Queen's Ransom

by FIONA BUCKLEY

  No, a hateful journey altogether though Blanchard and I were on better terms by the end of it. But the innkeepers were suspicious of foreigners and we were often inadequately fed and tired from restless nights on thin pallets. The only good thing was that we saw no sign of Jenkinson’s pursuers. I was more thankful than I can say when we arrived in Paris at last.

  If anyone had asked me, I would have said the court of Queen Elizabeth was a place of formality and protocol, and that Elizabeth was the most regal of queens.

  Compared to Catherine de Médicis, queen mother of France and regent, until the young King Charles, who was still only a boy of eleven, should reach years of discretion, Elizabeth was as easy to approach as a stallholder on market day.

  We began by going straight to the English ambassador, Nicholas Throckmorton. He was thin of face, with sharp blue eyes and a fair, pointed little beard, which reminded me somewhat of Cecil’s, and a tired air. We found that he knew the proper procedures and was willing to put them into operation for us, but he thought there might be some delay.

  “I am a Huguenot sympathizer,” he said frankly. “I do my best but I am not popular with Queen Catherine.”

  With such a person as the ambassador, I had been frank about the real nature of my message. This, too, made him doubtful. “I’m not sure how welcome an offer of mediation from Elizabeth will be. Still, you have your orders. Though you are a Lady of the Presence Chamber, you say? An unusual choice for a royal messenger, surely?”

  A Lady of the Presence Chamber is nothing much in the court hierarchy, and isn’t usually chosen even to transmit conventional messages. I explained, however, that Elizabeth particularly wanted an unobtrusive messenger, and he accepted this with a nod of understanding.

  “Queen Elizabeth knows the value of making contact with other rulers. She never misses an opportunity,” he said in tones halfway between respect and indulgence. “You were coming to France, and represented such an opportunity, no doubt.”

  He found us lodgings in an official residence, sent word through the official channels that he wished to present us to Her Majesty Queen Catherine, and told us next day that we had been lucky. The queen was at the palace of St. Germain, to the west of Paris, and we could be received in two days’ time. However, there were things that we must know . . .

  He then explained the details of the ceremony surrounding presentations such as ours. They were incredible. We were rehearsed beforehand as though learning the steps of an intricate dance. We would be greeted by such and such officials. We must speak here, be silent there, curtsy or bow to such an extent in one place, to another extent in another, and not at all somewhere else; do this, avoid that . . .

  I remembered my first presentation to Elizabeth, and how I was overwhelmed by what now seemed like very simple instructions. I wondered what would happen at the French court if one made a mistake. Would the culprit be instantly conducted to the royal menagerie and thrown to the lions?

  Jenkinson was still calling himself Van Weede and keeping out of the light so those who were to be presented numbered only three: myself, Helene, and Luke Blanchard. Accompanied by Throckmorton, and escorted by the ambassador’s retainers, we set off on the appointed day, traveling by hired boat down the Seine, all of us dressed in our best. My overgown had the usual hidden pocket but all I had in it was my purse. Lock picks and dagger I had of course left in my discarded traveling gown. I was going into the presence of royalty. Queen Elizabeth’s letters I now carried openly, in a little embroidered pochette.

  The Seine is a winding river. It meanders so much on its westward journey from Paris to the sea that there are places where it flows directly north. St. Germain stands beside it at such a point, on a plateau on the western bank, with a little town below. To the north lies a deep forest, which occupies all of a great loop of the river.

  The residence was beautiful, and interesting, too: a modernized fortress. The lower story of St. Germain, with its thick walls and small windows and the tough-looking towers at the corners, had obviously been built to withstand a medieval siege. But between the towers, from the first floor upward, was a modern palace with airy windows and handsome balconies, obviously built for times of peace and gracious living. The effect, combined with the sheer size of the place, was one of immense power and great sophistication. Used though I was to Elizabeth’s palaces, this made me nervous. My father-in-law clearly felt the same. “What a place,” he said uneasily.

  The procedure went smoothly, however, though it was tedious. We were admitted, handed over to an usher, guided across a courtyard and in at another door, and then received by a new official. After that, we went through a series of marvelously decorated galleries and anterooms, changing escorts several times on the way and often having to wait for the new escort to appear. Throckmorton reminded us when to do this or say that in accordance with protocol. After an hour or so, we arrived at Queen Catherine.

  She was seated regally at the far end of a long room adorned with the most remarkable tapestries I had ever seen. Their themes were mostly biblical, but they pulsed with color and some of the figures were extremely voluptuous. The room was lit by windows but also by lamps and candles and there were dozens of gilded lamp stands and wall sconces in convoluted, sensual designs. Smooth golden curves pleaded with you to brush a palm over them, fluted patterns begged to be explored with the fingertips, and everything glittered as though freshly burnished.

  The room was full of people, including about forty court ladies, most elaborately dressed. The restrained good taste of Douceaix and Marguerite Blanchard was not the fashion here. I had brought a special gown for the occasion, all blue damask and silver embroidery, with a moderate farthingale and a silver-edged ruff. I had thought it fine enough and tasteful enough to turn heads anywhere. Amid the spreading farthingales and swishing trains of the Paris ladies, and their bouffant sleeves and the shoulder puffs that rose up to their ears, I felt like a maidservant. Even Helene fitted in better than I did, since she was young. For her, the maidenly white and silver chosen by Marguerite had an appropriate air.

  Well, it was too late now to do anything about it. With Throckmorton, we walked along a carpeted aisle through the midst of the crowd, to make our obeisance at the foot of Catherine’s dais, and then to rise and kiss the fleshy hand that she held out to each of us in turn.

  It was oddly reminiscent of my first introduction to Elizabeth and yet very different. Catherine de Médicis was utterly unlike her English counterpart, and not only because she was in her forties and was married with children, whereas Elizabeth was in her twenties and still unwed. They were women of completely different types. There was something faerie about Elizabeth but there was nothing at all magical about Catherine de Médicis.

  Elizabeth needed full formal skirts in order to fill a throne up; Catherine’s skirts were bunched at the sides because Catherine herself occupied almost every inch of the wide seat. Elizabeth was pale, her features fine. Catherine was swarthy, her greasy skin dotted with huge pores, her nose and lips thick, and her eyes bulgy.

  She wore purple, much adorned with gold embroidery, and here, too, there was a curious contrast with Elizabeth. For formal audiences, Elizabeth had a very ornamental wardrobe, but with her, they resembled the defenses of a citadel, and that was as it should be, for those who knew Elizabeth also knew how aware she was of her youth and delicacy, how conscious of being vulnerable.

  Catherine’s splendor, on the other hand, was aggressive. It said: I am the ruler of France. Beware.

  I did beware. Catherine de Médicis had a reputation for being both subtle and unsentimental. She was known in some quarters as the serpent queen. I was here as Elizabeth’s representative, and as I looked into Catherine’s prominent eyes, I felt inadequate.

  I also felt a little unwell, although the reason was actually a relief. I had woken that morning to find that this last encounter with Matthew had left no aftermath. There would be no child, or miscarriage, this time. But now
I was out of sorts and there was a dragging pain in my stomach.

  We had been announced, but Nicholas Throckmorton was now enlarging on the introductions. He was being obsequious. I saw that it was true that Catherine de Médicis didn’t greatly care for our Protestant ambassador. Helene was curtsying again and Catherine, glancing pointedly away from Throckmorton and looking at Helene’s silver crucifix, was saying what a pleasure it was to welcome such a lovely and obviously pious young girl to her court. The courtiers ranged on either side of her throne murmured in agreement. None of them knew Helene, I thought sourly. I wondered whose taste was reflected in the voluptuous tapestries and the opulent gold wall sconces and would have wagered that it wasn’t Catherine’s. They probably represented the influence of her husband’s famous mistress, Diane de Poitiers.

  I was wearing, deliberately, Elizabeth’s ring. When it was my turn to take the royal fingertips in mine and touch my lips to them, I made sure that Catherine had a chance to see it.

  “That is a fine ring, Madame,” she said. I could not tell whether she knew its significance or not. Between physical discomfort and intense nervousness, I must have looked ill at ease, for suddenly she smiled at me. “No need to be afraid. All guests are safe in our court, and we honor all messages from our dear sister of England.” Her eyes met mine steadily, and I saw suddenly she was telling me without words that she had recognized the ring. “You are bringing a message to us, are you not?” she said.

  Her voice, speaking French with a strong Italian accent, was a melodious contralto, and although her teeth were in a sorry condition, her smile had unbelievable charm. I smiled back, and would have opened my pochette, except that a young courtier was instantly beside me, holding out his hand for it. “If that is a letter, you must give it first to me. I will give it to Queen Catherine when I am sure it is harmless. That is the rule.”

  The voice was vaguely familiar. I looked up and found myself gazing into the odd-colored eyes and the sharp, cold face of Seigneur Gaston de Clairpont, whom I had last seen at Le Cheval d’Or in St. Marc.

  He made no reference to our previous meeting, however. Instead, he added coolly: “I am responsible for the safety of Her Majesty’s person. I must examine anything you wish to present to her.”

  I drew my two letters out, and selected the privy message from Elizabeth. “Here it is. But my instructions were to present it personally,” I said.

  I could feel Nicholas Throckmorton bristling with indignation at what, after all, was an implied insult to Queen Elizabeth. But he held his tongue and Catherine remarked that De Clairpont was doing his duty most admirably, but that Madam Blanchard did not seem to be afraid to touch the letter with ungloved hands.

  “That being so, we are sure that we can do the same. We do not suspect our sister of England of wishing us ill; in any case there is no need to quarantine the letter until you are sure it has not poisoned you.” De Clairpont bowed gracefully and Catherine once more gave me that astonishing smile. “We will receive the letter,” Catherine said. “He will hand it straight to us, madam. You may give it to him.”

  De Clairpont, bowing again, and positioning his feet as precisely as a dancer, took the letter from me. I handed it over willingly enough, glad to be rid of the responsibility.

  Catherine broke the seal at once, remarking that she could recognize her royal sister Elizabeth’s elegant hand. She read, frowning. “Strange. Normal diplomatic channels would have sufficed, I would have thought. But no matter. We will peruse this at length, later.”

  It seemed a careless answer to something that Elizabeth had thought so important. But perhaps Catherine did not wish to reveal its importance in public. I studied that ugly, intelligent, curiously vital face and realized just how well earned was that serpentine reputation. She had used subtlety when conveying to me that she knew the significance of my ring; now she might well be employing it again.

  Power and subtlety: an intimidating combination. But then, it must take guile to wield power in this disturbed land and keep the court so orderly.

  “I am also,” I said nervously, “to present the compliments of Queen Elizabeth and her hopes that you are in good health, and that France may soon know peace once more.”

  Yet again, she smiled. “We thank our royal sister for her good wishes. Her hopes reflect our own. You are welcome to Paris, Madame Blanchard. And so are you, Seigneur Blanchard, and you, Demoiselle Helene. While you are here, we must show you that despite the troubled times, life here still goes on and there are happy events to celebrate.

  “The day after tomorrow, one of our ladies is to be married in the chapel here and a banquet will be held for her. You shall attend. You shall send for your belongings and servants, and lodgings will be found for you at St. Germain. Then, we trust, you will have joyful memories to take away with you and a good report of France to carry back to your home.”

  It was an order, not an invitation. And the audience was at an end.

  We were guided back through the galleries and anterooms and shown to a chamber where refreshments were offered to us. A number of court dignitaries accompanied us, and we found ourselves engaged in polite conversation. Throckmorton busied himself with pointing out the tastiest delicacies to Helene and answering her questions about the court. Helene seemed to be impressed with it. She had also been impressed with the Seigneur de Clairpont.

  “Who was the young man who passed the letter to the queen mother? He was very handsome.”

  Good God, I thought. The girl is human after all. I didn’t think highly of her taste, but although De Clairpont was too cold-featured to be what I would call handsome, he was certainly elegant. I wondered if Cousin Edward had turned out to be elegant but doubted it. He had my uncle’s lumbering build. Helene might well be in for a disappointment.

  Throckmorton obviously knew a good deal about De Clairpont, and his position at court. He began to explain it to Helene. My stomachache had faded away now but I still felt tired. I moved away to sit in a window embrasure and found my father-in-law beside me.

  “I have just heard Helene asking about De Clairpont,” he said. “She should not be taking any interest in any young man other than her betrothed. All the same . . .”

  During the journey to Paris, I had regained the trick of normal conversation with Blanchard. “She’ll soon forget De Clairpont when she’s home in England and preparing for her own wedding,” I said. “At least we know now that she notices young men.”

  “You may be right,” Blanchard said. “I admit I had begun to fear that all she ever thought about was religion.”

  “I know. Perhaps the wedding we are to attend will help to turn her mind toward her marriage.”

  “Perhaps, though I wish we could set out for England tomorrow,” said Blanchard restlessly. “I am not interested in delaying to attend a stranger’s marriage party. Well, we can make our plans, anyway. I think if we can get a ship down the Seine, we should do so, and forget about the Chaffinch. Ryder advises it and says he has already told the Dodds to make for Nantes independently as soon as they can.”

  “I’m sure that would be wise,” I agreed.

  “The weather’s good,” said my father-in-law. He sighed, and gave me a wry look. “My visit to France hasn’t been all I hoped. I didn’t bargain for so much disturbance. Well, well. With luck, we’ll be home within a week.”

  12

  The Marriage Party

  Throckmorton sent word back to Paris to summon the rest of our party. Jenkinson and Longman came, too. My father-in-law, observing several ships anchored at St. Germain, had quickly made inquiries and found one which was shortly sailing for England and could give us passages. We agreed to tell Jenkinson that he was welcome to travel with us and should join us at St. Germain with the others.

  He arrived looking pleased. “Another move will help to cover my trail,” he said. “I must not let myself become complacent, just because of my success at St. Marc. Poor Silvius Portinari,” he added thoughtfully.
Head on one side, dark eyes gleaming, Jenkinson really did look just like a cock robin who had just swallowed a juicy worm. “What a situation for him! Either to wait for reinforcements, without being sure they would come, which would give me a chance to slide out of sight and cover my tracks; or else be prepared to get his own hands dirty—or bloodstained. How hard it must have been for him to decide what to do!”

  He sounded almost sympathetic, as though for a suitable consideration he might have tried to help his frustrated fellow-creature to overcome his troubles.

  “Well, he tried taking part himself,” Jenkinson said, “and lost his life for it. But the reinforcements remain a possibility. That fellow in Marseilles seemed sure that they were coming. I hope to keep ahead of them but I had better remain vigilant.” His expression now became rueful. “I’ve been thinking it over,” he said, “and I fear that I have indeed been guilty of complacency. If Portinari hoped that reinforcements would follow him, he presumably did what he could to make that possible. Very likely, he left a trail of messages behind him to help any further pursuers keep on the scent. If he found me, then they can. They may also augment their numbers with local help. They probably have contacts in major cities, and may be able to lay their hands on local assassins, though that isn’t always so easy. One can’t just go out and hire a killer as though he were a saddle horse.”

  John Ryder, who was with us, let out a snort of laughter and my father-in-law agreed in a staggered voice that yes, the two things were a little different.

  Jenkinson, however, was shaking his head quite gravely. “I disapprove of carelessness, including my own,” he said, “and I may have made some errors. If I am traced to St. Marc, my pursuers will soon learn what befell Portinari and his companion, and Portinari’s message trail—I’ll be surprised if there isn’t one—may have told them that I’m using the name of Van Weede. If they then learn that a man called Van Weede went to the abbey guest house after the fire and left for Douceaix next day, the danger could be close on my heels. Well, Henri Blanchard knows the situation and won’t help any inquirers, but servants and villagers can be pumped or bribed to talk. I should have changed my name again. Why didn’t I? I curse myself.”