“Yes, my lord.”
I was indeed. When his wife had died in a mysterious accident, nine or so years before, he had sent instructions for the inquest, insisting that the jury must be made up of discreet and substantial men, and no light or slight persons. Leicester’s dark eyes glinted in acknowledgment of a hit. He was a good sportsman.
“I know you well enough not to discount you, Ursula! Very well. I’ll hear the rest.” He leaned back in his settle and his foot stopped twitching. “Go on.”
I chose my words carefully. Steady and factual, that was the approach which would best succeed with Leicester. “The sinister objective of which I spoke,” I said, “begins with establishing Mary as Elizabeth’s accredited heir. Some of those involved hope to convert her to the Anglican faith first . . . ”
“Of course. What else?” said Leicester irritably.
“. . . but there are others whose hopes are different. They hope that eventually, through Mary, the old faith will be brought back to England. Very likely, with the Inquisition. They are even prepared to foment a Catholic rebellion in order to bring it about.”
“How have you and Cecil learned all this?” His tone was still aggressive but the threatening thunder was a little farther away.
“Cecil has ways of keeping himself informed,” I said. “I am one of them. A man called Julius Gale was another. I was staying at Norfolk’s house when . . . ”
I began to explain. He only interrupted once, near the start of my account, remarking that he had known of the two deaths, of course—Gale and the boy. “There have been investigations, I believe, but no one has been apprehended.”
“There is every reason to believe that the murders were linked,” I said, “and also linked to the conspiracy we are discussing. The conspiracy is much bigger than it seemed at first. My lord, if you knew it all, you would never let yourself become involved in anything to do with Mary Stuart. Please let me continue.”
He fell silent and I finished my explanation. Then he said: “A rebellion, you say. There is talk of raising the Catholic north, money is being gathered for the purpose, and Philip of Spain is prepared to send help once he knows that the north is ready to rise and the money is available? I have it right? That is what you are saying?”
“Yes.”
“So what are you—and Cecil—asking me to do?”
“Cecil wants the whole business to dissolve before it has begun. He wants the crazy dreams of these conspirators to remain just dreams. He doesn’t want uproar and heads on blocks. Free yourself, my lord. For your own sake and the queen’s. She needs both you and Cecil. And you don’t want to find yourself in the Tower, do you?”
“I’ve been in the Tower,” said Leicester shortly. “When I was young, before Her Majesty acceded.”
I knew he had. Also, his father had been executed for treachery. My reminder had been deliberate.
“What does Cecil propose to do about Norfolk?” he inquired.
“He hopes to persuade Norfolk to back out. We trust that you will back out, too. You will know how best to do it. I wouldn’t presume to advise you on the detail.”
Leicester got up and moved restlessly about on the terrace and back. “I agree,” he said, “that I’ve had uneasy moments. To put so much power within reach of such a vain, sentimental weathercock as Norfolk—or that siren of a Scottish queen . . . I have thought to myself: is this wise?
“I was once offered to her as a husband; I imagine you have heard about that? I never did find out how serious the queen was when she did that. But despite all the reports I have heard of Mary’s beauty and charm, I was never in the least drawn toward her. Later on, when I heard about Kirk o’ Field, I felt very glad that I wasn’t! Norfolk was horrified by that story to start with, you know.”
He sat down again, this time without crossing ankle on knee. “When the idea was first mooted that he might be a future husband for her, he said he’d rather sleep on a safe pillow. But now, it seems that the prospect of a crown matrimonial and a few ingratiating letters from a famous charmer have turned his head.”
“You may well be right.”
“And you would say to me: Make sure you don’t lose your head. Is that it?”
“More or less.”
“Thank you, Ursula. I will think over all that you have told me, with the utmost care. It took courage to come to me like this.”
“You weren’t likely to do me any actual harm,” I pointed out. “At worst, you would have called the butler to show me out. But I’m glad you listened. I have your safety, and the queen’s, at heart.”
“The queen’s safety!” It was as though a mist had lifted from his mind, showing him a frightful vista, hitherto concealed from him. “Yes. I see. You think that . . . ?”
“Isn’t it obvious?” I said. “Before Mary can hope to sit on the throne, Elizabeth would have to be in her grave.”
• • •
I had done my best. With the Brockleys, I rode back to Cecil’s house, looking forward to saying: I have done what you asked of me, Sir William. Now, may I pack and go home?
Only one thing disturbed my mood and that was the curious sense of foreboding that was still with me, like the flicker of lightning on a dark horizon. It had not lessened.
At Cecil’s house, as usual, Brockley took the horses away and Dale accompanied me indoors. We were crossing the paneled entrance hall when Cecil and Mildred came somberly to meet us.
“Ursula, my dear, I am so sorry . . . ”
“We are both sorry,” said Cecil gravely. “This is hard for you.”
“Sorry? About what?” I stopped short. “What is it? Is it Hugh? Meg?” The sense of imminent disaster loomed over me, a storm cloud about to break. “Is one of them ill? Or . . . ?” I couldn’t say the word dead.
“It’s nothing to do with either Hugh or Meg,” said Mildred. “It’s your woman Gladys Morgan.”
“I did protest,” said Cecil, “but there was nothing to be done. The arresting officers had a proper warrant signed by a justice of the peace. As a man of the law, I could not forbid them . . . ”
“What couldn’t you forbid them?”
“Gladys Morgan,” said Cecil, “has been arrested and taken away, on a charge of encompassing death by witchcraft.”
23
Stab in the Back
Gladys. It was Gladys who was in mortal danger; Gladys whose peril I had sensed without understanding it. My sense of foreboding surged anew at the sound of her name, and every protective instinct in me came alert.
“But who’s bringing the charge?” I shouted. “Whose death is Gladys supposed to have encompassed?” They had brought me into the little room where Cecil had talked to me the day before. Dale was hovering, almost clucking, at my side.
Cecil placed a steadying hand on my shoulder. “You’ll find this hard to believe, but the man she is accused of killing is Julius Gale.”
I broke away from him and threw myself onto a settle. “Am I going out of my mind? Did I hear you aright? How can it be Gale! He was attacked in the street and stabbed in the back!”
“It’s a complicated tale,” said Mildred gently. “Let William tell it, in order, as it happened. He went with Gladys and the arresting officers and he knows all the details.”
“But who . . . ?”
“It starts,” said Cecil, “with Arthur Johnson, the topiary gardener. He laid the first complaint . . . ”
I interrupted him again, unable to help it. “Johnson? But that’s just spite! She laughed at him when he proposed to her and she mistook his topiary swans for geese!”
“Perhaps,” said Cecil. “Johnson didn’t accuse her of murder, not at first. But he went to Ridolfi and said he’d seen Gladys picking herbs in the knot garden, and that he looked through a window that night . . . ”
“Oh, did he? Peeping at the maids again, I take it. I wonder he had the nerve to admit it.”
“He says he was clearing a blocked drain.”
“If this situation w
eren’t so serious,” I said furiously, “that would make me laugh. Clearing a drain, indeed!”
“Whatever he was doing,” Cecil said, “he claims that through a window, he saw Gladys put something in the nightcap which George Hillman was going to drink.”
“She did, at my orders, as I told you. Why didn’t Johnson mention it at the time?”
“He didn’t think it was important—that she was just topping it up. Gladys says she was adding spices; that she’d met Hillman coming to the kitchen to ask for them and said she’d fetch them. She’s being loyal to you, I think. She also says that Madame Ridolfi gave her permission to pick herbs for headache medicine for you. Madame Ridolfi confirms this, but Johnson said that once Gladys was free to take herbs at all, she could have taken whichever ones she wanted. He said that the morning after he saw Gladys put something in Hillman’s drink, Hillman complained of having had wild dreams. Johnson heard about it—servants’ talk—and thought it over . . . ”
“She had made him angry, so he decided that here was a chance to get his revenge! But where does Gale come into it?”
“It seems that when Johnson took his complaint to Ridolfi, Norfolk and his secretary Edmund Dean were in the house, as they often are, and they were within hearing. Dean joined in and declared that Gladys had cursed people at Howard House and that those she cursed had fallen ill . . . ”
“They had bad chicken in a stew,” I said wearily.
“Dean said that one of the victims, Julius Gale, after apparently recovering from the illness, then died mysteriously in the street. He said that he saw the body and that the wound which was supposed to be the cause of death was just a tiny slit and maybe wasn’t a stab wound at all. It could have been a simple cut, accidentally come by and not fatal . . . ”
“That’s complete nonsense!”
“Oh, I agree with you,” said Cecil. “So does Walsingham. But nonetheless, with the consent of Ridolfi and Norfolk, off went Dean and Johnson to lay information against Gladys, and now she is charged with procuring Gale’s death, and also of attempting to kill Hillman. The accusation there has crystalized, as it were. She is being accused of using poisonous herbs backed up by black arts. On those two counts, she has been arrested.”
“Oh my God,” I said. I was shaking now.
“If she is found guilty on either count,” said Cecil, “she’ll hang.”
Concernedly, Mildred said: “Ursula, we will help Gladys if we can. But meanwhile, however frightened and angry you are, your own health must be considered. We are about to dine . . . ”
“I can’t eat!”
“Perhaps not in the dining chamber, but would you take something if it’s served in your room? Meg’s there. She and Gladys were there together when the arresting officers came and Meg just stayed in the room. She’s very upset but she didn’t want anyone to sit with her. She said she’d wait for you. She ought to have some food, as well.”
I knew she was right. “Very well,” I said tremulously. “Meg and I will both eat in my chamber. And so will Dale and Brockley, if you would be so kind. Dale, fetch Brockley. I’ll go up now.”
Aware that the Cecils’ anxious gaze was following me, I went up to my chamber, where I found Meg lying on my bed, crying.
“Mother, they took Gladys away. She was so frightened. I know she says foolish things sometimes, but she’s just old and gets muddled, and she was terrified . . . !”
“I know, darling.”
“But what are we going to do? Even Sir William couldn’t stop them from taking her! He went with her and tried to argue for her but they wouldn’t let her go! I saw him come back, looking so sad!”
“We’ll eat first,” I said. I was fighting back tears of my own. “They’re bringing us something here. While we eat, I’ll think.”
The Brockleys joined us. Dale had told Brockley what had happened and the first thing he said was: “If there’s anything we can do, just tell us.” The food arrived and although it tasted to me like sawdust, I made myself take a few mouthfuls and coaxed Meg to swallow something too. The Brockleys ate quietly, saying little but watching me with worried eyes.
My mind was working furiously. When we had all finished, I said to Meg: “I’m going to do what I can for Gladys but meanwhile, you’re not to stay here all alone crying your eyes out. Come. We’ll find Lady Cecil and ask if you can sit with her.”
I saw Meg settled with Lady Mildred and then went back to the Brockleys. We’re going out. The tide’s right. We’re going to hire a boat and go in search of Edmund Dean. I want to talk to him.”
• • •
There was no guarantee that I would find him. He was Norfolk’s employee; he went where his master did and Norfolk could easily have gone to the court or set off on a visit. If so, his secretaries would go with him. I must just hope for the best, I thought desperately.
It was one of those times when there wasn’t a boat in sight for hire, and when one did come into view, it was already full of passengers. The next one was empty but failed to see our signals. A good twenty minutes passed before we finally got ourselves embarked and then I sat there fuming while the banks slid by with painful slowness, because we seemed to have hired the laziest ferryman on the Thames. If he’d put some energy into it, he could have made good use of the ebb tide but he rowed at leisure and I knew his type all too well. It’s never any use asking them, even politely, to go faster. They dawdle worse than ever, just to show their independence. Brockley knew that as well, and held his peace though I could see that he too was seething.
All the same, I took my impatience out on Brockley when he said: “But, madam, what do you hope to do if we find Dean and talk to him?”
“Bang his head on the nearest wall until he promises to drop this silly charge, of course! Then I’ll find Johnson and do the same to him.”
“You don’t really mean that, madam. Do you think . . . ” Brockley hesitated, meeting my angry eyes, but I had never really been able to intimidate Roger Brockley. “Do you think that either of them will listen to you? Especially Dean. I didn’t hear all of your last conversation with him, but did you part on friendly terms?”
“No. Very unfriendly.”
“So—what if he simply says no?”
Yes, indeed! What?
When we disembarked, I set such a pace on the walk to Norfolk’s house that Dale developed a stitch and Brockley had to insist that we slow down. He was no doubt wise, for we did at least arrive at the gate in orderly fashion, rather than red in the face and out of breath. Conley came majestically to receive us. “I am here on a matter of great urgency,” I told him. “Is Edmund Dean within?”
“He is on an errand to the Ridolfi house, madam. But if your business is so very urgent, perhaps my lord can help. He is with his tailor just now but if you would wait for a little, he may be willing to see you.”
I wanted to swear because of Dean’s absence but then, in a moment of unpleasant realization, I saw that Brockley was right again. Any attempt on my part to intercede for Gladys with Dean would probably fail. Dean’s resentment against me might well be behind this idiotic charge. It was Norfolk’s authority I needed. He was Dean’s employer and ought to be able to exert some control over him. And—yes, Norfolk was vulnerable.
“The matter is very serious,” I told Conley fiercely. “The duke may be able to help. Please tell him I am here. At once!”
He led us inside, and as soon as he did so, I heard Norfolk’s voice. He wasn’t upstairs, it seemed, but in one of the ground-floor rooms.
What I did next, I did—I know now—under the influence of something very like hysteria. It had been gathering all the time we were in that boat, watching that lackadaisical oarsman. I was so afraid for Gladys.
I knew her so well. She was short-tempered, volatile, and in many ways, ignorant, and she couldn’t guard her tongue. Furthermore, I was now certain that as the years went on, her mind really had begun to falter. She had come to the point of half-believing in
her own pretense of occult powers. I also knew that when she was confronted by armed men with a warrant for her arrest, she would suddenly have seen reality. It had happened before. She would see the pit in front of her and too late, she would see herself as she was: old, frail, powerless, and afraid of death. She would be terror-stricken, shaking and dribbling with fear.
So, when Conley tried to usher us into the antlered parlor, where I had first met Norfolk, saying in unhurried fashion that he would inform his lordship of my presence, I found his dignified calm just too much to bear. Something inside me snapped. Brushing past Conley, ignoring his protests, I made toward the Duke of Norfolk’s voice, sweeping through an anteroom and straight toward the source, a closed door on the right.
“Madam, you can’t . . . !”
Conley had rushed after me and was trying to get in my way. Once more I dodged him, knocked vigorously on the door, and called Norfolk’s name. I heard him answer, and I think I really did believe he had called an invitation to enter, but in truth I was too wrought up to listen properly. I threw the door open and marched in, and Norfolk, clad in a loose shirt and no doublet, beaky-nosed and hopping on one leg like an outsize sparrow as he tried to get his hose back on, just turned away in time to avoid considerable embarrassment.
The new hose he had been trying on—an elaborate puffed and slashed outfit, all violet and silver and ostentation—was having pinned adjustments checked over by the tailor, a short, bearded man, who looked at me in outrage. His dignity was the equal of Conley’s and somehow he managed not to lose any of it even though his mouth was full of pins.
“Oh, I’m so sorry!” I said, taken aback and turning scarlet, and behind me, Conley indignantly shooed the Brockleys out of the way. He then strode into the room, slamming the door in their faces.
“I couldn’t stop her, sir. I am extremely sorry, but she went past me like a mad thing. Mistress Stannard, please come away now and . . . ”
Norfolk cut him short. “Never mind, Conley. Let Mistress Stannard explain herself. Mistress Stannard, do you always burst unannounced into gentlemen’s private rooms? Did you not hear me call to you to wait? Surely you can see that I am in no fit state to receive a visit from a lady?”
The Siren Queen: An Ursula Blanchard Mystery at Queen Elizabeth I's Page 22
