Queen's Ransom

by FIONA BUCKLEY

  He looked questioningly at Brockley. “Brockley comes with me,” I said firmly. Charpentier said no more, but led us away to a small, paneled parlor. Here, too, there was a fire, but instead of trestles and benches, there was a table set with candles, wine, and a platter of pasties. There were chairs at the table, and a comfortable settle by the window. A man was sitting there. As we entered, he rose to his feet. He was tall and dark-haired, and wide of shoulder, with dark, narrow eyes and black, dramatic eyebrows. His chin was too long, his limbs too loose for beauty, but to me he was beautiful. I had not seen him for months, except in dreams and in imagination.

  Matthew spoke first, and in businesslike fashion. “Brockley. I am glad to see you still in the service of my wife. I ask you to keep the door for us. Stand guard outside it, if you will. Charpentier, bring refreshment for Brockley, whatever he wishes. He can have it while he is on guard. Now, both of you, leave me and Madame de la Roche together.”

  “Madam?” said Brockley, as one who wishes to make it clear whose orders he is taking.

  “Do as Matthew asks, Brockley.”

  “If you are sure, madam.”

  “I have not come here to abduct her, Brockley,” Matthew said dryly. “She would only escape me again as soon as she got the chance. You can safely leave her with me.”

  It was one of his great charms, that underlying current of humor, which would surface at unexpected moments. Now, it broke the tension. I smiled and even Brockley briefly grinned. He went out. Charpentier had already gone. The door clicked shut behind Brockley and I was alone with Matthew.

  The flicker of laughter died out. We stood there, soberly facing each other across the width of a small parlor, and the length of a year. Our last encounter had been a reunion, too, after a time of separation, and it had been stormy.

  This time, somehow, was different.

  We were still young. I was not yet twenty-eight and Matthew, I knew, was only about five years older than myself. But he looked more. The long chin seemed more pronounced, with lines on either side of it; and surely there was a gray hair or two at his temples. As for me, I felt as though I had aged by ten years at least in the months since last I’d seen him. Now, we neither cursed each other nor embraced. Instead, we stood in silence, each scanning the other’s face, until at last he said, in French: “So you came.”

  “I . . . yes.”

  “Why?”

  I could hardly say “To bid you good-bye” before I had even said hello. I hesitated and then stammered: “Y . . . you wrote to me. You said you would be here—if I wanted to see you again.”

  “It seems that you did.”

  “Yes.” This dispassionate mixture of surprise and accusation confused me. For accusation was there, in the tone if not precisely in the words. I gestured toward the settle. “Shall we sit?”

  “By all means.” But when I took the settle, I found that he had moved to a seat at the table. Again, we faced each other across a space longer than the length of our arms. Once more, we studied each other.

  “What in hell’s name,” said Matthew at last, “made you come to France just now? It was madness. This area is quiet, but it’s an island, and the sea may pour in and drown it at any moment. The people of St. Marc and the places roundabout are Catholic but this is Huguenot territory. Full-scale war may break out any day. The prince of Condé’s men could be thundering through the darkness toward us even as I speak.”

  “We didn’t know when we landed that things were so bad,” I said. “I am traveling with my first husband’s father, Luke Blanchard. He has a ward at Douceaix—”

  “Where or what is this place Douceaix, exactly?”

  “It’s a house, not far from Le Mans. I told you once that my first husband had French forebears. Some French Blanchards live there. There is a young girl . . .” I explained about Helene. “I also have to carry the queen’s respects to Paris and I have a letter that declares me to be a royal messenger. There are three of Sir William Cecil’s men in the party as well as Blanchard’s own escort.”

  “And you all decided to press on and try to collect this Helene, and go on to Paris, regardless. And you came to France, just to please the queen and this Master Blanchard?”

  I said slowly: “I was glad to get away from the court. I was tired of intrigue. I—work for Cecil. I find things out for him. He pays me. You know something of that.”

  “Yes. I grasped that last year, although what manner of man pays a young woman for such work is beyond me to understand.”

  “I need the money for my daughter, for Meg. But my last attempt to find something out did not go well. I lost my confidence, perhaps.” Dale and Brockley knew about the man to whom I had given poison, but I did not want to speak of that to anyone else, not even Matthew.

  Still less did I want to speak of my fear that what I had done might somehow contaminate my daughter. I no longer even believed that. I was beginning to think that, surely, she could not be harmed by what she did not know, and I was missing her badly. Although I could not have her with me at Elizabeth’s court, I always knew that she was not far away, at Thamesbank with her foster parents, by the river just as most of Elizabeth’s residences were, and within easy reach by boat. Now, the sea that lay between us was like a barrier in my mind.

  I pushed all this out of my thoughts as though afraid that Matthew would read them.

  “I simply wanted a rest from my work,” I said. “So I agreed to travel with my father . . . my former father-in-law.”

  “I see. But you did ask after me.”

  “Yes. I was in your country, and perhaps you were not far off—I couldn’t help myself. I think you were in my mind when I said I would come to France. I wanted—just to pass close to you.”

  Matthew poured wine, and rising to his feet, handed me a goblet and offered a pasty. I remembered, so well, the way he moved: loose-jointed, yet as coordinated as a panther.

  “You put yourself at risk merely by being connected with me,” he said as he sat down again and sipped his wine. “I am not popular with the Huguenot supporters, for more reasons than simply my adherence to the true faith. That’s why I’m here under the name of Mark Lenoir.”

  “You’ve been spying on the Huguenots?”

  “You could put it so. As a result, there are many men who would like to get their hands on me, and not to give me a friendly pat on the back, I assure you. I have also had to dodge English agents, who think that I may have useful information about Catholic adherents in England.”

  “And have you?”

  “Perhaps. I still work for the cause of Mary Stuart as best I can from here. I am in touch with her supporters in England. I make no secret of it as far as you are concerned, Ursula. You are in Cecil’s confidence, after all. No doubt you know most of what he knows, anyway.”

  His voice was bitter. So was mine, as I answered: “I am tired of Mary Stuart and her cause. Why can she not be content with ruling Scotland? Why can she not leave her cousin Elizabeth’s throne alone? Must we talk of this? We’ve been all over it so many many times before. I believe that Elizabeth is legitimate: Catholics do not. We shall never agree. And from the state of France just now,” I added waspishly, “it seems to me that you have work enough to defend the true faith, as you call it, here, without trying to spread it back into England!”

  “Why must we talk of this, you ask? I wonder that myself. Whenever we meet, we find ourselves arguing about things that have nothing to do with our private lives. Ursula, you asked after me when you first came to this inn, and you have come to me now in answer to my letter. What do you want of me?”

  “You wrote the letter. What do you want of me?”

  “I think you know the answer to that, Ursula.”

  Silence fell between us again. At last, he said: “What happened, after I got away last year? You did help me to escape; I know that and I thank you for it. Tell me what you have done during the time since then.”

  “Tried to find things out for
Cecil and failed. Lived at the court. Been a Lady of the Presence Chamber to the queen. Visited Meg when I could.” I stopped, but he sensed that I was holding something back and said: “Go on.”

  “I lost a child,” I said. “Yours.”

  “What? Ursula! Did I—we—?”

  “Yes. But I miscarried. I was a little over two months gone.”

  “Did you want to miscarry?” His voice was sharp.

  I shook my head. “No. Nor did I do anything to cause it. No one knew except Dale and Mattie Henderson—the Hendersons are fostering Meg, if you remember. I was staying with them at the time.”

  They had cared for me deftly and discreetly. Mattie had coolly ordered a bonfire to be made to “burn some rubbish” and then put two dreadfully bloodstained sheets into a sack and tossed them in. The household had been told that I was ill with a fever and a persistent sick headache. I had suffered, and wept, and recovered, and gone back to the court. But I had not forgotten.

  “The last time we met, it was so briefly,” he said. “We had just that one night. Were you much distressed? Yes, I see that you were. I am sorry. Ursula, if you had had the child, would it have changed anything? Would you have come to me?”

  “I . . . don’t think so.”

  “But why not? Why not? My home is yours. How many times have I told you that? The child would have had a right to its father!”

  “You know why not,” I said. “Because of what you want to bring back into England. And besides, when you fled, you took that man Ignatius Wilkins with you. I want no child of mine anywhere near him.”

  “You hate him, I know. But why so intensely?”

  “Because when he was a parish priest in England, in the days of Queen Mary, he got two of his own parishioners burned for heresy. A weaver and his daughter. The daughter was nineteen. Rob Henderson, Mattie’s husband, witnessed it, though not willingly.”

  “You know very well,” said Matthew, “that I am not and never have been in favor of persecuting heretics. I am glad that the government here has given it up. People should come back to the faith because they are led, not driven. As for Wilkins, he ran into danger through working for Mary Stuart’s cause and he and I were involved in that business together. I could hardly leave him behind. But he is not a favorite of mine. Hardly. In England, as you no doubt recall, he misused funds that I had gathered for Mary Stuart’s cause. He is not with me at Blanchepierre. He has found employment elsewhere—here at St. Marc, actually.”

  “Here? Where, precisely?”

  “Oh, at the abbey. He’s the resident confessor to the nuns.”

  “He’s the . . . ? Good God,” I said. “That goes a long way toward explaining Helene!”

  “Your father-in-law’s ward? Why does she need explaining?”

  “Until lately,” I said, “Helene was being educated at St. Marc’s Abbey. She’s a tiresome girl. Frankly, she’s fanatical about her religion, though I’ve made use of that. Her overwhelming desire to bid a further farewell to her friends at the abbey gave me my chance to come back here from Douceaix. I’m supposed to be accompanying her. Well, if she’s been under the influence of Wilkins, I can understand why I find her so difficult.”

  “Can we put Wilkins to one side along with Mary Stuart? Let us talk of you instead. You came to France. You yielded to the temptation to ask after me. Charpentier reported it to me. He is one of the Catholics in this district on whom I rely for information. I need to know all I can about what is going on, for my own safety, as well as to help my own side. When I heard you were here, I in turn yielded to the temptation to write to you. But what now? We are here together but for how long? When you have finished your wine, will you smile and bid me farewell and go out of my life, this time forever? Or were you thinking to spend a single night with me, as you did at our last meeting, and then go out of my life? Or will you come with me to Blanchepierre?”

  I didn’t know the answer. Playing for time, I said: “Is Blanchepierre your family home? You never spoke of it when we were first married.”

  “No. I bought it when I came back to France. I had left sufficient funds here. I was never sure if I could settle in England, you know. I only came to please my mother. I always thought that when she was gone, I might go back to France. Blanchepierre is a little far away from teh rest of my family, but it is very beautiful. You would like it.”

  “And you are truly asking me to come?” I said. “After—everything that has passed between us?”

  “You are my wife. And as you well know, Ursula, I want—I have always wanted—you to live with me as a wife should. Blanchepierre is fairly safe, even in these days. It is not so very large, as châteaux go, but it is well defended and well found, the equivalent of a respectable fortified manor house in England. Yes, I am asking you to come.”

  “But . . .”

  “We will bring Meg over when peace is restored, which I trust will be soon. I would not keep mother and daughter apart. In that, you may find me an improvement on Elizabeth.”

  “But I have promised to keep Helene company on the way back to England.”

  “Can’t she do without you? It doesn’t sound to me as though you and she are likely to get on well!”

  An urgent tapping at the door, and the sound of Brockley calling my name interrupted us. Matthew scowled but strode to the door and opened it. “What is it, Brockley?”

  Brockley slipped inside. “I haven’t been standing guard like a statue, madam. I’ve been keeping my eyes and ears open. Just here, there’s a window on the stableyard and when I thought I heard a voice I knew, I glanced out. I’m sorry to say, madam, that the Dodd brothers are hanging about in the yard, and so is that man Searle. In fact, I saw Searle peering in at windows. I’d know his red head anywhere. I think we’ve been followed here.”

  I remembered how I had looked over my shoulder in the square. Instinct had been keener than either sight or hearing.

  “Who are you talking about?” Matthew inquired.

  “The Dodd brothers are two of the three men Cecil sent with me to augment Master Blanchard’s men,” I said tersely. “They came back with me to St. Marc. But Searle is one of Blanchard’s men and they were all supposed to have stayed in Douceaix with Blanchard himself.”

  “Searle must have come after us and joined forces with the Dodd brothers.” Brockley’s high, polished forehead creased in thought. “Madam, when you were followed in the street once, here at St. Marc, I wondered if the man who followed you was one of our own party. Now I’m sure of it.”

  “But—why? Where do they think I might be going? Who do they think I’m meeting?”

  “Me, I imagine,” said Matthew.

  8

  Unquiet Moonlight

  I lost my temper.

  I had (and have) quite a fierce temper although I learned early that I would be wise to keep it on a leash. Aunt Tabitha made it clear to me that I could either suppress my rages or she would do it for me. A woman, said Aunt Tabitha, must be ever mild and gentle. “I never raise my voice,” Aunt Tabitha had said.

  This was quite true. She raised her hand instead, sometimes with a birch in it. My mercilessly virtuous aunt-by-marriage could terrorize her household quite easily without shouting. Mild and gentle were the last words on earth that I would have applied to her but she never seemed to notice the chasm between what she preached and what she did.

  From her, I learned that if you are a powerless nobody, your anger will not be respected. Elizabeth, who had inherited old King Harry’s capacity for rage, could—and frequently did—lose her temper with abandon but she was the queen. An outburst of temper is taken seriously from someone who is in a position to have you marched off to the Tower.

  But eventually, after I escaped from the tutelage of my aunt and uncle, I discovered something else: that anger can be used—wielded, in fact, like a sword. I had found out, gradually, how to use that sword.

  I had seen the pattern instantly. Matthew was right, of course. I had been
followed in the hope that I would lead Cecil’s men to him. It was possible that my father-in-law’s pretense of illness, even the opportunity to go out and search for a doctor, had been designed to give me a chance to contact Matthew if I wished. Blanchard might know much more about him than I thought. He was wanted in England, both for treason committed when he was living there, and because of information in his possession that Cecil would certainly like to get out of him. And so, as a little sideshow to my journey here, Cecil had arranged for me to be watched, had possibly suborned my father-in-law, in the hope that Matthew and I might contact each other.

  As we had done.

  I had worked for Cecil now for a year and half. He and his wife had found Meg’s foster parents for me. I had served him and trusted him. Now, in this pragmatic grab at a heaven-sent opportunity he had betrayed me. I was shuddering with fury, and a determination to slash this foul little plan to pieces.

  “Let us disappoint them,” I said through my teeth. “Leave this to me. I will deal with that little get-together down there in the stableyard. No, don’t come with me, Brockley. And, Matthew, for God’s sake stay out of sight. Is there any chance that they’ve seen you already?”

  “No,” said Matthew. “I was upstairs until a few minutes ago and no one has peered in at this window since I came down here. I would have noticed; it’s the kind of thing I do notice. Besides, would they recognize me?”

  “They might. You were at court when Cecil and his household were. Wait here, both of you.”

  I was giving orders as imperiously as though I were Elizabeth herself. Matthew, frowning, said: “Ursula . . .” in tones of protest and moved to bar my way.

  I stopped short. “I said leave this to me!”

  Brockley said: “What do you intend, madam?”

  “If you open that window a crack and listen without showing yourselves, you’ll hear. Don’t worry! I told you: I will deal with this!”

  “Mistress Blanchard can usually be relied on, sir,” said Brockley tactfully.