A Deadly Betrothal

by FIONA BUCKLEY

  I mentioned de Lacey’s suggestion of asking another couple and she said: ‘Oh, by all means. Take young Lady Margaret Mollinder. I will ask Sir Christopher Hatton to escort her. She is not very happy at court,’ said Elizabeth. ‘She says she misses her husband. Ah well; I can sympathize with that. I miss Alençon even though he is not yet my husband. You may approach both her and Hatton on the matter.’

  ‘Will you soon let the Earl of Leicester come back to the court?’ I ventured.

  With another sudden change of mood, Elizabeth frowned and her eyes sparked with the anger that made people quail, including me. Then she relaxed. ‘Not yet. Eventually, I will, but first he must learn that he cannot offend me with impunity. I would find it easier to forgive him for his marriage if he were not so opposed to mine! One thing I will not do, and that is allow his wife, my wretched cousin Lettice, to come to court with him. I have never liked or trusted her. She had better not show her face again in my presence! Ever.’

  I bent my head and made no comment.

  Leicester accepted the invitation and duly chose the venue for the dinner, selecting the Castle Inn in Kingston, as being convenient for the guests from court. A private dining room on the first floor was bespoken for the occasion, which took place a week after my visit to Wanstead.

  We set out by river: myself, the Brockleys, Antoine de Lacey, Lady Margaret Mollinder and her maid, a young woman called Lucy who clearly had an affection for her mistress, and Sir Christopher Hatton. Lean and dark and long-chinned, he had a certain resemblance to Sussex, and was just as much of a devoted servant to the queen. There were rumours that he was secretly married but no one ever learned the truth of that for sure and I doubt if Elizabeth ever knew that such a rumour existed. To her, he was forever a bachelor, a gifted dancer, and available, when she wished it, to act as an escort for her or for any court lady in need of one.

  Brockley came along so that he could help to trundle the little handcart on which Antoine had placed the precious keg. It had not been sent from France but had been ordered by letter, from a London vintner. Antoine had stored it in his room in the meantime and as he had no servant of his own and was entitled to make only limited use of the royal servants, I lent him Brockley to assist in getting the keg from palace to barge, and from barge to hostelry.

  The barge we used belonged to Sir Christopher. It bore us from Richmond to Kingston on a leaden, sluggish river. The day was leaden and sluggish too, too thundery for October. We had all eyed that sky doubtfully and brought cloaks in case we needed them. The air on the river was a little fresher than it was ashore, though, and the journey was agreeable.

  So was our welcome at the inn, for the innkeeper, delighted to cater for such a distinguished party, bowed himself nearly double as he greeted us, handed Dale and Lucy (and the cloaks) over to his wife, who promised that our attendants would be looked after, and then showed us upstairs to the dining chamber, where Leicester and Lettice already awaited us. Brockley and de Lacey carried the keg up between them. Then Brockley left us to join Dale and Lucy downstairs, while the rest of us settled ourselves at the dining table.

  The arrangements seemed to be excellent. The table, which was round, was elaborately set and there were two side tables, one holding a silver platter, the other a tray with glasses and a tall jug. The keg was set down beside it. We, the guests, had of course dressed to do justice to the occasion. Hatton wore black, but in a rich material, and de Lacey was in amber, with big puffed sleeves, slashed with yellow silk. Leicester’s sleeves were less spectacular but his crimson brocade doublet and hose were striking, while Lettice had a beautiful peach-coloured gown embroidered with flowers of all colours, and Lady Margaret had chosen a charming, youthful gown of interwoven white and silver.

  The queen’s reward to me for my efforts at Wanstead had not been in money, but in kind. She had sent me a fine rope of genuine pearls and a pair of matching earrings. I was wearing the pearl rope as a double necklace, teemed with an open-fronted gown in green brocade, over a lighter green kirtle embroidered with little white leaves. The overskirt did not have a hidden pouch stitched inside it. I was hardly likely to need picklocks or a dagger on this occasion, and though I had money with me, my green velvet purse was on my girdle.

  Since the table was circular, there was no head to it, but the seats consisted of stools and one chair with carved arms. ‘That’s for the guest of honour,’ said Antoine, gesturing to Leicester. The earl took his seat, with Lady Margaret on his right and myself on his left. Antoine sat on the other side of Margaret, Hatton on the other side of me, and Lettice was between them, opposite to her lord.

  ‘I left it to Antoine here to choose the food,’ Leicester said as we settled ourselves. ‘He’s our host, after all.’ From the moment we were assembled, Leicester had taken charge of the conversation, avoiding any reference to the reason behind the dinner, complimenting Lady Margaret and me on our dresses, and talking of harmless matters: the sticky weather, the new horses he was buying for the queen’s guard – he was still her Master of Horse and was managing to perform his duties in spite of being banished from court – and some alterations he was having made at the Wanstead house.

  Hatton fitted smoothly in, adding comments here and there, and Lettice, gracious as never before, echoed Leicester’s remarks, fanning herself when he spoke of the weather, observing that the new horses were all to be grey – ‘and the same height; it is a challenging task to find them’ – and approving the alterations which would give her husband more space for his books. ‘He is such a great reader.’

  Platters of bread were brought in, accompanied by chicken and pork soup with saffron and cumin, and with it, we had a cooled white wine. ‘But this is not the special wine that my master Jean de Simier has sent,’ Antoine told us. ‘That will go best with meat. We’ll have it presently.’

  Over the soup, conversation continued to be courteous and general. Hatton recounted a comical anecdote about hunting, mainly addressing Lady Margaret; as her escort, he evidently thought he should try to entertain her. She responded with polite laughter, though I noticed that she often twisted her wedding ring. She was pining badly for her husband, I thought.

  The soup was followed by a fish pie and our glasses were refilled with the white wine. But while we were eating the pie, two inn servants brought in a joint of roast beef on a carving dish. They set this down on the spare side table and one of them, after some histrionic sharpening of a knife, carved it into slices, which he laid tenderly on the silver platter. The other broached the keg, filled the jug, and from that filled the glasses. He brought the tray over to us and handed out the glasses.

  ‘It has had time to settle,’ Antoine said. ‘And Brockley and I were most careful with it. It’s a red wine, very full bodied and velvety. I have had it in France and I can speak for its excellence.’

  Hatton, inhaling the fragrance from his glass, said: ‘I recognize this. I think I could even name the vineyard it comes from. If I’m right, it’s an excellent vintage.’

  ‘I think you will find it so,’ said Antoine. ‘And now …’ He rose to his feet, holding his glass high. ‘Now let us acknowledge why we are here. We cannot avoid that. So let us drink a toast. To the clearing of my lord of Leicester’s name – my master Jean de Simier begs forgiveness for his foolish accusation – and to the future union of your country, my lord, with my own, when the Duke of Alençon and your most noble queen Elizabeth stand before the altar and are made one in marriage.’

  He drank, with a flourish. We all did the same and Hatton exclaimed: ‘To the clearing of a name and the hope of a royal marriage,’ which was generous of him, for I was well aware that he was among those who feared the outcome of marriage – any marriage – for the queen.

  The dish of beef slices was brought over and a choice of sauces was offered. Side dishes of salad and savoury beans were set out and more bread was brought. I began to talk of a letter I had that morning received from Kate Lake. She had decided that s
he wished to sell Eric’s dark-chestnut gelding and wondered if I would like to buy it.

  ‘Only,’ I said to Leicester, ‘she isn’t sure what it is worth. She wants advice. I don’t know how old it is, but it’s a good-looking animal and well-mannered and it must be nearly sixteen hands.’

  Leicester was always ready to talk about horses. ‘I might be interested in it myself! However, if Mistress Lake can have it brought to Wanstead, I could examine it and suggest a suitable price. I could … what the devil is happening to the light? M’sieu de Lacey …’

  While we were eating, the air, hot and heavy to start with, had become even hotter and heavier and the sky had been steadily darkening. ‘We’re in for a storm,’ Antoine remarked.

  Lightning flickered and thunder rumbled. A moment later, it became so dark that we could hardly see each other’s faces. ‘Lights!’ Antoine shouted at the two serving men.

  They hurried away to return a moment later with two branched candlesticks. The thunder and lightning were now continuous and the wicks were kindled only after some nervous fumbling with a tinderbox. The candlesticks were brought to the table. Antoine, noticing that both Leicester and Hatton had almost emptied their glasses, shouted for the jug to be filled up and brought to the table as well. ‘I’ll top up the glasses,’ he said, to the servant who brought it. ‘It’s only a storm, but look at the way your hands are shaking!’

  His own weren’t perfectly steady, for he slopped the wine a little and splashed one of his sleeves, muttering a fastidious oath and then saying, most unfairly, that he couldn’t see why a commonplace thunderstorm should make all the servants go into a dither. Eating and drinking resumed.

  ‘That’s better,’ said Leicester, folding a slice of beef into a piece of bread and engulfing it with obvious pleasure. ‘We can all see what we’re doing now. Never mind the dithering servants, de Lacey. The service is good enough and so is the food. I thought it would be – I know this inn. The cook knows his business.’

  ‘The salad is beautifully arranged,’ Lettice agreed. ‘Almost a work of art. It seems a shame to break into it!’

  She was interrupted by another flash of lightning, this time a giant one. For a startled moment we saw each other’s faces lit up not by the soft candlelight, which had been completely overwhelmed, but by a hard, blue glare. Then came an immense crash of thunder. It sounded as though a landslide were falling out of the clouds. The whole building shook. Dishes rattled. The wine jug slopped. The serving men shied like frightened colts and Lady Margaret sprang to her feet with a shriek, jolting the table, which tilted. I too stood up, leaning across the table to stop the candlesticks and the dish of beef slices from sliding straight into Hatton’s lap. Several wineglasses also started sliding towards me and I retrieved them too, pushing them back to their places. Outside, with a sudden swish, the rain began, a heavy downpour that drummed on the windows. There was another flash but a less alarming one and the next rumble of thunder sounded further away. The table settled back.

  Lady Margaret sat down and said shakily: ‘I’m so sorry. I was silly. I have never liked thunder.’ Hatton said something kind to her, in a low voice. We resumed our dinner. Lettice asked me where I had bought the brocade for my gown, Hatton went on talking quietly to Lady Margaret while Leicester and Antoine entered into a discussion about some political matter.

  The course finished. Hatton proposed a toast to our host, Antoine de Lacey, and our guest of honour, the Earl of Leicester, and we all drank. The dessert course arrived. A honey and saffron quiche was served, ready sliced and accompanied by jugs of cream. ‘Really excellent,’ Leicester declared, after one bite. ‘I congratulate you, M’sieu de Lacey … M’sieu? What …?’

  A strange expression had crossed Antoine’s face. He half rose from his seat. ‘I don’t know … I feel … dear God, my stomach! I think I’m going to be …’

  He turned aside just in time to avoid actually vomiting over the table. He threw up on to the floor instead. We stared at him in horror.

  And then I became aware of three unpleasant things, all at the same time.

  One was that Hatton and Lady Margaret were also looking ill and clutching at their stomachs. Another was that I too was about to vomit. The third was that I was also about to have diarrhoea.

  It might be better not to describe the next half-hour or so in too much detail. We were all stricken. The serving men must have run for help because suddenly the room was full of people: the innkeeper, his wife, Dale, Brockley and Lucy. There was a terrible smell in the room. Basins were being offered. A ghastly salty drink was being thrust upon me, which made me vomit even more violently.

  After that, memory becomes hazy. As if through a mist, I recall Dale and one of the inn’s maids helping me into another room, and onto a bed. I felt myself being undressed and heard Dale exclaiming. There was a horrible stench. Someone gave me a drink of water. Someone seemed to be washing me. I was sick again.

  After that, I vaguely recall Lady Margaret being carried in and laid on the bed beside me. I heard her crying. There were still a few lightning flashes and the sound of thunder in the distance and rain was still driving against the windows.

  Then sleep came. When I woke, it was morning. Birds were singing. I was no longer ill, though I felt very weak and my stomach muscles ached. Dale was asleep on a truckle bed and Lady Margaret was lying next to me. She was on her side, quiet and pale and still. I lifted myself on an elbow and looked at her.

  The horrible smell was there again, and on Lady Margaret’s pillow, next to her face, was a revolting pile of mingled vomit and blood.

  Lady Margaret Mollinder was dead.

  TWENTY-ONE

  One Careless Word

  Except for poor Lady Margaret, we all recovered quickly. By the afternoon, though we were still weak, the rest of us had even begun to feel hungry again. A physician had been called, however, who recommended that we all rest for a time, so we stayed at the Castle Inn for three complete days more, though there was much sending of messages, for the queen had to be told what had happened and Lady Margaret had to be carried back to Richmond so that plans could be made for her funeral.

  Brockley acted as the messenger and took Dale with him to collect night-gear, fresh linen and two dresses for me, with kirtles. I had only the dress and linen I had been wearing when the illness struck, and all of that was stained beyond hope.

  On the third day, Hatton and Leicester, as the two senior men of the group, called us all to join them in Leicester’s room.

  ‘We shall have to report what has happened,’ said Leicester. ‘But we need to be careful what we say. We must all say the same, and stand by it.’

  ‘Food poisoning,’ said Hatton. ‘That’s the story that’s been told in the messages we’ve sent to Richmond so far, and we must hold to that. Rumours of any other kind of poisoning must be quashed. They are absurd, of course, for who would want to harm that poor young lady? But rumour isn’t logical. There was a keg of wine sent by Jean de Simier to my lord of Leicester here, and it is known that my lord is not in favour of the queen’s marriage to the Duke of Alençon. It is also known that although de Simier has apologized for the earlier rumour, he resents my lord of Leicester’s attitude. If scandalous talk arises, it will be quite as dangerous as the rumour about my lord trying to poison de Simier! There will be such a public outcry against de Simier and through him, against Alençon, that there would be no chance of the marriage proceeding. I don’t favour the marriage any more than the earl here, but the decision belongs to the queen, not to anyone else, and in any case, I think I can say, my lord of Leicester, that neither you nor I would want it halted by scandal.’

  ‘No, indeed we wouldn’t,’ said Leicester with feeling, and I knew that he was thinking of the mysterious death of his first wife, and the suspicions that had clustered round him then. ‘It could even be said that it was a scheme on our part to discredit de Simier and Alençon! A scheme that went somehow wrong. Who knows what they will s
ay – the they that is our nickname for the imaginative and talkative men and women of England! No. Food poisoning is probably what really happened and in any case, that’s our story and there’s nothing odd about it in such thundery weather.’

  I said: ‘But what do we really think?’

  Leicester looked at me. ‘We don’t,’ he said. ‘Better not. Lady Margaret was unlucky in that she was more sensitive to whatever it was than the rest of us.’

  ‘No one can be sure,’ said de Lacey, ‘where the venom, whatever it was, came from. If it really was food poisoning, it could have been in the food! There was pork in that soup and pork can be dangerous in sticky weather.’

  ‘The innkeeper,’ said Hatton, ‘tried a little of the wine on a stray dog. The dog fell ill, though it hasn’t died, and now seems to be recovering. It was the wine, for sure.’

  A cold worm of suspicion coiled itself in my stomach. And as I looked Leicester in the eyes, I knew that he felt the same. The trouble had lain in the special keg of wine. And the provenance of that keg was … suggestive …

  In the barge, on the way back to Richmond, Brockley came to sit at my side. ‘Madam …’

  ‘Yes, Brockley?’

  ‘I managed, yesterday, to take a really close look at that keg,’ he said. ‘It had been emptied and taken down to a storeroom to be cleaned. Such kegs are useful; the innkeeper isn’t one to let a handy windfall slip past him.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘It had been tampered with,’ said Brockley. ‘In the lid, there was what, at a brief glance, looked like a knot mark in the wood. But when I looked closer, I could see that a hole had been drilled there. It had been filled in with something – clay, perhaps – and then the whole lid had been varnished. I looked hard enough to make sure. I have no doubt at all that there was tampering, madam.’