yes, he did. But I have refused him. How did you know that he had proposed?’

  ‘From a window, madam, I saw him go into the garden yesterday and kneel to you. And Tessie heard him speak to you of his circumstances … I think he told you that he was a widower and spoke of a house near Kingston. Those are such things as suitors tell the ladies they are courting, or the ladies’ fathers.’

  ‘Tessie must learn not to gossip about things she overhears.’ I had been so haunted by eavesdroppers during the last two or three months that hearing of another made me indignant. I would take Tessie to task for this.

  ‘Why did you refuse him, madam? I thought he would be a good match for you, far better than the count! And being married to him would protect you from any future counts.’

  Dear Brockley. Dear, generous Brockley. We had never been lovers and we never would, but we loved each other just the same. It had not interfered with his marriage to Dale (though it had come near it); nor had it intruded on my marriages to Matthew and Hugh. Hugh had known it perfectly well, but been sure enough of himself and me to ignore it. My feelings for my husbands had run like a river on a parallel course with my feeling for Brockley, close but separated by a strong, high dyke.

  But Brockley was there, always there, at the back of my mind. To take Christopher would have been like betraying him, and I knew that, for all his generosity, he would suffer if I took yet another husband.

  ‘I don’t want any more emotional entanglements,’ I said. ‘I have had enough. If the queen offers me another count, I shall just say no. I mean it, Brockley. I am not a slave – though I now know what it feels like to be threatened with slavery. I know the queen had her reasons for asking me to make a political marriage for her. Time is going on. It’s getting late for her to produce an heir. But I can’t do that for her, anyway, and it is possible to sign a treaty without backing it up by a marriage. I want to be here at Hawkswood, in peace. I only want a quiet, domestic life.’

  ‘Humph!’

  ‘Brockley?’

  ‘Madam, I think all here at Hawkswood would heartily agree with you. We would all enjoy a quiet domestic life. But I sometimes wonder if you are capable of such a thing!’ said Brockley.