Queen's Ransom

by FIONA BUCKLEY

  “But someone’s been at it, right enough,” Dale said, horrified, staring into a cupboard. “I never folded your linen like that, ma’am, never so carelessly. All your sleeves were together, too, and here’s a pair out of place on the shelf below!”

  “And this book of poems,” I said, examining the saddlebags, “was in the other pocket, the offside one, not in here!”

  We stared at each other. Instinctively, I put a hand to my overskirt and once again felt the stiff crackle of the parchment cylinders in the hidden pocket. I turned back the edge of the skirt and drew the contents out. They were of course untouched, because they never left my person. I had put the royal letters into a little linen bag and even slept with them under my pillow. “I wonder if someone was looking for these?”

  “Everyone in our party knows you’re going to Paris, ma’am.”

  “Yes, but they’re not actually supposed to know about the letter to the queen mother.”

  “But what if somebody does know, all the same, ma’am? And is being paid to make sure that letter doesn’t get there . . . ?”

  “I don’t want this,” I said angrily. “To think I was hoping to get away from mystery and intrigue! Well, Dale, we’ve just got to make sure that that letter does get to Paris safely, that’s all.”

  Brockley had been busy with the horses and we had not yet told him of the man who had followed us. Now I sent Dale to fetch her husband, and I described to him both our strange hooded pursuer, and the way unseen fingers had searched our baggage. Tight-mouthed with anger, he said that if necessary, we would ride on to Paris without Blanchard and his men.

  “The sooner we get there and get back, the better. We can manage with just Cecil’s escort. Whoever’s been doing these things could well be one of Blanchard’s men. I only hope that Cecil’s escort are all trustworthy! We can meet Master Blanchard at his ward’s home afterward. That’s if he gets better,” Brockley added acidly, “and doesn’t embarrass Charpentier by dying on the premises! Meanwhile, madam, lock your door and your window tonight.”

  “And once more, we’ll eat supper up here this evening,” I said. “We’ll guard our belongings.”

  “I’ll fetch the food up to you, madam,” Brockley said.

  We carried this plan out. I took my father-in-law a further dose of my herbal potion, and went to bed early, but slept very ill. Elizabeth was right to think that I, too, knew what insomnia was.

  Elizabeth, though, could call on others to share her misery. Her Ladies of the Bedchamber sometimes looked exhausted, after being awakened in the small hours to read to their restless sovereign, or worse still, play chess with her. “Have you ever tried to play chess when you’re half asleep?” Lady Katherine Knollys had once asked me, quite bitterly.

  But I would not disturb Dale in that way. There was a bolt inside our door and following Brockley’s recommendation, I shot it before Dale and I retired. I also shut the window. But it only had a latch and there was a little tree just outside. I knew, from the kind of experience that most ladies don’t possess, that a thin knife blade could be slipped through the crack to lift that latch. While Dale, who was sharing my bed, slumbered at my side, I lay there, hour after hour, listening for the rustle of branches and the scratch and scrape of an intruder at that window.

  There was no intruder, however. I slept in the end, for about two hours. It was nowhere near enough, of course, and I was bleary-eyed in the morning. I sent Dale to fetch cold water, splashed my face with it to wake myself up, chose a clean gown for the day, transferred the precious letters (plus dagger and lock picks) to the pocket in the fresh overskirt, and then went to knock on Master Blanchard’s door, to find out if yesterday’s medicines had had any effect.

  “No, they haven’t,” William Harvey said, meeting me at the door. I went in to look at the patient, who said miserably that he was no better and no worse.

  “You ought to eat. Can I ask them to send up some gruel or soup? Could you manage that?”

  “A little thin soup, perhaps,” said Blanchard wanly. “And I’ll take some more of your medicine if you like, but not that filthy brew the physician sent.”

  I fetched the soup and brought another dose of my potion. He swallowed this quite willingly, but he took only a few spoonfuls of the soup before lying disconsolately back with a shake of the head. I plodded wearily away.

  I decided that we would once again eat in our room, and sent Dale to fetch breakfast. Returning with a tray, she said that although De Clairpont had left the inn, the merchant Van Weede was still there and had asked after my ailing father-in-law.

  “I told him there was no good news, and he said he was sorry. It’s true he speaks English but he’s got a thick accent. He’s a civil sort of fellow, though.”

  “And I’m sure he’s pretending to be something he isn’t,” I said irritably. “What’s the matter with this inn?”

  We stayed in our room all morning. Brockley had advised me not to report either our hooded follower or our searched baggage to John Ryder. Ryder had been sent with me by Cecil, along with the Dodds, but: “Best think, madam, before you talk to anyone at all. We can’t be quite sure even of Cecil’s fellows. Better not alert the enemy until we know who the enemy is.” After thinking about it, I agreed with Brockley. Were Cecil’s men necessarily reliable? Bribery could reach some unexpected places. It would be best to keep silent, I decided, and wait. The foe might in some way reveal himself.

  So I sat by the window and read my book of poems, and Dale busied herself with some mending. Later on, the smell of food wafted in, from which I concluded that whoever was sitting with Blanchard was having dinner in his room once again.

  Then came a familiar tap on the door, and Dale opened it. Brockley stood there. His features were as impassive as ever but there was a glint in his eyes and that dignified forehead of his positively shone with righteousness.

  “I think you should know, madam,” he said, “that Master Blanchard, who is supposed to be too ill with stomach trouble to take anything more than thin soup or watered milk and not much of that, is sitting up in his bed, gobbling new bread and fried trout in a herb sauce, and on the table beside him is a dish of what looks like almond fritters. There’s a flagon of wine there, too.”

  “What?”

  “I was passing the kitchen door when I heard Harvey ordering dinner upstairs for himself and Sweetapple,” said Brockley. “It sounded like a very good dinner for just two men, madam, even if one of them is that young gannet, Mark. So I waited until the food had been taken up, and then followed. The room has a lock but the key was on the outside of the door. I took it out and put my eye to the keyhole. It was dinner for three, not for two. That’s how Master Blanchard’s been kept fed all this time.”

  I flung my book onto the bed, swept out and across the lobby to Blanchard’s room. I threw the door open without ceremony and there was my father-in-law, upright against his pillows, holding a chunk of bread and fish in one hand, while the other was just picking up a goblet full of wine.

  There was shattering silence. Blanchard’s face turned a giveaway crimson. So did Sweetapple’s. Harvey, seated opposite him at a small table by the window, regarded me with fury.

  “Do you often enter the bedrooms of gentlemen without knocking, Mistress Blanchard?” he asked coldly.

  I ignored him. I was light-headed with rage. I wanted to shout at Blanchard and ask him what game he thought he was playing. But caution stopped me short.

  “Master Blanchard,” I said, with a sweetness as deceptive as his illness. “I came to see how you were. I did have hopes of my medicine, but this is wonderful. Oh, I am so glad to see you better; I’ve been so anxious. You must take a turn round the inn yard this afternoon and see how strong you feel. Then, if you have a good night’s sleep, perhaps we can go on with our journey tomorrow!”

  Withdrawing hastily, before anyone could answer, I went back to my room, where Dale and Brockley were waiting for me.

  “They know th
at I’ve found out,” I said. “They must do. I put on a show, but I doubt if it deceived them.”

  Closing the door, I went to the window seat, where I sank down, sober now, my brief anger fading. I felt afraid, though I didn’t quite know what I feared. I had the queen’s letter of introduction in my pocket and her ring on my finger; I had Cecil’s men to protect me. I found it hard to believe that either Ryder or the Dodds wanted to steal the royal missive. And I had Brockley. But I had always been, at heart, nervous of Luke Blanchard. Now that fear burned up like a flame.

  “If I go on pretending that I just think he’s got better,” I said, “I fancy they’ll go on pretending, too. But what does it all mean? Why should Blanchard want to delay us, and keep us here? What is he about?”

  “Perhaps he’s the one who’s after that letter, ma’am,” Dale said.

  “We’re nowhere near Paris yet. He’s got plenty of time,” I replied.

  “Suppose he wants to pass it to someone here, or nearby,” Brockley suggested.

  “That would mean,” I said slowly, “that he is in the pay of someone in France . . . it could be someone on either side, I suppose. Does Cecil suspect, I wonder? Perhaps this whole business of the letter to Queen Catherine is a trap to catch Blanchard. Well, I wish Cecil had told me, that’s all. Now what am I to do?”

  I had glimpsed some of the truth, but not from the right angle, and in any case none of our guesses were much help in deciding what to do next.

  “I suppose,” I said at last, “that there’s only one thing I can do. I’ve been given no instructions about laying traps for Master Blanchard. I must, therefore, carry out the instructions I was given. I said as much to Dale yesterday and I think it still stands. I must get that letter to Paris, come what may. We leave tomorrow. With or without Master Blanchard.”

  We left with him, of course. He had been caught out and he knew it. After solemnly pacing around the inn yard in the afternoon and taking supper in the evening, he declared that next morning he would be quite ready to set off for Douceaix, where Helene Blanchard awaited us.

  6

  Helene

  The skies had cleared. We left St. Marc to ride through woodland full of golden dapples and the green underwater light of sunshine through young leaves. It should have been delightful. But I was worried and did little but fret.

  The evening before, I had said casually to Mark Sweetapple: “Master Blanchard got over his illness very suddenly. Was he really so sick?” Once again, this produced an embarrassed flush, which was informative, but all he actually said was: “Yes, indeed, mistress. But these things do pass off suddenly sometimes. I’m sure your potion helped.” Sweetapple was a good lad, but he took his master’s orders. I would get no further change out of him or any of the other men. Now I was asking myself whether or not I should after all challenge Luke Blanchard directly.

  But he had only to repeat what Sweetapple had said, and claim that he meant to come to me after his meal and tell me of his recovery, and then where would I be? I had let the hooded man go unchallenged for a similar reason. No; better concentrate on my errand for the queen and report the mystery to Cecil when I reached England again.

  Blanchard himself made only one remark that could have been an oblique reference to the matter. As we trotted along, our horses’ hooves thudding on last year’s soft leaf mold, he came up beside me and remarked: “You are more of a surprise to me than ever, you know, Ursula. I begin to be highly impressed with you. I never expected that.”

  “Impressed?” I said. “In what way?”

  But if he had had it in mind to explain or excuse his extraordinary behavior at the inn, he thought better of it. Instead, he said: “When I first learned that you had Gerald in your toils, I thought you’d seduced him in order to escape from your uncle and aunt and your life at Faldene. All I knew of you then was that your mother had been to court to serve Queen Anne Boleyn and was sent home in disgrace, pregnant by a court gallant she would not name, because she said he was married. Your grandparents, and after they were gone, your uncle and aunt, gave her a home and helped her to rear you and they went on looking after you when your mother died. But I could see for myself that you had no love for them. Frankly, I considered that you should show more gratitude and humility—”

  “Uncle Herbert and Aunt Tabitha gave me a home,” I said. “But they did not give me kindness. There is a saying, Master Blanchard, about the toad under the harrow. The toad knows where each tooth goes.”

  “You still had food and clothing and a roof—and an education. It seemed to me then that you owed them something, but instead, you ran off with my son, who should have married your cousin Mary. She would have brought him a handsome dower, whereas you brought him nothing.”

  “He had no need of my cousin’s dower,” I said. “He made his way very well in the service of Sir Thomas Gresham.”

  “I realize that now. I also realized, when I heard you were also making your way at court, that perhaps you were more than just—a clever little minx.”

  “I have never been a minx,” I said. “I loved Gerald, Master Blanchard.”

  “Ah, well. Love.” He shrugged. “What does it mean, after all? Marriage is a bargain. The man maintains the woman and gives her children, and she keeps the home and rears the babes. That is life, and it’s best if there’s money enough for a few comforts. What more can anyone reasonably want? But I see now that Gerald may have recognized in you a certain shrewd quality of mind that your cousin Mary lacks. A quality that could be useful to a man who hopes to climb in the world. Yes, I see. Well, well. Who would have thought it?”

  “Are you apologizing to me, Master Blanchard?”

  “No. My views were natural. I now see that they were mistaken, that’s all. When we return to England, I must make a point of seeing my granddaughter. Perhaps you will bring her to Helene’s wedding.”

  He had rejected Meg once and I wasn’t sure that I wanted her to meet him until she was old enough to decide for herself whether she wished to know him or not. I made no direct reply, but instead, seized on the topic of Helene. “I haven’t asked you yet—who is Helene to marry?”

  “Ah.”

  I looked at him in surprise. He gave me a chilly smile.

  “When I betrothed Gerald,” he said, “I did it because I wanted a union with the Faldene family. There is a good deal of money there, and I never saw their preference for the old religion as a difficulty. We Blanchards have accepted the Anglican faith, but Mary would have been allowed to visit her parents at Faldene when she chose, and if she heard Mass while she was there, I would have winked at it. Well, you put an end to that. But now Helene is coming to England, and the younger Faldene son is still unmarried. Both are Catholic, and the young man is acquainted with France; indeed, he was actually in the ambassador’s suite here in Paris for a time, although he has since returned home. He and Helene should have much in common. I have arranged for my ward,” said Master Blanchard, “to marry Edward Faldene.”

  “My cousin Edward!”

  “Yes. You must be about the same age. Do you remember him?”

  In the interest of tact, I said: “Not very well. He was sent away when he was twelve, to finish his education in a Catholic household in Northumbria.” In fact, I remembered him all too vividly. Even at twelve, he had been very like his father, my uncle Herbert, by which I mean heavily built but light on his feet, and fond of creeping up on the servants and on me, his illegitimate cousin, so that he could report us if we were doing anything to incur disapproval. He liked people to fear him. He had a cruel streak.

  “The Faldenes are willing,” Master Blanchard explained. “Helene has lands in France and will bring some valuable jewelry with her, too. On my side, the arrangement is highly satisfactory, because your uncle has agreed that some of Helene’s dower will remain in my hands—commission, so to speak. I shall sell my share of her lands as soon as France returns to normal, and I trust to make a good profit.”

 
; No wonder, I thought, he had been so eager to get his ward out of France. If Helene were not a likely source of money, he might well have left her to take her chances in the midst of civil war. I began to be sorry for Helene.

  * * *

  We sighted Château Douceaix at the end of the afternoon. It reminded me a little of Faldene, which, although not a happy house, is still beautiful, standing on the side of a sheltered valley, where fields lie on the broad slopes and trees fill the lower part of the vale and thrust their ancient roots out from the banks into Faldene River, which flows along the bottom.

  Douceaix had similarities. Here, too, the bottom of the vale was filled with woodland and a sparkling river flowed through it. If Helene eventually found herself living at Faldene, some of the topography would seem familiar. Perhaps it would compensate for having my cousin Edward for a husband and—God help her—Uncle Herbert and Aunt Tabitha as parents-in-law.

  There were a few differences, though. The château stood on an isolated knoll rather than on the side of the valley, and the valley itself was much shallower. This was not hilly country. The slopes on either side were ripples in the land, not great waves, and the south-facing ones were planted not with wheat or barley, but with vines.

  The house was older than Faldene, too, with genuine arrow slits in the towers at each end and walls topped with businesslike crenellations instead of Faldene’s merely decorative ones. It also had a moat, which Faldene had not. White swans cruised there, and there was a bridge of the same pale stone as the rest of the house. It looked like Caen stone, which I knew had been used in the White Tower. At court, I had learned to recognize such things.

  Harvey and Ryder galloped on ahead to announce our approach, and by the time we arrived, our hosts had gathered to greet us. In the courtyard, we were helped off our horses and welcomed as though we were beloved friends and well known at Douceaix. A tall and courtly man like a suntanned eagle, with strong wings of brown hair sweeping back from his temples, embraced Luke joyously, exclaiming in quite passable English that he was Henri Blanchard, Luke’s distant cousin.