Conspiracy

by Lady Grace Cavendish

  Ellie looked at me as if I was going bedlam, as she puts it, and pointed at the mug I had put down just before I fell over—I had only had about three sips from it.

  “Put the jar of double ale in the tent and hide it under something,” I ordered. “? wager there's laudanum in it to send someone stupid and sleepy.”

  “What?” asked Rosa. “But it came from Mr. Secretary Cecil. One of his men, dressed in his livery, delivered it.”

  “You might've fainted,” objected Ellie to me.

  “Well, let's test it then,” I said. “What animal might like to drink ale?”

  “Pigs,” said Ellie. “They get the brewer's swillings, so they're used to ale.”

  So all three of us went down to the Earl's swineherd's cottage, where there was a sow with her piglets in a small sty. I found a water bowl and poured a little of the double ale into it, and Ellie hopped over the gate quickly and put it down on the ground.

  Two little piglets came over and slurped it up— they were handsome red Tamworths, very lively and curious—and then they looked at each other in a puzzled way, lay down on their sides, and went to sleep. Their six brothers and sisters were busy rooting in their food trough and stayed awake.

  “See?” I said. “The piglets that drank the double ale have gone straight to sleep, but the others are all wide awake.”

  Rosa whistled. “Father had a couple of pints of double ale this morning when he woke up and realized what had happened. That must be why he's sleeping now. And why he passed out last night …”

  “We need to find the liveryman of Cecil's who brought the drink,” I told Ellie. “Perchance it was he who dressed as one of the mermen last night, to come across to the island where the fireworks were and frighten Rosa.”

  “In which case, he was the poor jesting soul what fired off the firework that went so near the Queen and injured Gypsy Pete,” added Ellie.

  Rosa blinked at her in puzzlement. “Why are you sorry for him?”

  “I feel sorry for him because of what I'll do to 'im when I catch 'im, that's all,” Ellie told her darkly.

  I was thinking hard, though my head was still a bit fuzzy from the laudanum. “No, Ellie, I don't think it's just some liveryman of Cecil's playing practical jokes. This is too serious. He wouldn't have done it without orders from Mr. Secretary.”

  Everyone knows that Sir William Cecil is the Queen's wisest adviser and the best administrator in the country. But it is also well known that he and the Earl of Leicester hate each other violently. They have to work together because the Queen insists and because they both serve on the Privy Council, but you can see both of them bristling when they are near each other. So that could explain why the accidents were happening—mayhap Cecil was trying to get the Earl into trouble with the Queen.

  “It means,” I continued urgently, looking at Rosa, “that you must keep that ale safe and hidden as I said, and don't let your father drink it. It's important evidence.”

  “But we haven't got anything else for him to drink,” said Rosa. “The Earl wouldn't even pay us our expenses from London after what happened last night.”

  I fished in my petticoat, found my purse, and gave her some shillings for to buy ale. “If I send for you to come, or if the Queen asks you about what you've told me, then you can explain what happened. Otherwise say nothing to anyone, especially not to Sir William Cecil's men, do you understand?”

  Rosa nodded and stood looking at the shillings in her hand. “I promise,” she whispered.

  Ellie had warmed towards her. She patted Rosa's back, “You watch,” she said. “My lady will sort it all out for you, see if she don't.”

  Rosa smiled back at her, and I felt quite nervous to think that she was relying on me.

  Ellie and I went back up to the castle, where we could hear the thuddity-thud of horses' hooves and the ringing crash of lances breaking. We slipped in at the side of the benches where everyone was watching the jousting. It had only just started—there must have been an amazing amount of speechifying between the Earl of Leicester, as the Champion of May, and his friend Henry Carey, the Queen's cousin, as the Black Knight of Melancholy, before the jousting proper began.

  Ellie went down to the standing areas behind the barriers to watch with the other servants, and I came here to sit with the other Maids of Honour.

  Mary very kindly brought my embroidery bag out for me—she finds jousting boring and is still knitting away at the baby's jacket. But I've been sitting scribbling in my daybooke to record all my discoveries before I forget anything. As soon as the Queen withdraws, I will go to her and explain that perhaps Sir William Cecil is connected to all the accidents which have occurred.

  I have bolted down supper as quick as I could to write this—now we are sitting in the Hall to watch a play by Terence in Latin. The Queen is laughing at the jokes and so are some of the courtiers, but I don't know enough Latin to understand.

  It was a wonderful afternoon's joust. The Swedish Prince did very well—he not only beat the Black Knight of Melancholy; he beat the Earl himself as well, by two lances broken to the Earl's one. And so he got the prize, which was a very rich horse's harness and caparison. The Earl was furious and Henry Carey wasn't too pleased, either. Now the English gentlemen are sulking and the Swedish gentlemen are crowing.

  After the joust, the Queen withdrew to her chamber to rest and deal with more papers of State. I followed her, and Ellie came along as well. The guard at her door waved me away when I tried to go in, and so I said loudly, “But the Queen bade me speak only to her in this matter.”

  I heard Her Majesty's voice then. “Let her enter,” she ordered.

  I left Ellie at the door and went in. I found the Queen sitting with her feet up on a footstool, and her stays unlaced, poring over a legal document.

  After I'd curtsied, I told her exactly what Rosa had said and what I'd found out about the double ale, and who had brought it.

  The Queen frowned when she heard it was one of Sir William Cecil's men. “Are you sure?” she asked. “Where is the firework master's daughter?”

  “I can send for her at once, if Your Majesty pleases,” I said, thinking I could ask Ellie to fetch her.

  “Please do,” the Queen replied. “And then wait in the anteroom until I send for you both.”

  As I left to find Ellie, the Queen called the gentleman who was guarding her door and ordered him to fetch Sir William. Then she waited, tapping her fingers on the arm of her chair, her face cold and angry.

  I went into the little anteroom where servants wait, and found Ellie there petting the Queen's dogs.

  “Please go and fetch Rosa for me,” I said. “The Queen has just sent for Sir William Cecil.”

  Looking very serious and excited, Ellie nodded and then ran out the door.

  I waited and waited, putting my ear to the door of the Queen's chamber every so often. Mrs. Champernowne says eavesdroppers hear no good of themselves—but sometimes you just have to know what's happening.

  At last I heard Sir William Cecil's voice. “I am very glad you sent for me, Your Majesty, as I have just had another dispatch—”

  “That can wait, Mr. Secretary,” the Queen interrupted frostily. “I would first desire to hear what you know of the accidents of yesterday.”

  “Terrible carelessness,” said Cecil. “I understand the groom that neglected your saddle when preparing for the hunt has been demoted by my Lord of Leicester, and—”

  “Someone had cut the stitching with a sharp knife,” the Queen interrupted again.

  “Good heavens!” Cecil exclaimed.

  “And the statue, Cecil,” the Queen went on, “had been tampered with. And as for the firework that went off course—someone brought the firework master drugged ale to drink. While he was asleep, the miscreant came in the guise of a merman, and lit the fuses so that one of the rockets nearly hit me and did in fact injure one of the tumblers. And so he was well-nigh a murderer—in that he was reckless of the consequences
of his actions—as well as a traitor.”

  “I am horrified …,” Cecil gasped.

  “Cecil, do you know who sent that ale?” the Queen demanded abruptly.

  “No, Ybur Majesty,” Cecil replied.

  “I find that strange, since it came from you and was brought by one of your liverymen.” The Queen's tone was as sharp as a sword blade. It was terrifying.

  “What? I never sent ale to a firework master! Wh-why should I do so? I—I am n-not—” Cecil was stammering.

  “Silence!” roared the Queen. “I do not believe you have been directly endangering me. But it is possible you have been engineering accidents to discredit my dear Robin, the Earl of Leicester.”

  I was fascinated. I peered through the crack in the door and saw Cecil as white as a sheet. “I would never—” he began.

  “Have you been trying to make me doubt the Earl, and believe he is becoming careless of my safety, so that I would turn my eyes to the Swedish Prince and like him the better for saving me? It would make sense, would it not, Cecil?”

  There was silence. Then I heard the thud of Cecil's knees on the floor.

  “Your Majesty”—his voice sounded choked, genuinely devastated—“I would never … I have never—”

  “The ale for the firework master was delivered by a lad who wore your livery,” rapped out the Queen.

  “But it was not sent by me or from me,” said Cecil, his voice strengthening. “I utterly deny this accusation, “Your Majesty. I know not who has been speaking against me—”

  “Not against you, no, for she barely knows the significance of what she tells me,” said the Queen.

  “She? Hmph. Some foolish hysteria no doubt—”

  “Enough!” the Queen snapped.

  Ellie panted into the antechamber with Rosa behind her—her face washed and her white cap tied on tightly. She looked terrified, as well she might.

  I knocked on the door and called softly, “She's here, 'Your Majesty.”

  “Call all your attendants together and we shall see which one of them brought the ale,” said the Queen to Cecil.

  Sir William bowed and withdrew.

  I brought Rosa in and she kneeled to the Queen.

  “Now, my dear”—the Queen spoke softly and gently—“be not afraid, only show me honestly, when they are gathered, which was the man that brought the double ale.”

  A few minutes later, all Cecil's secretaries and clerks and serving men were lined up in the orchard.

  At a gesture from the Queen, who was standing in the shade of an apple tree, Rosa went along the row of men, frowning at each face. She was shaking so hard she could hardly walk, so I went with her, holding her hand.

  The tension mounted. Sir William, watching from beside the Queen, looked nervous and unhappy.

  Rosa walked from one lad to the next, looking searchingly at each face. At the end of the row she stopped and shook her head. “Not one of them is the lad that brought the ale,” she said.

  Cecil didn't look very relieved. “One is missing,” he said. “Which is it? Ah, yes, fetch Alan Yerd.”

  Two of the others sped off to get him. They didn't come back for ages—and when they did, they brought a tall man, wrapped in his cloak, with only his shirt and hose under it.

  “Is that the man?” demanded Sir William.

  “No, sir,” said Rosa.

  “Why did you not come when you were ordered to?” demanded Cecil.

  The man looked very embarrassed. “Somebody stole my livery doublet and jerkin, and I've no other that's fit,” he said nervously.

  “What?” shouted both the Queen and Cecil together.

  “Yesterday morning, before I got dressed, I went to the Wardrobe men—for I had asked theni to brush out my doublet for me. Only they said they had already given it back to my friend who came for it. But I never sent no one to get it and so—”

  The Queen was laughing with relief. “My dear Sir Spirit,” she said, using her nickname for Cecil, “I am so glad that I was mistaken,” and she held out her hand to Sir William for him to kiss.

  “Indeed, Your Majesty, so am I,” Cecil replied.

  And I felt glad also. For though Sir William Cecil is, assuredly, the most boring man in England, I have always believed him honest and would have been sad to find him otherwise.

  “Now we must find out who stole the livery,” the Queen said decisively.

  Rosa was dismissed, and a short time later the Wardrobe's Chief Tailor and his skinny apprentice were standing in front of the Queen.

  “Well, Your Majesty,” said the tailor, “it was Martin here what let the suit of livery be stolen, though he's a good lad and able as any of us with a needle—”

  “Quite so,” agreed the Queen. “Now, Martin, be not afraid—tell me what happened.”

  Martin stood on one leg and scraped the other one up and down the rush mat. “I'd brushed it out, see, Majesty—the livery I mean, Mr. Yerd's livery from Sir William Cecil, see. And then the gentleman what came and got it was tall like Mr. Yerd and had his hat pulled down, and he gave me a penny for the good job I'd done, and I thought it was Mr. Yerd, see—”

  “Did you see his face?” asked Cecil.

  “N-no, sir,” stammered Martin. “My eyes aren't too good, that's why I was 'prenticed at the Wardrobe.”

  So that was a dead end.

  I will continue my investigations as soon as I can escape from this tedious play. At least I have removed a suspect. I am now convinced that Sir William Cecil had nothing to do with the accidents, though somebody went to considerable lengths to implicate him—stealing his livery to wear.

  In spite of the gossip, like the Queen, I simply do not believe that the Earl of Leicester himself can be behind the accidents. They reflect so badly upon him, since he is responsible for all the arrangements, and besides, I believe he truly loves Her Majesty and would not do anything to put her at risk. Perhaps the Earl is cursed, but I doubt it….

  So, who is left? That is, who remains that would wish to discredit the Earl of Leicester and, perhaps, Secretary Cecil as well? There is the Swedish Prince, of course. He would certainly be pleased to see the Earl of Leicester discredited, and would not be displeased if the dislike between the Earl and Sir William were to worsen. But how could he have done it? AH his attendants are Swedish. None of them speak much English—and the tailor's apprentice didn't mention that the man who came for the livery had an accent. He would certainly have noticed if the man had been foreign.

  It is very perplexing. I must devise a way of finding out more about the Swedish nobles and the Swedish Prince.

  Thank the lord, the play is ending. I see that Lady Sarah has a new admirer. She has been batting her eyelashes at him through all the play, and now he has found an excuse to speak with her. Lady Jane is looking put out. She does hate it when Sarah gets more attention than she.

  Lady Sarah's flirting gave me a marvellous idea for a plan to investigate the Swedish Prince—though I am not sure if it will work.

  After the play we went back to our chamber, but then Lady Sarah decided to go and find some moonlit cobwebs to put on her spots. I spent some time devising my plan and then realized I needed to talk to Sarah, so I went to look for her.

  I found her, just as she was coming in, accompanied by Olwen, carrying the cobwebs on a twig.

  I walked beside her as I wasn't at all sure how to ask what I wanted to ask, so I began a long way away, ready to work up to the main point. ““You're very good at getting along with gentlemen and talking to them and so on,” I said.

  Lady Sarah looked at me rather suspiciously. “Hm,” she said noncommittally.

  “Well, it's just that I never know what to talk about,” I told her, which is true in a way. “So what do you say when they talk to you?”

  “My goodness,” said Sarah, a little smugly. “Why are you suddenly interested in gentlemen, Grace? This is new.”

  “Well, urn … I just wondered …,” I mumbled, nearly ove
rcome with sheer embarrassment.

  Sarah smoothed her satin gown. “It wouldn't have anything to do with dear John Hull, would it?” she enquired.

  “Oh, no, of course not. Not at all,” I said, and wondered why my face was feeling so hot—I wasn't anywhere near a brazier.

  Sarah smirked, as if she didn't believe me. How annoying.

  “Just … er … gentlemen,” I pressed on, “You know, like the … er … like the Swedish gentlemen.”

  She laughed and patted my arm. “Don't fret, Grace,” she said. “It's pleasing to see that you're turning into a proper Maid of Honour at last. After all, we are all here to find a rich nobleman to marry and adore us, aren't we?”

  “Um …,” I said, speechless for once.

  “But I don't think John is really suitable,” Sarah continued. “He doesn't seem to have any family or lineage. But you can practise on him.”

  “No … truly, I just want to talk to the Swedish gentlemen, really …,” I persisted.

  “Of course,” Sarah said. And then she actually winked at me! “Now, let's see. There's no point in pulling your bodice lower—no breasts. Or letting your hair escape a little—too straggly.”

  I scowled at her.

  “Hm. The idea, you see, is to let the young gentlemen think it's their idea to talk to you,” she explained.

  “And isn't it?” I asked, surprised.

  “No, of course not. Lord above, if you left it to the men, there would be no dalliance at all! So you must be as visible and as beautiful as you can be— and then you …” She did something peculiar with her eyelids, sort of looking down and then up and smiling. “Like that,” she said.

  “Like what?” I asked, still not sure.

  She sighed. “You look up at them through your eyelashes. And then you look away. And then you look back just for a second and look away again.”

  “Oh,” I said, more confused than ever.

  “And then when they come to you, pretend not to be at all interested in them,” she went on.

  “Won't they get discouraged?” I asked.