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

by Buckley, Fiona

  “And an attempt to blame poor Gladys; to pretend she caused it all by witchcraft!” Meg shrieked. “How could I ever have thought I liked you!” She stared at him with loathing and then hid her face against me.

  “I can’t see why you had to kill Gale,” Walsingham remarked. “You had only to tell his master Ridolfi that he wasn’t trustworthy and get him dismissed.”

  “He betrayed our cause! Was he to escape with nothing but dismissal? He betrayed our faith and our noble Lady Mary, who is our hope for the future! When she is on the thrones of Scotland and England, then she will bring the light of truth back to those poor lost lands . . . ”

  “The siren queen has claimed another victim,” muttered Hugh. “Where is she now? Tutbury Castle, isn’t it? She ought to be sitting on a rock and combing her hair to entice foolish sailors.”

  “When I saw her last year, it hadn’t grown again properly after she cut it before she fled from Scotland,” I muttered back. “I’ve heard she’s taken to wearing wigs.”

  This mundane exchange steadied me. It also steadied Meg, who let out a little snort that was at least half a giggle and turned her face up to me. “Just put Dean out of your mind,” I whispered. “One day we’ll do better for you. You’ve been very brave. Keep it up.”

  “This land,” Cecil was saying, “and Scotland too, in my opinion, will do very well without your help, Master Dean. Take him away!”

  “One moment!” As the guards started to pull Dean toward the door, he resisted. His eyes were on me and on Meg. The men paused.

  “Mistress Margaret. I am sorry that our acquaintance was so short and sorry that I have caused you pain. I will always remember you. Perhaps you will remember me too, as the first man to give you his heart—though it was of silver, not gold, as hearts are supposed to be.”

  “I have one more question,” I said. I stared at him, hard, meeting that piercing glance and refusing to be browbeaten by it. “One of the letters Gale was carrying,” I said, “was in cipher. Have you any idea what was in it? I think Signor Ridolfi wrote it.”

  “You need not try to shield Ridolfi,” Walsingham put in. “He will be arrested later today. We already have evidence against him.”

  “Indeed? Then I am proud to say that yes, I have talked to Signor Ridolfi and he was open with me. That letter was a plea to Queen Mary never to yield to persuasions to abandon her religion, for on her rest the dreams of all who are faithful to the true faith. And an assurance that His Holiness, the Pope, would give his blessing to anything done in the cause of bringing the true faith back to England.”

  “Ridolfi has had a lucrative career on English soil,” Walsingham remarked. “The extent of his gratitude amazes me.”

  “Signor Ridolfi longs for Queen Mary’s release from captivity.” Dean rolled out the fine phrases proudly, exaltedly. “Like me, like many others, he longs for her triumphant coronation as Queen of England and Scotland both. And for the destruction of her enemies, and all who nurture evil in her lands.”

  “Such as poor Gladys, I suppose,” I said bitterly.

  “Very likely,” said Cecil. “And I think that just now, we had better not inquire into the full meaning of that word anything—which the Pope has undertaken to bless. Take him away.”

  “Poor Gladys,” Dean said mockingly over his shoulder, as he was pulled toward the door. “A wicked woman if ever there was one. I’ve spoken with Johnson. He was at Howard House today. No one now, alas, can claim that Gale died by witchcraft, but the testimony of Norfolk’s kitchen staff, and of respected men from the places where she has lived with you and your husband, will be enough, I think. She has ill-wished people and two Hawkswood villagers died this summer—and did she not fling a curse of coldness at the Reverend Fleet of Faldene?”

  “People do die, now and then, and the cold curse was just a nonsense!” I snapped.

  “But it seems,” said Dean, “that shortly before that day, he had married a young wife. He will testify that after Gladys Morgan ill-wished him, his wife became cold to him . . . ”

  “Perhaps she didn’t like the way he treated one of his parishioners. Neither did Gladys. That was why she uttered that absurd curse! I already know that Fleet’s wife has died and it was nothing to do with Gladys!”

  Dean ignored the interruption. “His wife’s manner to him distressed him so much,” he said, “that he could no longer play the husband to her, and now he is widowed, because his wife took cold not long ago and died of a lung congestion, which people do more often in midwinter than in summer.”

  “These things happen,” said Cecil impatiently. “They are the natural misfortunes of life. They occur without any ill-wishing.”

  “Indeed? Well, Mistress Stannard. You are fond of that old woman, Gladys Morgan, perhaps. I think that when she suffers her well-earned fate, you will suffer too. I rejoice at it.”

  “Take him out!” barked Cecil. “Now!”

  “I shall be proud,” said Dean, clutching at the doorpost so as to speak a final word, “proud, do you hear? Proud to die as a martyr for my faith!”

  “You talk of ill-wishing?” I said savagely to Dean. I turned to Hugh. “Do you remember what I said once before? But to do that to Walt’s body was so nasty; like ill-wishing someone even after they were dead. Whoever did it is . . . is vicious. Awash with spite! He killed Gale out of sheer spite and those last words of his, just now, they were spite as well and yet he dares pretend to be righteous about Gladys! I wonder what it’s like to be as full of malice as he is?”

  “Saints and martyrs,” remarked Cecil, as Dean was at last removed and Walsingham began to pick up his fallen papers and boxes, “are the greatest nuisances in society. Pickpockets are far less trouble!”

  Meg had given way. She wasn’t making a noise but the tears were streaming down her face. “I’m not crying about him,” she whispered defensively, through them. “It’s Gladys. Oh, Gladys! I loved her stories and she isn’t a witch, she isn’t . . . ”

  Sybil, very pale but as ever, in command of herself, left the window seat and came to us, trying to help me soothe her. Meg looked wildly from one of us to the other. “Will Gladys really be . . . ? But it isn’t true; she didn’t; she couldn’t! I’ll speak up if she comes to trial! Oh, Mother!”

  Hillman’s nosebleed had been stopped. He still looked disheveled, and there were bloodstains on his clothes. But his face was kind as he came forward. Clearly he wished to speak to Hugh and to me, and we turned to him inquiringly.

  “When I was fetched here today,” he said, “I learned that Johnson tried to involve me in this business of Gladys Morgan—and I was also told that when I had all those violent dreams, the night before I left for Scotland, it was because you had—er—given me something, Mistress Stannard . . . ”

  “Yes. I did. I’m sorry, but . . . ”

  “I wish I’d known what was behind it. I would have loaned the letters to you if I’d known. I am not on Edmund Dean’s side.”

  “That’s obvious!” said Hugh, looking at the bloodstains.

  “And, Mistress Meg—please don’t cry. It’s brave of you to say you’ll speak up for Gladys but be careful. You are young and it will be easy for vicars and physicians to say she has bewitched you; even that you’re a witch yourself.” He looked at me. “You must take care of her. If nothing more can be done for Gladys—at least protect this young girl.”

  Meg looked at him, her tears subsiding a little, and he smiled at her. “You’re too courageous and too pretty to put at risk,” he told her.

  I looked at Cecil. “I want to take Meg home. It will be permitted?”

  “Meg may go home now; Dean has confessed and we won’t need either of you at his trial. But for Gladys’s sake, I think you should remain.”

  “I can take her,” Sybil said. “If Mistress Stannard can’t yet leave London, Meg and I will go back to Hawkswood, as we did before.”

  “Yes,” said Cecil. Meg began to exclaim that she couldn’t abandon Gladys, th
at she must speak at the trial, but over her bent head, Hugh and I exchanged glances and came to a decision.

  “No, Meg,” I said. “No, my darling. Sybil will take you home.”

  29

  Above the Law

  “I want to see the queen,” I said to Cecil, “as soon as possible.”

  Cecil nodded. “It’s time Her Majesty became aware of what has been going on, but I would prefer not to tell her formally. I’m still out of her favor,” he said, and sighed. I regarded him with sympathy. I knew very well how distressed he always was on the occasions when Elizabeth turned against him.

  “Formality,” he said, “would oblige her to take action. Perhaps to do things she does not wish to do, or that I don’t wish her to do! God knows, she has had trouble enough this year. My wife talks with her ladies. The queen has had sleepless nights, many of them, over the trouble in her council.”

  I nodded. I knew of Elizabeth’s tendency to insomnia.

  “You,” said Cecil, “can be—shall we say, cautious. Keep Leicester’s name out of it if you can, but warn her—informally—about Norfolk. Don’t mention Ridolfi’s—er—religious agenda, please. We intend to make sure that Dean doesn’t mention it either, when he comes to trial. By the way, you will not appear at the trial. Ridolfi is not to know that you had any part to play in this. As far as he’s concerned, you were his wife’s companion and a friend of the Cecils, but nothing more. Your secret career will always remain a secret, as far as possible.”

  “Dean may talk proudly of being a martyr for his faith but he hasn’t yet had a traitor’s death fully described to him,” Walsingham said. “When he has, I think he will be willing to be told what he should and should not say in court. He murdered Gale for betraying Norfolk’s marriage schemes, nothing more. That will be the official story and Dean won’t contradict it, I promise you!”

  I wondered who would do the describing. Walsingham looked to me more than capable of the task. He was the kind who would find words for lurid details in a completely dispassionate tone of voice, coolly watching his words find their mark as he spoke. Walsingham was as loyal a man as ever entered Elizabeth’s service, and I learned later that I had guessed right about his private life, for he was a good and well-loved husband and father. But I never liked him, while I always did like Cecil, despite his meddling in my life.

  “Norfolk isn’t actually guilty of treason yet,” Cecil said. “He has no right to enter into a powerful marriage without the queen’s consent, but unless he actually ties the knot without permission, he has not committed a crime.”

  “He’s sounded the northern lords to see if they’ll support him in arms in case of a Catholic rising,” I said doubtfully. “Isn’t that a crime?”

  “They haven’t given him much response. It may all die away into nothingness. If not, the queen will have to be fully informed and we can take action quickly, but that’s for later and very much a matter of if. I don’t want Norfolk brought to the block. Your warnings and mine are bearing fruit, Ursula. Mistress Dalton pulled herself together valiantly after finding Walt’s body, though I understand that she collapsed at the time, and she’s been turning in reports as usual. She has seen a draft of a letter from Norfolk, asking the northern lords not to rise, after all. She doesn’t know whether he’s sent it, but he’s prepared it. Ursula, whispers must eventually reach the queen but I want to control what is said. Will you do it? Alert the queen quietly to, shall we say, a limited exposition?”

  “Yes. I want to ask her to intercede for Gladys too.”

  “I wish you luck,” said Cecil somberly.

  • • •

  I loved Richmond Palace. There was something magical in its structure, in its slim turrets and elegant windows, as though it belonged to a pretty legend. This was no stern fortress like the Tower of London or Windsor Castle; nor did it hold the unhappy memories that haunted the galleries of Hampton Court.

  Such a pity that the conversation Hugh and I had with Queen Elizabeth three hours after our arrival was so painful, so out of tune with the enchanting surroundings.

  She was not, these days, as mercurial as she had been. Once, Elizabeth had been giving to lightning changes of mood, from imperious ruler to playful kitten, to spitting cat, to vulnerable maiden, and had been known to run through them all in the course of half an hour. At times she had nearly driven Cecil out of his mind with such behavior.

  She was an experienced ruler now, and far more mature. She had borne the crown for a decade and acquired a deeper, stronger dignity. Her clothes were of a greater sumptuousness; even her voice was lower in register. The crimped waves of pale red hair in front of her pearl-edged caps were a little, just a little, faded and her golden brown eyes were effortlessly commanding.

  But something of the mercurial Elizabeth still existed, even though, nowadays, the kitten had grown into a lioness. She was less accessible than she had been and to come into her presence we had to pass through three sets of guards and finally be escorted to her by two of her gentlemen pensioners, as she called the men in red and gold livery, who waited on her personally and ran her more important errands. She received us in one of her private rooms, but three of her ladies were with her. However, when I said that the news we had for her, though informal, was confidential, she sent the gentlemen and ladies away. When we had cautiously explained that Cecil felt she should know that Norfolk was once more playing with the notion of marrying Mary Stuart and even appeared to have fallen in love with her at a distance, she took to striding around the chamber in a fury, damask skirts swishing like a lioness’s tail, while that beautiful voice expressed a powerful wish to have the Duke of Norfolk seized forthwith, conveyed to the Tower, and beheaded.

  Hugh, who had never witnessed anything like this before, stood bemused. I hoped that the storm would pass. I put a reassuring hand on his arm and we both stood still, out of her path, and waited. At length, Elizabeth sank onto a settle. Her tawny eyes were flashing. “I suppose Cecil claims that Norfolk has not committed any actual crime!”

  “We understood that that was so, ma’am,” said Hugh cautiously. “Of course, we are not experts on the law.”

  “No, but Cecil is! You admit that he has sent you here. Is there more to this—are there other ramifications that I don’t yet know?”

  I was ready for that. “I don’t know for sure, ma’am. It is possible, but Cecil thinks they are vague—glints in the eyes of dreamers, as it were.”

  “If they’re dreaming of reinstating Mary Stuart on the throne of Scotland, they’ll dream in vain. Never, if I can help it,” said Elizabeth savagely. “Not even if she’s married to a real Protestant and Norfolk’s not a real anything. I know him! That man would trim his sails to any convenient wind. I know about the Popish images in his chapel! He’d toss the whole lot into the Thames if it suited him; only if he marries Mary, it wouldn’t suit her. Hah! I fancy he’s among the dreamers and maybe one of his fantasies has something to do with one day being King Consort of England. I wonder if he’ll admit as much to me! He once said he wouldn’t want Mary because he liked a safe pillow, but dangle a crown in front of him, and lo! He changes his mind.”

  “He may well change it back again. Cecil thinks so, certainly,” I said.

  “He will if I have any say in it! I shall leave shortly for my summer progress—through Hampshire this year. He will be one of my entourage. I shall make sure of that. He will be under my eye. We will talk,” said Elizabeth, becoming dangerously silky.

  We said nothing. Elizabeth’s guesses were uncomfortably accurate.

  “I wonder,” she remarked, “that he doesn’t offer to marry me! It would be a quicker route to the crown matrimonial. Yes, Ursula? I see that you are almost swallowing your tongue because you long to say something and fear it will displease me! What is it? Come along!”

  “I don’t think you’d say yes to the Duke of Norfolk, ma’am.”

  “No, I wouldn’t! Who wants to marry a weathercock? And if I did,”
said Elizabeth—and suddenly the lioness was lolling in the sun, at ease, almost playful, almost a kitten, though not quite—“if I did, he’d lose his nerve at the altar. The priest would wait for him to say I will and he’d buckle at the knees and faint. And if he didn’t and by some miracle he got the words out,” she added, “Leicester would draw a sword and make some new slashings in the good duke’s wedding doublet! Hah! Well, well. We shall ask the duke if he has anything to tell us—perhaps of marriage plans. Whatever is lurking in his mind, I fancy he will at least recognize the warning. You can tell Cecil that he need not skulk out of my sight any longer. I forgive him for his bad advice about that Spanish money. It’s still useful money, anyway.”

  “Ma’am,” I said, “there is one more thing . . . ”

  • • •

  “Ursula,” said Elizabeth, gently this time, very kindly, a sister speaking to a sister and a brother-in-law, all stateliness laid aside, “I may not do it. I may not imperiously interfere in the due working of the law. As a sovereign anointed, I am above the law, yes, but I must not trade on that. I must not countermand the verdicts of honest juries to please myself. Yes, Ursula? Once more, I give you permission to say what you are thinking.”

  “Gladys’s accusers, Dean and Johnson, acted out of spite. Dean is already arraigned on a charge of treason and there is no question that it was he who murdered Gale and that Gladys was not concerned. Johnson can be brought into court and made to admit that he laid information against her for the sake of petty revenge. And surely any good lawyer can argue that the deaths of Mistress Fleet and the people at Hawkswood were ordinary things, part of the hazard of everyday life; that they happen in every community, and that Gladys is nothing but a foolish old woman. Ma’am,” I said painfully, “you annuled my marriage to Matthew de la Roche. Was that not—taking command of the law?”