She was however skilled in making medicinal potions and ointments and for this I valued her. She could be disconcerting, though. She now responded to Christopher’s rueful account of the queen’s first meeting with an ‘imp’ by throwing back her head and emitting a screech of laughter, expelling spittle through the gaps in her brown and unlovely teeth.
‘Gladys, please!’ I said. ‘Harry’s seven! He wouldn’t do that! I’ve taken care over teaching him his manners.’
‘No,’ said Christopher, ‘but he’s lively and noisy, and the court and the queen would be very strange to him. He’s quite capable of being scared, or rude, or forgetting to bow, or … better not, Ursula.’
‘I’d say not,’ said Gladys irrepressibly. ‘No point looking for trouble. This looks like being just one time when that man Burghley’s asked you to do a job for him that won’t lead you into danger. Don’t spoil it all! Don’t go provoking the queen.’
I glared at her, mostly because she was right. Gladys had a maddening habit of being right. Nearly all of the past assignments on which Lord Burghley, otherwise Sir William Cecil, had sent me, had led me into danger. And a wayward child might indeed annoy the queen. Gladys was no fool.
She hadn’t finished, either. Undeterred by my scowl, she added: ‘Let’s hope this request don’t have a sting in the tail after all. Just like scorpions, that man’s ideas are.’
‘What do you know about scorpions?’ I snapped.
So, except that Spelton was riding with us, the party that set off for court was the usual one. I rode Jewel, and was accompanied by Brockley on Mealy, with Dale seated behind him, and a pack pony on a leading rein. Stabling accommodation at court was often crowded, and if the Duke of Alençon was expected soon, he would no doubt have an entourage. This way, I would only need stalls for three horses: Jewel, Mealy and the pony, and Brockley would look after them. Spelton had his own arrangements.
We arrived at Hampton Court in sunshine, in the early afternoon, having dined on the way. I had always thought Hampton Court one of Elizabeth’s most beautiful palaces. Its warm rose-coloured bricks glowed in the bright air and were pleasingly contrasted by the grey ornamental edging to walls and doors while its tall chimneys with their bricks laid in patterns were a delight to the eye. The place had gracious proportions; an air of space and lightness and dignity, all combined.
But it had known tragedy. There was a gallery which the servants didn’t like, especially at dusk, for King Henry’s young fifth wife, Catherine Howard, had fled along it in terror when the guards came to arrest her for treason, after she had been caught in infidelity. She had glimpsed Henry himself in the distance and she ran towards him, screaming his name, begging him for help. He turned his back and the guards seized her and dragged her away. Not long after that, she was beheaded. It was said that sometimes, especially at dusk, an echo of her screams could still be heard in that gallery.
I had never heard them myself, but I did not like that gallery either. I had been there at twilight, and to me its shadowy air did seem to hold a memory of fear and despair. The fact that it was my own father who had closed his ears to the mortal terror of a young girl probably made those feelings worse. I know they made me feel ashamed.
I never set eyes on my royal father but everyone knew what he had become; it was common knowledge. He had been a monstrous, diseased hulk when Catherine Howard, hauled by an old man’s lust and thrust at him by her ambitious family, was married to him. He had been no husband for a beautiful young lass. She had not been an innocent maiden; that was true. But because my own life had not been wholly innocent either, I was sorry for her, as I had been for Lisa.
And now I was sorry for the queen, who was also being dragged towards a fate that she feared and that indeed held serious danger for her. I wanted to rescue her but knew I might be asked instead to take her hand and coax her to sacrifice herself. Hampton Court was beautiful but I wished with all my heart that I were somewhere else.
Christopher Spelton left the party just before we reached the palace, and rode to his own home, which was not far off. I and the Brockleys were expected and a suite of three rooms in the Base Court, the first courtyard after the gatehouse, had been made ready for us, with an array of flagons and glassware and a pile of platters, and there was service. We could dine in private if we wished, though we could also eat in the big dining chamber.
The outlook wasn’t particularly good; there was no view of the river but only of a rear entrance where goods were delivered for the kitchen. Brockley caught sight of a vintner’s cart there and raced out to buy a keg of wine for us. Wine was served in the common dining chamber, but in private, you had to supply your own.
Dale and I unpacked together. We had hardly finished before I had visitors, in the shape of two Frenchmen. The usher who brought them to my rooms introduced us to them, and presented them to us as Jean de Simier, personal servant to Francis, Duke of Alençon, and his clerk, Antoine de Lacey. The usher then bowed and withdrew, leaving us all to contemplate each other. Behind me, I sensed Brockley and Dale taking stock as I myself was doing. In Dale’s case, it would be with suspicion. Dale did not like the French. In my service, she had once had a terrifying experience in France.
De Simier was a brisk-looking man, not young but not yet middle-aged either, well-made, with dark, intelligent eyes. The restrained colour of his dark-blue doublet and hose declared his position as a greater man’s emissary but I sensed at once that he had a forceful character. The clerk, de Lacey, was somewhat younger, and was different, being nondescript in appearance, dressed plainly in buff, with ink stains on his fingers. He had a bland face but his grey eyes were cold. I didn’t take to him.
‘As you heard,’ I told them, ‘I am Mistress Ursula Stannard, of Hawkswood in Surrey. What the usher didn’t say was that I am a blood relative of the queen, though perhaps you already know about that. May I know what I can do for you? Would you rather speak French?’ I added. ‘I am quite at home with it.’
‘Thank you, but here in England, we will use your own tongue,’ Simier said. ‘We both speak it well.’ He had an accent, but his English seemed fluent.
He came straight to the point. ‘I understand that the queen has asked you to be with her as she considers the merits of marriage to my master. I have come to request your support. I am told that she trusts your judgement. Mistress Stannard, this marriage means a great deal to the Duke of Alençon. He not only seeks it for political and expedient reasons. All he has heard of the queen, and seeing a miniature portrait of her that has come into his hands, has made him fall in love – yes, fall in love, at a distance! He has written to her to declare his love. I saw the letter and indeed persuaded him to moderate his sentiments somewhat because I understand that … forgive me; I mean no impertinence … that she is a maiden queen and I felt that certain passionate phrases were almost unseemly in the circumstances. Believe me, Mistress Stannard, some of his sentiments could set fire to water! De Lacey and I came on ahead of my master, to do his courting by proxy, until he can come himself. He will soon be here. He is eager. But … the queen seems hesitant. I don’t know why …’
He stopped, apparently wanting me to say something, to explain the queen to him. I, however, said nothing at all. For one thing, I didn’t believe a single word of this wild talk about falling in love at a distance. The Duke of Alençon wanted a marriage fit for a king’s heir and he wanted an heir of his own, and he wanted to confirm a very useful treaty. Those facts were obvious. Also obvious were the facts that he was twenty-three, whereas Elizabeth, no matter how pretty her miniature portrait might have made her, was forty-five, and young men in their early twenties rarely fall in love with middle-aged women they have never even met. I waited.
‘This marriage could be of the greatest value to England and France alike,’ said de Simier. ‘The treaty it would ratify would protect both countries from Spanish aggression. Treaties on parchment can be tossed into the fire, but when the parties are married to e
ach other and, God willing, have children, the bond is strengthened a thousandfold. And both realms need a new royal generation.’
He paused, and de Lacey said quietly: ‘It isn’t only that the queen seems uncertain. There are factions in her Council that are not in favour of the Duke’s suit.’ He was not putting himself forward in any impertinent manner, for I had seen de Simier give him a nod. He was speaking up with permission, and restrained though his tone was, it also held a ring of real feeling.
Privately, I was only too glad to hear that there was resistance somewhere in the royal council. ‘Which factions?’ I asked.
‘Sir Robert Dudley, Earl of Leicester,’ said de Simier. He sounded as though the name tasted bad. ‘And Sir Francis Walsingham – who seems to think that such a union would provoke Spain rather than intimidate her – and Lord Burghley is doubtful, for several reasons, we think. If you can stiffen the queen’s resolve, I pray that you will do so.’
He smiled at me, most engagingly, as a trustful child might smile at an adult whose goodwill might bring forth treats, such as sweetmeats or a new pony. I inclined a gracious head.
‘I will always do my best for the queen and for England. I always have,’ I said, in the most regal voice I could manage. I was aware of Dale and Brockley behind me, and I thought I heard, though very faintly, a snort of amusement from Dale. She and Brockley had recognized the ambiguity. The Frenchmen had recognized it too. De Simier’s face hardened and Antoine de Lacey’s chilly eyes gave me a piercing stare. I said: ‘I must go to the queen.’
It was dismissal and they took their leave but as de Simier went out, Antoine lingered momentarily. In a low voice, he said: ‘I fear that you may be among the doubters, Mistress Stannard. I sense it. Am I right?’
‘There are – several sides to the matter,’ I said diplomatically.
‘We would agree there. But that his suit should succeed truly does mean a great deal to my master and to the duke. It could be of immense value to both France and England. I believe this marriage would be right for all concerned.’
Not so nondescript, then. De Simier probably used him regularly as a mouthpiece, just as he was himself the Duke’s mouthpiece. ‘I will think carefully,’ I said, and Brockley, who was already holding the door open, held it wider. De Lacey went out.
‘Well!’ I said as Brockley closed the door after him. ‘What did you think of that?’
‘They’re both admirable servants to their masters,’ said Brockley. ‘But whether they are the best of friends to her majesty is another matter.
‘I think that too,’ I said.
SEVEN
The Frightened Queen
Half an hour later, I was summoned to the queen. I had been expecting this, but I was surprised when the message was brought not by a page, as was usual, but by a young woman who announced herself as Lady Margaret Mollinder, the queen’s newest lady in waiting.
She was a pretty thing, with striking looks, since she had ash-fair hair and brown eyes. She was small and slender and she was so very young that I would have taken her for a maid of honour, except that as she led me to my appointment she chatted artlessly and I learned that she was married and very much in love with her husband, although he was at the moment part of an ambassador’s suite in Austria. Her pretty mouth turned down as she told me, sadly, that she did not know when she would be with him again.
‘I couldn’t go with him because I was expecting and not very well. But two weeks after he had left, well, it all came to nothing – oh, it was such a wretched business; so painful and frightening. Awful. I cried for days.’ She tried to brighten her tone. ‘My family and my husband’s family both have influence and to help me get over it all, to give me an interest, they arranged for me to come to court as a queen’s lady. My mother-in-law looks after things at home.’
She probably wasn’t aware of it but her tone was revealing. I sensed the existence of a mother-in-law who hadn’t wanted to see the household rule pass into the hands of a lass barely out of the schoolroom, and had been only too willing to help Lady Margaret choose gowns for the royal court.
As we were climbing the final staircase towards the queen’s apartments, Lady Margaret said: ‘I am glad you have come, Mistress Stannard. The queen has mentioned you at times. Some of the other ladies are puzzled because just now she seems to want you rather than them, but I understand that you and she are closely related. I can see that it’s natural.’
‘Do you like being at court?’ I asked her.
‘No,’ said Lady Margaret frankly. ‘At least, I like the dancing and the masques, and things of that sort. But sometimes … it’s uncomfortable.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘It’s so tense, like a thunderstorm brewing. The queen is nervous. It scares me. She scares me,’ said Lady Margaret unhappily. ‘She slapped me once. But I think it’s because she’s worried and upset – she doesn’t like to talk about marriage, even though she is getting ready to welcome the Duke of Alençon.’
Young, but not, I thought, dim-witted; ingenuous but observant as well. Lady Margaret Mollinder would one day grow into a wise, even a formidable woman.
‘I will help her if I can,’ I said.
We reached the royal apartments. Lady Margaret led me through the crowded first anteroom, full of courtiers and the lesser ladies in waiting, and here we came across someone who was clearly anxious to relieve any storminess in the atmosphere, if it really existed. Antoine de Lacey was there, entertaining those present with, surprisingly, a display of juggling, with wooden balls, green and blue and red. I had already realized that he might not be as nondescript as he looked, but I would never have associated him with the talents of an entertainer.
He saw me staring at him, and walked towards me, still deftly tossing his colourful balls. For the first time, I saw him smile and how it lightened his face. ‘Mistress Stannard! Good day to you! You find me employing a humble skill for the enjoyment of the court.’
He let the balls fall into a heap on a nearby settle, leant towards me, still smiling, and said: ‘Mistress Stannard, it is really most unwise to put seashells right into your ears. They may be hung from your lobes as earrings but to push them right inside … tut …’ His right hand rose, flicked round my left ear and withdrew with a sizeable seashell on his palm. Lady Margaret gave a delighted giggle and from the rest of the gathering there was laughter and applause.
I laughed too and said: ‘Next time, try to find a gold angel or two in one of my ears!’
‘But I’d have to let you keep them,’ said Antoine, replacing his smile with a woebegone look. ‘After all, they would have come from your ear!’
Still laughing, I nodded to Lady Margaret to continue on, and leaving Antoine behind, we proceeded through a second anteroom, to which only the queen’s ladies of the bedchamber and the more illustrious guests had been admitted. I smiled politely at the ladies, for I knew most of them. Some smiled back and some did not. They would be the ones who were jealous of me and the fact that I was in their eyes privileged, since the queen seemed to need me more than she needed them.
Privileged! I thought cynically, as Lady Margaret, having announced me, turned back and left me alone with my royal sister. This was no privilege. My feet were dragging.
I had dressed with care, but the queen was casually clad in a loose robe, with slippers on her feet. She was seated at a desk, reading. She put a marker in the book as I entered, and turned towards me. ‘Ursula! There you are! I have been anxious to see you. I have been passing the time with a little Roman history – the Annals of Tacitus, in his original Latin. There is nothing like the study of history for giving one a sense of proportion.’
I had sunk into the correct curtsey but now she rose and came to me, holding out her hand to raise me. ‘Come. No formality, sister. You know why you are here?’
‘Yes, ma’am. But …’
‘Here in private, you may call me sister. But …?’
I said: ‘I’m not
sure what you want of me. Lord Burghley wrote to me, saying that you are considering marriage to the French prince, Francis, Duke of Alençon, and that he will shortly come to England. Lord Burghley seemed to think you wished to … to consult me. I have briefly met the duke’s emissary, Jean de Simier. He sought me out this morning.’
‘I dare say. He wanted your support, no doubt.’
‘Yes.’
There was a silence. Elizabeth turned back to her desk, sat down again and stared at Tacitus. She sighed, a deep sigh, coming from some lonely, unhappy place inside her. I looked at her, this great lady who was sovereign of all England, and saw a tired woman, beset by fear. I knew what it was she feared, but it was not something I could mention before she did. I waited.
At last she spoke. ‘I am forty-five and I have not married and you know well enough why. You know that I have seen how marriage puts the woman into the power of the man, and how that prospect horrifies me, because I have also seen what can happen when a man abuses that power. I am among those who have heard the echo of my stepmother Catherine Howard’s screams in the haunted gallery. Oh yes, those tales are true!’
‘I remember her whenever I am in that gallery,’ I said carefully. ‘But whether there’s more in it than that …’
‘There is,’ said Elizabeth, cutting me short. ‘I have only heard them once – on a winter evening, when the light was fading. But I did hear them. It is not just a matter of remembering and imagining, though I do recall her, very well. Her youth. Her passionate nature. Her terror. She was not well brought up. No one had ever taught her discretion, or … the nature, the duties, of a queen. She was no more than a child, at the mercy of instincts she didn’t know how to control. She didn’t even understand that she ought to control them. But my father didn’t recognize any of that. She was in his power and he used that power, and he killed her. It was his second such killing.’
A Deadly Betrothal Page 6
