“I was wondering whether you would manage to come at all,” Brockley said. We reached the far end of the yew garden and emerged by the river. “Well,” he remarked inquiringly, “what next?”
It was chilly. June, the midsummer month, had this year brought cold winds and overcast skies. We both had stout cloaks but even so, we hardly felt warm. “From what I overheard,” I said, “Ridolfi’s tryst should be soon and it’s ‘where the swans are.’ Well, there they are, swimming by the bank. I thought,” I said doubtfully, “that we could hide in those alders. I looked at them earlier and there’s a little clearing in the middle.”
“There’s nowhere else to hide,” Brockley agreed. “If they meet on that miniature headland, we just might be able to hear what’s said, though it’s windy, and that won’t help. But we should be able to see who Ridolfi meets—that’s something. Hush!” He stiffened. “There’s a boat coming. I can hear the oars and there’s a lantern on board. Look!”
“We’d better hide ourselves now,” I whispered. “And hope for the best.”
We pushed our way into the clump of alders. There was indeed a clear space in the center and we could peer out between the heart-shaped leaves and watch the lantern light move slowly toward us across the water. Meanwhile, we could still talk, in whispers.
To reminisce was mischievous but once again, I was tempted. “Do you remember,” I whispered, “the time we had to hide in a cupboard—at Lockhill Manor. In 1561, it must have been. I thought we’d be caught, that time. It was a very near thing.”
“I’ve always hoped,” Brockley muttered, “that the frights you’ve had would one day cure you of plunging into danger. I sometimes fear, madam, that your quiet domestic life bores you a little.”
That bordered on impertinence but I had invited it. After a pause, I said: “I like my everyday life. I like being married to Hugh. It’s just that sometimes . . . I still hear the call of the wild geese. Do you know what I mean? Did you know that Mattie’s husband, Rob Henderson, once said that of me?”
“Yes, madam. I overheard when he said it.” My excellent manservant heaved a sigh. “I pray, madam, that for all our sakes, you will one day cease to hear it! I most truly wish . . . ”
He stopped, and his hand closed on my forearm, gripping it hard and dispassionately. “The boat’s almost here,” he whispered.
We fell silent. The sound of the oars was close at hand now. There was a light scrape as a dinghy came to rest alongside the stage. I squinted through the foliage, and in the twilight, mingled with the gleam of the lantern, I saw a hand toss a loop of rope over a mooring bollard.
Someone climbed out of the boat. Brockley moved to see better, but drew back sharply, rubbing his nose, having scraped it on a branch. “I can’t make out who it is!” he breathed.
“He’s got his back to us,” I whispered back. “Wait. He’s turning round to moor the boat properly. He’s picking up the lamp. Oh!”
“What is it?”
“I know him!” I muttered it into Brockley’s ear. “Well, more or less. I thought I’d heard his voice before somewhere. He’s a merchant. His name’s Paige—he deals in tapestries and fine fabrics. I took Madame Ridolfi to his warehouse to buy taffeta from him only two days ago.”
“Indeed? Where’s he going now?”
Carefully, trying not to rustle the leaves, we moved to see better. The fabric merchant was walking off the standing stage. He paused on the bank, looking about him, holding up the lamp, which showed him clearly. He was a big man with an auburn beard and beneath the heavy cloak which had protected him from the cold river winds, I glimpsed tawny velvet and a gold chain. Paige was the kind of man who normally went about with several attendants to brush the crowd out of the way. Furtiveness didn’t suit him.
His pause lasted several moments, during which Brockley and I froze. Master Paige, however, seemed satisfied. He gave a small nod, as if telling himself that all was well, and walked forward again. Brockley shifted position once more, found another gap to peer through, and gave an irritated grunt.
“What is it? Where’s he gone?” I muttered. “I thought he’d come this way.”
“No, he’s gone into the topiary garden. Do we follow?”
Ridolfi must have given Paige some extra instructions which I hadn’t heard. The topiary garden was a surprise, and an awkward one. “It’s risky,” I said doubtfully. “We could come upon him and Ridolfi straightaway. It still isn’t quite dark. I wish I’d heard more through the study door. He could be waiting for Ridolfi just inside.”
“We could go as far as the arch and listen. Once they meet, they’ll begin to talk. We’d hear that if they were nearby.”
Cautiously, we left our shelter and stole toward the arch, pausing just outside. We did hear voices, faintly, some way within the garden by the sound of them. Warily, we moved in, one at a time, edging sideways and keeping close to the sides of the arch, afraid of showing ourselves against the faint light that still lingered over the river.
We were glad of our caution, for almost at once, the faint voices increased in volume. Ridolfi’s was raised in tones of indignation, and then we realized that he and Paige were coming back toward us. We could not retreat through the arch. Just in time, we hid behind the nearest yew tree.
Ridolfi, speaking English and obviously furious, was holding forth. “. . . you gave me an undertaking . . . contributions are essential and in time, you would have been rewarded . . . Queen Mary pays her debts . . . ”
“I told you before and I tell you again, I have never liked being caught up in political matters and this very day, my son, who went with the merchant fleet that sailed to Hamburg, came home bringing a consignment of fine Flemish tapestries. If we can trade through Hamburg, the whole situation is different.” The two of them had halted in the archway, only feet away from us, which was both alarming and convenient. “My business is back on an even keel and I feel no need to become tangled up in any schemes to placate the Spaniards. Give me credit that at least I came in person to tell you of my decision and assure you that I will not reveal your dealings to any other person.”
“Yes, for that I must be grateful, I suppose. I should be very careful, Master Paige, that you do not reveal my dealings. I would make sure that you regretted it.”
“Keep your threats, Master Ridolfi. You might find that I am able to protect myself better than you think. I am a man of position!” retorted Paige. He swung round, cloak swishing, and strode away. Ridolfi stood there, hands on hips, outlined in the archway. Under his breath he muttered what sounded like an oath. Farther away, we heard Paige get into his boat and grunt as he pushed off. Ridolfi turned away and walked off through the topiary garden once more, presumably making for the house.
“Well, I suppose we’ve learned something,” I whispered. “From what I heard at the study door, Paige was bringing money. Now he’s changed his mind. I must say I’m relieved about that, for his sake.”
“He’s a merchant, you said, madam?” Brockley asked.
“Yes. I know him. I usually buy from him when I come to London. You’ve been with me, sometimes. Didn’t you recognize him?”
“I couldn’t see well enough.” I sensed rather than saw that Brockley was frowning. “But if that’s Paige, he sells to Cecil! I would have said he was a completely respectable man!”
“That’s just the point. The Antwerp business has hit trade so badly that some of the merchants have become desperate, Paige included, I presume. But I think I have heard some gossip at Ridolfi’s table, about a merchant fleet sailing for Hamburg, with warships to guard it. Our merchants are finding ways to trade without Antwerp. Paige is getting himself out of whatever’s going on, and a good thing too. I daresay he wasn’t the only one drawn in. I hope they all back out!”
I hoped it very much. There were images in my mind of small craft being sucked into a deadly vortex; of spiders crouching in the middle of scarcely visible webs, waiting for unwary flies to glide in to their doo
m. It sounded as though big bearded Master Paige had decided, in time, not to be among the flies. I could but pray for the rest.
We waited awhile for safety’s sake, but Ridolfi didn’t return. It was late when we finally emerged from hiding and made our way back to the house going circumspectly by way of the knot garden.
The cloudy sky had cleared somewhat, however, and as we reached the terrace, a nearly full moon came out, lighting up the back of the house. We were disconcerted to see, at one end of the terrace, a ladder propped against the wall and a figure stealthily climbing it toward a candlelit window above. I caught at Brockley’s elbow and pointed.
We ran along the terrace. The figure couldn’t be Paige, who was out on the river and whose bulky form was ill-adapted for climbing ladders, anyway, and it surely wouldn’t turn out to be Ridolfi. “Who on earth . . . ?” I said, as we came to the foot of the ladder. “Isn’t that the window of Hillman’s room?”
“No. His is the one below. I think that one’s . . . ”
We were near enough now for a clear view at least of the ladder-climber’s legs. I would have known those knotted calf muscles anywhere. “Arthur Johnson!” I said.
“And that window, madam, if I’m not mistaken, is that of the maidservants’ dormitory. What the devil are you about, Johnson?”
At that moment, from somewhere above, there came an angry shriek. This was followed by a mingling of female squeals and laughter and suddenly the casement just above the top of the ladder was flung open and the contents of a bowlful of liquid were hurled out. Arthur Johnson, however, with an air of expertise, as though this had happened before, leaned sideways and most of the arc of liquid missed him. We ourselves jumped out of the way just in time and even so, Brockley’s cloak was splashed. He took a damp fold between finger and thumb and sniffed at it. “It isn’t water,” he said with distaste.
The window banged shut, to the accompaniment of what sounded like a few insulting remarks in a feminine voice, and the elderly gardener came backward down the ladder. His seamed face was grinning.
“That’s the maidservants’ room!” said Brockley furiously. “It’s late,” he added to me. “They’re probably undressing now.” He grabbed Johnson as the gardener stepped off the ladder. “What were you at, climbing up there to peer at the young wenches, you dirty-minded fellow!”
“I don’t mean no harm. They’re a pretty sight. Warms my old heart, it does, when I get a glimpse. I wouldn’t hurt any of them,” said Johnson. His grin was positively evil. “Just a bit of fun. I’ve got sense, I have. If I get wed again, I’ll do the proper thing and find myself a good old woman that can cook for a man as don’t have many teeth, and ’members the same bygone years that I do. Got my eye on that old woman of yours, Mistress Stannard, as matter of fact. She knows how to make physic for my aching old bones, too. I could do worse.”
“Gladys?” I said, so astonished that I forgot to be disapproving. “I did tell you, you know, that Gladys is . . . a little strange at times.”
“Oh, aye, all that witchy nonsense. She only does it to scare people and stop them brushing her aside because she’s old,” said Johnson shrewdly. “Gets up her nose, that does. She don’t act like that with me, cos I give her some attention.” He leered. “All the ladies want a man paying heed to them. I tell her she’s a fine old girl and take her walkin’ round the garden—my, my, there’s nothing she don’t know about herbs—and she’s sweet as an angel. Oh yes, I got my eye on her. But looking at young wenches—what man doesn’t want a bit of that? Even if you can’t digest rich food no more, you can still feast off the smell of it.”
“You’re a disgrace!” I said. “I thought you’d listened when Master Hillman spoke to you, but evidently you paid him no heed at all!”
“Quite so!” Brockley snapped. “I’ve a good mind to speak to Signor Ridolfi. And why are you still here at this time of night, anyway?”
“I often sleep over when I’ve work not finished. The wenches have talked to the master already. He values my work so he just told them to do what they did just now. It’s a sort of game. They don’t mind.”
“Oh, get on your way!” shouted Brockley, and attempted to help Johnson’s departure with his boot, except that the gardener neatly evaded him, before leering at us both again, observing that he’d much like to know what we’d been doing, a-walking in the garden in the dark; nice goings-on for a lady and a manservant, in his opinion, and with that, he took himself off with remarkable speed before Brockley could get at him.
15
Herbal Concoctions
At the house, Brockley went off to the kitchen, to put his spattered cloak to soak and find a drink of ale to counter the smell of the maidservants’ parting gift to Johnson. I would have gone straight to my chamber, except that suddenly I heard voices in the downstairs parlor, speaking French. One of the voices was that of Ridolfi.
Though it was late, there were people about. The maidservants had gone to bed but I could hear Greaves reminding someone to prepare a spiced wine for the nightcap that Master Hillman liked each evening, and a couple of kitchen boys passed me, bringing in a supply of firewood. I couldn’t put an ear to the door this time. Instead, I went boldly in to join the company.
I found both Ridolfis there, along with the little pink-faced chaplain, Father Fernando, and George Hillman. Signor Ridolfi was sitting in a relaxed fashion beside his wife and not looking at all as though he had just come from a clandestine meeting. Donna was clearly surprised to see me, since I was supposed to have gone to bed with a headache.
I had prepared for this, just in case. “I decided that I needed fresh air more than anything. Instead of going to bed, I went into the knot garden for a while. I feel better for it.”
“I am glad,” said Donna. “Come and have a seat.”
I did so, remarking that I hoped I wasn’t intruding and adding that in the knot garden, I had noticed some of the herbs that my woman Gladys used to cure my headaches. After all, I thought privately, I did have genuine headaches sometimes. “Will it be in order,” I asked Donna, “if Gladys picks some and dries them?”
“By all means. And of course you are not intruding. We were only talking of a journey that Hillman must soon undertake. He’s going to Scotland. Oh, such a cold, barbarous country, from all I’ve heard. I find England chilly enough!”
“I believe that Mistress Stannard has visited Scotland,” Ridolfi said, “and met Mary Stuart there. Norfolk tells me, Mistress Stannard, that you used to live in France with your previous husband and that he was Matthew de la Roche, one of Queen Mary’s most ardent supporters.”
“That is so,” I assured him gravely and added that I had met Mary Stuart several times and found her charming.
After our last encounter, Mary wouldn’t say the same of me, and I hoped that Ridolfi would never ask her to give me a character reference but there was no point in worrying about matters I couldn’t control.
“I am sure that Queen Mary found it a pleasure to converse with Mistress Stannard. She speaks such excellent French,” Father Fernando observed. He himself spoke it well, though I now knew that he was Spanish.
“Indeed, yes,” Hillman remarked. “With the true accent of Paris.”
“When I lived in France,” I said, “my home was in the Loire Valley. Matthew had a château there.”
“Indeed? My mother greatly loved that district,” Hillman observed. “An aunt of hers married a Frenchman who lived there. As a girl, my mother visited them several times.”
“You must miss your mother,” Ridolfi said sympathetically. “She died only a year ago,” he explained to me. “I know the Hillman family a little. George’s father also died, some years ago, but perhaps ten years since, he came to Italy on business and brought his wife and his sons. I met them socially—a delightful family. You were about sixteen then, Hillman. Recently, when I needed a new secretary and found that young George was in London, grown to manhood and looking for a post, I took him on at once
. I was sorry to learn of his mother’s death. Antonia was a truly gracious lady.”
“Yes, she was,” said Hillman sadly. “And most beautiful.”
“Your mother was called Antonia, Master Hillman?” I asked him. “That’s an unusual name—classical, surely? That’s the second classical name I’ve come across lately. Your predecessor in your post here was called Julius. It’s quite a coincidence.”
“Oh, it’s no coincidence. Julius was my cousin. My mother was one of two sisters, daughters of a scholar who taught Latin and Greek. He gave his daughters Roman names—Antonia and Julia. Julia was Julius’s mother. She persuaded her husband to give their son a Roman name as well. My own father disliked the notion, though, and insisted that his children must have good plain names, which is how I came to be baptized George. My elder brother is called William.”
“I knew of the relationship, of course,” said Ridolfi easily. “It was another reason for being glad to take Hillman on. But I fear I have upset you, Hillman, reminding you of your mother. I am sorry. Father Fernando, would you say a Mass tomorrow for the repose of Antonia’s soul?”
“Of course!” said Fernando. “The poor English! Deprived of the comfort of the Mass; they spend their lives without consolation. It is greatly to be hoped that soon, we can lead them home to the fold.”
I remembered Ridolfi saying something roughly similar to Paige, in the study, and as the thought went through my mind, Ridolfi himself said a solemn amen.
Hillman said nothing. I considered him thoughtfully. Like Julius Gale, he was a very attractive young fellow. Yet he served a suspect man and was about to carry letters to a suspect destination. What part had Julius Gale played in whatever mysterious drama was unfolding by such uneasy stages and was his cousin a player in that drama too?
The Siren Queen: An Ursula Blanchard Mystery at Queen Elizabeth I's Page 14
