I found them on the seat beside the swans and horses. Edmund Dean’s arm was around my daughter and in his other hand he had a book, from which he was reading aloud to her. He had a good speaking voice, measured and clear. As I came within earshot, I caught a phrase or two.
“. . . and wilt thou leave me thus, that has given thee my heart never for to depart, neither for pain nor smart? And wilt thou leave me thus? Say nay! Say nay! . . . ”
I knew the poem and I knew who its author was. Sir Thomas Wyatt was a favorite poet of mine and I had lately bought a new edition of his collected works. He had been a courtier in the days of Henry the Eighth and he had almost certainly been in love with Queen Anne Boleyn. He had been narrowly acquitted of being her lover in the physical sense. He was as persuasive and ardent a poet as ever set quill to paper and a suitor armed with his verses was well equipped to beguile older and wiser women than my little Meg.
I bore down on the pair of them, a female Jove, prepared to hurl thunderbolts. “Meg! What are you doing here? Master Dean, I do not recall giving you leave to take my daughter walking anywhere and least of all here!”
“I beg your pardon, mistress!”
Dean rose, bowing, full of contrition—outwardly, at least. But as he straightened up and looked me in the face, his intense stare told me that he was not really disconcerted. He had decided to woo Meg, it seemed, and he took it for granted that his wishes would prevail over mine.
Brockley had followed me into the topiary, though not Dale. During our stay at the Ridolfis she had seen the place more than once, but he still preferred her not to enter it. “Brockley,” I said over my shoulder, “take Meg indoors. She must wash her face and hands before dinner.”
“Mother, Edmund was reading a poem to me . . . ”
“I have a copy in my chamber. You can read the rest for yourself whenever you like. Go with Brockley, please.”
“But, Mother . . . ”
“Come, Meg, do as your mother says!” Brockley stepped smartly forward, took Meg’s arm and virtually lifted her off the bench. She tried to protest but I snapped: “Meg! Go!” so fiercely that she ceased to resist and went, drooping. I gazed after her, my fury giving way to despondency. Just how far in love was my hitherto amenable and delightful daughter?
I turned to Dean. “Was it not made clear to you, sir, that we did not wish to pursue this matter of Meg’s betrothal?”
“But only, madam, on account of her youth, which time will amend, all too soon, and—she is so lovely. I am sorry to have displeased you.” He was trying his beguilements on me now. In a confiding voice that went very ill with those penetrating eyes, he said: “I admit it; I want her to leave a little of her heart with me, so that three or four years hence, she may say to you: What of Master Dean? And perhaps the matter can be reopened then?”
This was what came of trying to withdraw from the marriage negotiations with tact. All the same, I made one last attempt to be tactful. “I cannot understand,” I said, “why a girl as young as Meg attracts you so much. You’re a grown man.”
“But, Mistress Stannard, it is her youth that I like. Far more than her dowry, if the truth be told. Being young, she will be compliant. She can be molded into my ideal of a wife. Then I shall be pleased, and she will be happy. Do you not see?”
Yes, I saw.
To hell with tact.
“Master Dean,” I said, “I think I should tell you that Master Stannard and I realized that something of the sort was in your mind and although we didn’t say so then, that is another reason why we have definitely decided against any marriage between you and Meg. My daughter is . . . ”
The granddaughter of King Henry the Eighth, and the half niece of Queen Elizabeth, and not, therefore, in the least likely to be the piece of pliable clay that Dean evidently imagined.
“. . . my daughter is not to be molded, but to be valued. She is not a white page for you to write on. Her character and intelligence have written their own signatures there already. The Duke of Norfolk meant well when he made the introduction, but our considered decision is—no. Never again attempt to walk or talk with her alone. Good day to you.”
He had gone white. He said nothing, but bowed once more, and turning away from him, I walked quickly back toward the house. It was then made plain to me that there was something, or rather, someone, else whom I had forgotten in my race to rescue Meg. The discovery of Matthew’s name in that letter had driven Gladys Morgan completely out of my head. I had a vague memory of Dale saying she had taken Gladys some breakfast that morning, in the Brockleys’ room, and, yes, Dale had asked what we were to do about Gladys, and I had said let her be. She knew she was supposed to stay in the Brockleys’ quarters and I was in a hurry to be off to the Cecils’ house.
I had vaguely—stupidly—assumed that Gladys would obey orders. She had not. As I came to the archway in front of the terrace, I found my way barred by her and by Arthur Johnson. They were quarreling again, not loudly, but angrily all the same. Johnson was gesticulating with a pair of clippers. As I approached, Gladys burst into an eldritch cackle, swung away from Johnson, and scuttled off ahead of me toward the house.
“Now what’s the matter with you two?” I said irritably to Johnson.
“She’s laughing at me, that’s what,” said the old man sullenly. “Once again, I give her a chance. Again, I offer my hand and my heart and this time she don’t just say no thanks, she laughs at me. Old besom!”
“I shouldn’t ask her again. And you’re well out of it. She’s got a shocking temper.”
Johnson made a noise that sounded like “Aaaaah!” with a piglike snort at the end of it, and strode off, holding his clippers like a dagger. I stood still in order to let him go, but then, afraid that Edmund Dean would follow me and catch up with me, I hurried on, wanting to avoid him.
I noticed then that the sense of foreboding that had descended on me the previous day was still with me. Whatever it presaged had not yet come to pass, it seemed. It was still there, looming and threatening.
Threatening whom?
• • •
As I reached the terrace and lifted my hem clear of the step, I heard the now-familiar squeak of the gate between the knot garden and the river. I stopped again and turned. There was no sign of Dean, but a dignified lady, and an entourage of two gentleman and three more ladies behind her, were all coming through the knot garden, presumably from the landing stage. Even at a distance, I recognized Lady Cecil. I made my way off the terrace to meet her.
“Lady Cecil!”
“My dear Ursula. You left more quickly than my husband expected. He has sent me after you. May we talk?”
“Madame Ridolfi is just coming,” I said.
Donna and Greaves were both hastening from the house to greet the unexpected guest. Mildred moved deftly to deal with them. “Madame Ridolfi? Forgive this unexpected visit. We haven’t met before but I am the wife of Sir William Cecil, the Secretary of State. We are old friends of Mistress Stannard here.”
Donna, anxiously curtsying, started to exclaim that Lady Cecil was most welcome, and would she and her companions like to dine, but Mildred firmly dismissed the invitation.
“No, no. Your cook need not be troubled with us. We will all return home for dinner. The truth is, I have an errand to Ursula. If you could arrange for us to talk in privacy? Some wine for my companions, perhaps? I see you have an attractive terrace where they could sit.”
Five minutes later, Mildred’s entourage had been seated on the terrace, while she and I were alone together in the downstairs parlor with the windows closed. I felt uncertain. I liked and trusted Mildred but I was wary of any messages from Cecil. I did not know what to say.
Mildred, however, was older than I, and self-possessed in a way that I would never be. She knew how to manage the situation.
“I’m not here to plead Sir William’s cause, Ursula. I myself did not know that your husband was still alive, not till Sir Francis told me, when he fetched me
to the study to help you. But you left us so precipitately that Sir William had no chance to talk to you further, and he wished so to do. Also, whether you believe it or not, he is very concerned for you. So am I.”
“What things does Sir William want to talk to me about?”
“To begin with, he wants to thank you again, formally, for the valuable information you brought him this morning. We know you must be very very angry about the deception practiced on you, but the conspiracy you have helped to reveal still interests you, does it not?”
“I am aware,” I said, “that the safety of England and the safety of the queen are the same thing, and that my marital affairs are very small ale by comparison.”
“You can be as astounding sometimes as Elizabeth herself. Well, it’s not so surprising. You are both cubs of the same lion. Oh yes. I am privy to the secret.”
“I think Norfolk is, too,” I said. “How do these things get out?”
“Very easily. A few words overheard by the wrong person—or a Spanish spy who is as clever at reading other people’s documents as you are, my dear Ursula. The truth about your parentage was kept hidden for years because no one ever spoke of it. But once the queen and Sir William began to think they should tell you, they had to mention it between themselves and I believe they exchanged memoranda. Your parentage was one of the reasons for the deception that kept you in England.”
“I daresay,” I said stiffly.
“Well, we needn’t talk about that now. I said I wasn’t here to justify the deception. Sir William says that the news you brought him this morning has filled the gaps in his knowledge. He can see the whole pattern now. After you left,” said Mildred, “I went to find him and discovered him pacing his study and muttering. Walsingham was there and William was tossing remarks out to him every now and then. He said that he believes he can see how the trouble can be stopped before it starts, without a huge scandal and the deaths of men he once called friends. He is helping Norfolk with a lawsuit—you know about that?”
“Yes.”
“If the verdict goes in Norfolk’s favor, and my husband thinks it will—he has a good deal of say in the matter—then Norfolk will, he feels, be inclined to listen to advice. If warned that causing trouble in the north might cost him his head—well, he might be induced to back away.”
Curiosity got the better of me. “What were Sir William’s other sources of information, besides me? I know he had them.”
“There has been talk. Fragments of conversation, overheard in the anterooms of the court. Half the council are privy to the scheme for reinstating Mary, I fear—the half that resent my husband’s influence over the queen and wish to drive them apart. But his main informant is dead. It was Julius Gale. That was one of the things that William wanted to tell you.”
“Gale!”
“Yes. When he was killed, he was on his way to our house, to bring my husband the letters he was carrying, to be opened and copied before he rode on to deliver them.”
“So that’s why he was found traveling west instead of north! But the letters weren’t on him!”
“No, and that’s a puzzle. We are sure he meant to bring them. Gale had already done us good service. He was recruited by Walsingham, who has quite a gift for finding useful people.”
I blinked. “Gale was replaced in Ridolfi’s service by a kinsman, George Hillman. Hillman’s taken the originals of those letters to the Bishop of Ross and to Moray. Is he one of Walsingham’s men as well?”
“Not yet, but Walsingham intends to approach him, when he returns. As far as is known, Hillman is quite unaware of the nature of the correspondence he carries. He’s a respectable young man and a Protestant. With luck, we’ll soon have him as an agent in this house. But now I come to the chief reason why William sent me after you. He doesn’t think that you and Meg should stay here, even for another day. You have taken grave risks already. If by any chance you should be suspected . . . ”
“I know. Julius Gale. And Walt.”
“I am charged,” said Mildred, “to bring you away with me now. I will make your excuses. I will say that Sir William insists that you come to stay with us. We are old friends of yours, wanting to borrow a little of your company. We are people of some eminence,” said Mildred, smiling, “and can afford to be a trifle high-handed. I have come to fetch you, and how can you possibly say no to the Secretary of State and his wife?”
“I have to say no! After this morning, after finding out about Matthew, I couldn’t possibly agree . . . ”
“Yes, you can. To get Meg away from here if for no other reason.”
“I certainly want to do that.” I thought grimly of Meg on that seat with Dean’s arm around her. “You know that we brought her to London in the first place to consider betrothing her to one of Norfolk’s secretaries?”
“Yes. Sir William told me.”
“We didn’t like him, so we sent Meg home. Unfortunately, she was impressed with him and even more unfortunately, Madame Ridolfi invited her back to London, to join me here, thinking she was doing me a kindness thereby. Meg arrived today, before I came back, and when I did so . . . ”
I explained, with some bitterness, how I had found the two of them together. “And that’s not all,” I said. “I have an elderly servant, Gladys Morgan, who is worrying the life out of me. I think she’s not quite right in the head but she’s not so far gone that she can’t give the come-hither to Ridolfi’s topiary gardener, who is about her age, and . . . ”
I explained that too, whereupon Mildred threw back her handsome head and burst out laughing. “It’s not funny!” I protested.
“No, I suppose it isn’t. Oh, my dear.” Mildred wiped her eyes. “Ursula, why are we standing in the middle of the room like this when there are perfectly good stools and settles all around us. Let us sit. I’m sorry, but the idea of that gnome of a gardener—I know Johnson; we have him, too!—and your aged crone . . . !”
“You’ve never seen her!”
“Yes, I have. Once. Sir William and I visited you at Hawkswood two years ago—remember?”
“She’ll be a nuisance, wherever she is, but . . . you are right. I want to get both her and Meg away from here as soon as I can. Only . . . ”
“Not to our house? But we’re offering a way of escape, immediate escape. Ursula, we’re truly afraid for you.”
I said: “If only it hadn’t been such an elaborate deception. Forged lies about death! I mourned for Matthew! I grieved and wept and I was unhappy because I was not even allowed to see his grave, and all the time, in France, he was grieving for me! What am I to tell Hugh?”
“You need not tell him anything, unless you wish. Ursula, listen. Matthew de la Roche, from the time you first knew him, has been Mary Stuart’s man. He has plotted against Elizabeth. He is still plotting. One day, you would have had to choose between Elizabeth and Matthew, finally and forever. One day, if you had stayed with him, he would have broken your heart. Do you not realize that?”
“I always hoped . . . I always hoped . . . ”
“What? That he would change? Or that somehow, you might hold the balance between his beliefs and yours and keep your center steady, keep the small, safe, closed-in place that husband and wife share together somehow free of contamination? Could you have done that for a lifetime?” She searched my face. “Ursula, is there something you want to say? There is trouble in your eyes.”
“What I want to say is so terrible.”
“What is it? That in the last resort you would have chosen him above Elizabeth?”
“No. I might not have had to choose because I might not have lived long enough. I nearly died when I had Meg. And I nearly died trying to have Matthew’s son. I . . . ”
I stopped. I couldn’t get the words out. I couldn’t possibly say Sir William Cecil lied to me and deceived me for his own convenience and that of the queen and in so doing may well have saved my life.
Mildred, however, merely nodded. “It’s all right, Ursula. Don�
�t tear yourself to pieces. You are not being asked to forgive Sir William, let alone to thank him. Only to let the two of us protect you for a short time.”
“Lady Cecil, I promise that I’ll leave here and go home to Hawkswood tomorrow. I must go anyway because I must tell Hugh about Matthew. We have no secrets from each other. Dean has pursued Meg here—I shall say to the Ridolfis that I don’t like that and that I’m sorry to disoblige Madame Ridolfi, but I’m taking my daughter home. It’s a little late to pack everything up and leave today, but . . . ”
“Er . . . ” said Mildred.
I raised my eyebrows. “You don’t want me to go home?”
Mildred said: “There was one more thing that Sir William wanted to talk to you about. Even though you are angry with him, he wants your help and hopes you will give it.”
“Does he, indeed?”
“Not as a favor to him. Only for . . . the realm.”
I sighed. “What is it?”
“It isn’t dangerous.”
“Yes, but what is it?”
“He wants you,” said Mildred Cecil, “to pay a private visit to the Earl of Leicester.”
22
The Queen’s Sweet Robin
Mildred removed us from the Ridolfi house, as she herself had said she would, by sheer high-handedness. No, no, she could not dine; she had so many calls on her time. But having heard that her dear Ursula was in London, she begged Donna’s indulgence, but she must carry Ursula and her family off forthwith. The tone of voice meant that she would carry us off anyway, with or without anyone’s indulgence. Whether or not I would be returning wasn’t mentioned.
Within the hour, we were on our way. I found Meg, Brockley, Dale, and Gladys all together in my chamber and of the four of them, only Meg looked downhearted about leaving the Ridolfis. The others were frankly relieved. “Glad to be away from that daft old man Johnson,” Gladys said. “Keeps staring at me, he do. He’s moon-mad. Says he’s fallen for me—at my age, look you!—and then starts gibberin’ all because I mistook his swans for geese!”
Almost everyone in the house came to the entrance hall to bid us farewell, including the visitors—the Duke of Norfolk and Edmund Dean. Norfolk asked me to give his compliments to Sir William and to inquire what the prospects now were for his lawsuit. Meg managed to kiss Edmund Dean good-bye and he whispered something into her ear that made her giggle. I shepherded her away, bidding Dean a cool farewell and refusing to be impressed by the arctic coldness of his manner to me. Meg made the journey to the Cecils’ house in silence, but she didn’t try to argue, for which I was thankful.
The Siren Queen: An Ursula Blanchard Mystery at Queen Elizabeth I's Page 20
