The Siren Queen: An Ursula Blanchard Mystery at Queen Elizabeth I's

by Buckley, Fiona

  Presently, when we felt fairly sure that he was mending, we handed our watch back to the servants who had looked after him in the morning, and went out. Once outside the door, we exchanged glances. “May I come to your room, with you, Mistress Stannard?” said Sybil.

  Sybil and I were good friends. She was a mature woman who had seen trouble in her life and overcome it. She wasn’t handsome, since her features had a curious quality, as though they had been compressed between a board under her chin and a heavy weight on top of her head so that her mouth and nostrils were a fraction too wide and her eyebrows swept out too far toward her temples. Yet hers was a face with strength and a surprising amount of attraction. I was very fond of Sybil and trusted her just as I trusted Hugh, or Brockley. She knew about my past adventures. I led the way to Hugh’s and my chamber. No one was there save for ourselves. We stood looking at each other. “Sybil?” I said.

  “I take it that you noticed too,” said Sybil. “Those letters.”

  “One was addressed to the Earl of Moray, Regent of Scotland,” I said. “I take it the seal is that of Gale’s employer. He’s called Ridolfi. I think he’s a banker. Well, a man in Moray’s position might well be in touch with a banker. That seems natural enough. The letter with Norfolk’s seal on it, addressed to My Lady Mary Stuart, is natural enough as well. He told us he was corresponding with her direct, and Gale mentioned that he meant to travel by way of Staffordshire. But that third one . . . ”

  “Had a superscription which was nothing but a row of figures. A cipher of some kind, I suppose,” said Sybil. “In which case, what’s inside is probably in cipher as well.”

  “The seal was the same as the one on the letter to Moray,” I said. “Presumably it was Ridolfi’s again. We don’t know who it was for, but most probably either Mary or Moray.”

  “In cipher,” repeated Sybil, driving the point home.

  People only write letters in cipher in order to hide something. When such a letter is bundled together with missives to people like the Scottish regent and the deposed Scottish queen, in a world where the said queen is ardently scheming to get herself back on to the Scottish throne and also on to that of England, if she can possibly manage it, then the presence of the cipher is a warning signal. Both Sybil and I knew it.

  Obliquely, Sybil said: “It would be such . . . such bad manners.”

  “I know. That’s more or less what Hugh said. Last night, we were wondering whether we should report our good host’s obsession with Mary. Then the servants started being taken ill and we were interrupted. We had more or less decided that it wasn’t necessary, but we didn’t know then about that cipher letter.”

  “We were invited here in good faith,” said Sybil.

  I nodded unhappily. “And what would I think of a guest who listened to my confidences, saw my correspondence by chance, and then trotted off to Cecil with the news that I was in contact with questionable people? I’ve investigated and reported on people’s private documents in the past, but that was under orders. This is different.”

  “Is the Earl of Moray really questionable? He’s Protestant,” said Sybil. “That doesn’t make him an enemy to England.”

  “Mary’s questionable enough and Moray is her half brother and he may be interested in getting his sister put back on her throne. If so, then an enemy to England is exactly what he is.”

  “Are we talking about treason?” asked Sybil.

  The word was out that had been nagging silently at our minds ever since we saw that row of incomprehensible numerals.

  We were still staring blankly at each other when my husband appeared. I turned to him thankfully. “Hugh! We need your advice!”

  I explained. Hugh listened silently and then said: “Let us all sit down. We must think carefully.” He took his own advice and moved to the padded window seat. Sybil and I took the settle by the hearth.

  “Ursula,” said my husband, “tell me all you can remember about what happened when this business of Norfolk and Mary came up before.”

  “I learned of it last year, when I went north and saw Mary Stuart,” I said. “When I came back, I spoke of it to Cecil, but he already knew. He said the matter would go no further, that the queen herself would speak to Norfolk. I was left with the impression that they meant to warn him off but I don’t know if they did. It’s possible that the idea wasn’t quelled after all. Perhaps the queen and her council decided on reflection that it might be safer to have Mary married to an English nobleman than to some foreign prince with an army at his back. When she hears that the idea has been revived, Elizabeth may be quite agreeable. Only . . . ”

  “It’s the cipher that disturbs you, isn’t it?”

  “Yes. I think,” I said, “that it’s from Gale’s employer, who is a banker. It’s probably meant for either the regent, or Mary. Perhaps one of them wants money advanced for some purpose or other—but if so . . . ”

  I stopped and Hugh finished the sentence for me. “It must be very secret, or why put it in code?”

  “And in times such as these,” I said, “secret purposes tend to be—unlawful.”

  Hugh’s face was growing lined now, with the years, and watching him, I saw the lines deepen with irritation. “Mary Stuart! I think of her as That Woman, you know. Do you know what she reminds me of?”

  “No, what?”

  “One of those sirens in an Ancient Greek legend, sitting on a rock, singing and combing her hair and luring sailors to destruction. I think she’s luring Norfolk! Cecil has eyes and ears in most great houses and he may know all about—whatever is going on. But . . . ”

  “We’re not sure,” I finished for him. “We’ve been so long away from court. We’re not up-to-date.”

  “A marriage of this kind . . . ” Hugh’s voice tailed off, as he thought it out. Then he reached a conclusion. “We all have qualms. I think we’re bound to have. But you’ve been right all along, Ursula. Cecil ought to know of this! We must make certain. Damn it,” said Hugh. “Dealings with Mary could concern the succession. They mustn’t be secret. No, we can not just say: Norfolk is our host and so we mustn’t report what we’ve seen. I think . . . I think,” said Hugh heavily, “that when we leave for home, we must go by way of Cecil’s house.”

  6

  Brown and Muted Yellow

  Taking our leave, however, didn’t prove to be so easy.

  We sought the duke out at once and with great tact, Hugh explained that we fully appreciated his kindness in arranging for us to meet Master Dean, but that we had concluded that Meg, after all, was too young for such plans just yet. “We would rather take her home and give ourselves more time to consider her future.”

  Thomas Howard, however, urged us to stay a little longer. “You have scarcely given yourselves, or Meg, time to get to know Dean, and his hopes have been raised, you know. He likes the girl very much. Will you not give him a chance to recommend himself to you? Besides, there’s Gale. He’s still unwell, is he not? And I’ve been impressed, Mistress Stannard, by the way you and Mistress Jester have nursed him. I wish you’d stay until he’s fit again. He’s a good, trustworthy fellow and I wouldn’t like my friend Ridolfi to think I’d treated his man carelessly.”

  In the circumstances, we could only agree. Concerned with looking after Gale, I could not very well go out to see Cecil, and although Hugh could have gone, we both felt, in any case, that to go while we were still Norfolk’s guests really was in bad taste. However, Gale did recover a good deal during that day and the following morning, he appeared at breakfast.

  Breakfast in the duke’s house was served in the great hall, but was informal. Food was set out on a sideboard and when people came out of their bedchambers, they strolled in and helped themselves. Gale looked at the food dubiously, but he did take a chop, some bread, and a beaker of milk, while once more lamenting the time he had lost.

  “I should leave as soon as I can. I’ve never fallen ill on a journey before.”

  “You are still not eatin
g well.” Dean was choosing cold chops alongside him. “Don’t set off till you’re fit. You can make an early start when the time comes.”

  “I think I must. My lord,” he addressed the duke, who, in a gold-embroidered dressing gown, was also pottering at the sideboard, “I will need a fresh horse when I set out. The hireling I arrived on must go back to its home stable and it’s a lazy beast, anyway. I’d be glad of a really good horse, to help me make up some of my lost time.”

  “Oh, by all means, by all means. Borrow Black Baron. Go to the stables, Gale, and ask to look at him. You’ll get a fair number of miles out of him at a brisk pace. But Dean is right—you should not start out until you are strong again. Wait until you’re sure of your health.”

  Gale visibly fretted and insisted on inspecting Black Baron at once. Hugh and I went with him and admired the gelding, which was a fine horse, sixteen hands, satiny black with a narrow white blaze, an arrogant head carriage, and the deep chest and long legs that mean speed. But much as I wished to give up my responsibility for his health and go home, I knew Gale was wise when he reluctantly admitted that he wasn’t ready to leave yet. The next day was Sunday. He would wait until Monday, he said.

  He seemed to be quite recovered by Sunday evening and shortly before supper, declared that yes, he would leave at dawn on the morrow. In our room that night, I said to Hugh: “Could we start out on the morrow as well? I’d like to.”

  “So would I,” said Hugh. “Before Meg becomes any further enamored of Master Dean!”

  The last two days had been pleasant enough. We had attended church on the Sunday morning, and each day Norfolk had provided a program of amusements. Henry FitzAlan, the Earl of Arundel, had come to dine on Sunday. I knew him, for he had been one of Matthew’s friends. He was a middle-aged, slightly pompous man with a paunch, but he could be good company and shared some amusing court gossip with us.

  He was accompanied by several young men of his household and after dinner, Norfolk organized a tennis match. FitzAlan himself was past the age (and had lost the figure) for tennis, but Norfolk played, along with Arundel’s men and Dean and later, the men had a game of bowls, in which Hugh joined. It would all have been very agreeable, but for Meg.

  It is in the nature of young girls to be romantic and susceptible to the idea of falling in love. I had hoped, however, that Meg, who had always shown character and common sense, might not be as susceptible as some. By Monday, however, I had begun to fear the worst.

  The duke had wanted us all, including Meg, to get to know Dean better and we could hardly refuse. We had to let Meg talk to him. The duke had said that Dean liked her, but since she wasn’t yet fourteen, I hoped that he was just amused by a pretty child and wouldn’t feel interested in her as a woman. However, he seemed all too willing to stroll with her in Norfolk’s well-kept gardens—which, unfortunately, were extensive and provided some lengthy walks.

  He did most of the talking. I made a point of staying within earshot and for the most part, he seemed to be telling her about the world of merchanting. That was harmless enough, but once, as we were all sauntering through the topiary garden, where a very ancient gardener, with a brown, gnomelike face, seamed with wrinkles, was trimming the top of a yew hedge into a series of strange geometric shapes, I heard Meg tell Dean earnestly that she thought some commercial ploy that he had been describing to her was truly wonderful and that she admired him greatly. As she spoke, she gazed adoringly up into his face. The sooner Meg was out of his reach, I thought, the better.

  “We’d better tell our host that we’re going,” Hugh said, on Sunday evening, after Arundel had departed. “And we’d better be firm about it.”

  We did so, explaining that although we had talked to Dean as requested, and let the couple talk to each other, we still felt that Meg was not old enough for a betrothal. Norfolk sighed rather petulantly, but called Dean in and explained our opinion to him. From his expression, Dean’s first reaction was annoyance, but he politely agreed that Meg was very young. “Though very charming and I hope that the matter isn’t quite closed,” he said. “She is at a delightful age. The woman is emerging from the bud of childhood and what a lovely woman she will be.”

  “And what a lovely dowry she will have,” said Hugh cynically, when we were back in our chamber.

  “He’ll find a better prospect sooner or later, with the duke to help him,” I said. “With luck and a little time, he’ll just forget about Meg.”

  And then we had trouble with Meg. “But I like him,” she told us imploringly. “Mother, Stepfather, can’t we be betrothed before we go?”

  I tried to explain to her that there was plenty of time, and that the world contained better men than Dean, and that she must remember that once married, she would be completely in his power. “Men sometimes misuse their power. We must make quite sure that whoever you marry isn’t of that kind.”

  “You weren’t in the power of Master de la Roche,” said Meg acutely. “You came to England to find me when you thought something might have happened to me and he let you go.”

  “He—allowed me a good deal of latitude,” I said.

  “It depends on the man, in the end,” Hugh said. “We want the right one for you, my lass.”

  She went on pleading but we wouldn’t give way and finally she began to cry. We recommended her to retire to her room and calm herself with a book until supper was served. The next thing that happened was that I looked out of my chamber window, and there was Meg, if you please, chatting among the flower beds not, this time, with Edmund Dean but with that cheeky-faced lad Walt, who had nearly tripped Hugh up with an ale barrel. He was telling her something that had made her giggle.

  If Dean wasn’t what I wanted for Meg, neither was Walt. I went down to interrupt them. “Meg, it’s time to get ready for supper. Walt, surely you have work to do?”

  “Indeed yes, madam,” said Walt, sketching a bow that had a trace of irony in it, as though he knew quite well what I was thinking and thought it amusing. He took himself off and I led Meg indoors. We went up to her room and as we entered hers, she looked at me reproachfully.

  “Mother, there was no harm in my talking to Walt. We just exchanged a few words, as anyone might do.”

  “I daresay,” I said. “All the same, when a girl reaches your age, she has to be a little careful. It’s not fair on lads like Walt, either, to, well, dangle enticements in front of them.”

  “I wasn’t!” Meg was annoyed. “I just went out for some air. It’s so warm. I met Walt in the garden. I’ve spoken with him before.”

  “Have you, indeed!”

  “He’s betrothed, Mother. He mostly talks about his Bessie! She’s the daughter of a tavern keeper and he wants to persuade her father to take him into the business. There’s no son, it seems. He wants to wed as soon as he can. He’s not interested in me—I’m just someone who will sympathize! He and Bessie are dreadfully in love. I think it’s so romantic!”

  “Well, don’t lead his eyes away from her, then. Oh, there you are, Sybil.” Sybil had come into the room, looking mildly anxious, and exclaiming that she had been looking for Meg and couldn’t find her. “Has she been here all the time?”

  “Not all the time. I went outside and I met the kitchen lad Walt,” said Meg. “But Mother thinks I shouldn’t have stopped to speak to him.”

  “No, indeed you shouldn’t. You should have stayed in your room as you were told.”

  Meg let out an unfeminine and dismissive snort, which startled me. She looked so like her father, and yet there were times . . . I had never seen my own father, King Henry. But I had heard him described and he was, of course, her grandfather. At times, I detected in my daughter a confidence, an ability to impose her point of view on others, which was an extraordinary trait in a wench of thirteen. But from what I had heard, it had been very characteristic of King Henry.

  “Mother,” said Meg, “can I give Walt a present for his betrothed? Wouldn’t that be a nice gesture?”


  “Well, yes, I suppose it would.” It showed a fairly healthy attitude toward Walt and his Bessie, at least. “What would you like to give?”

  “Well, there’s my old silver pendant. I don’t wear it now; Stepfather was right about that. But it seems a waste, and it’s pretty and well polished. Might she not like it?”

  “Oh, very well,” I said, and we made the presentation after supper, though I made sure I was there when Meg handed it to him. He was touched; for a moment, I glimpsed a young man of feeling beneath the cheeky veneer.

  “I’ll keep it safe and give it to Bessie on our wedding day,” he said, as he put it tenderly away in the pocket of his sleeveless working jerkin. “Thank you, Mistress Meg. Thank you, Mistress Stannard.”

  I hoped that this little incident would at least have distracted Meg from her disappointment over Edmund Dean, but in the morning, she was talking of him and crying all over again, so that we were late for breakfast because we were drying her tears, or I was, at least. Hugh was firmer and told her roundly that her vapors must cease. “If you don’t behave, you’ll have to travel in the coach with me, because I’m not going to let you make a spectacle of yourself as we go through the streets. We’ll use your pony as a packhorse.”

  Meg loved riding and loved her pony. She wiped her eyes, allowed herself to be dressed for the road, and joined us at the breakfast sideboard. Norfolk was there, but not Dean, for which I was glad. I was then disappointed when he put in an appearance just as we were finishing.

  “I have been walking in the grounds, Your Grace,” he said to Norfolk. “How old is that fellow who’s trimming the topiary? Should he still be climbing ladders at his age?”

  “Arthur Johnson is the best topiary gardener in London,” said Norfolk. “I’d like to have his exclusive services but he prefers to be his own master and hire himself out to whoever he likes. He can look at a yew tree and see what shapes are hidden inside it, and—it’s as though he calls the shapes out of the tree. He’s a superb craftsman and he hasn’t fallen off any ladders yet.”