Queen's Ransom

by FIONA BUCKLEY

  Then Bruni bowed to me again. “Very well. We think, signora, that you are speaking the truth. We will be your good hounds. We will hunt down your quarry and dispatch him. Our apologies for troubling you. And”—he looked toward Klara—“we regret that. Do what you can for her.”

  With that, Bruni gathered his men with a gesture, and they were gone, like shadows, out of the back door. We heard them rowing away.

  “They regretted that she was hurt!” I said hysterically, yanking the poker out of the fire. “They . . . I could hardly believe my ears!” I was soaked in sweat, shaking with reaction. “Of all the . . .”

  “You didn’t mention the St. Margaret,” said Jenkinson.

  “He may not be on it; we can’t be sure.” I tried to pull myself together. “Besides, naming the ship would have sounded too pat.” I stumbled across the room to Klara and knelt at her side. “Oh, never mind about Wilkins! Come here, all of you. Klara is in a very bad way.”

  Klara’s condition was alarming. She was breathing, but in a stertorous fashion. One eye was wide open but did not seem to see us and the other was closed. Jenkinson spoke her name. Slowly, the closed eyelid opened. He said something to her in her own language and in a slurred fashion, she answered.

  He looked at me across her. “She didn’t want to give me away,” he said. “She says we bought food for her and that I cooked breakfast on that first morning, after we had kept her up so late the previous night. No one ever did that for her before, she says.”

  We fetched neighbors to help her, and they called a physician. But by morning, she was gone; one more casualty, I thought, of this bitter journey. It was highly likely that her seizure resulted from the bang on the head when she was thrown against the wall. But we did not mention that, or refer to our violent visitors at all and neither did Klara, although for the first hours of her illness, she was still able, in a slurred fashion, to speak. It transpired that Jenkinson had told her about Dale; and although she didn’t know about the treasure, she understood that we were in Antwerp to arrange a ransom, and that our errand was urgent. She told her neighbors and the physician that she had been taken suddenly ill after supper and when the physician noticed the bump on her head, she said she had done it when she fell out of her chair.

  It troubled our consciences but we accepted her charity. If we had told the truth, we could have been kept in Antwerp for weeks while the authorities investigated. Klara was beyond our help by daybreak, but Dale lay in desperate need of rescue.

  Klara van den Bergh was a good woman and we did what we could. She had no living relatives, so we organized the funeral and paid for it. She was buried on Monday, with all the dignity we could arrange at short notice and we were all there except for Helene and Jeanne, who together with Clarkson, had sailed for England that morning. On Tuesday, as intended, the rest of us left Antwerp aboard the Britta.

  We saw the St. Margaret, a scruffy vessel if ever there was one, lying at the quayside with stores being carried on board, probably preparing to leave as well. I wondered, very much, whether Dr. Wilkins would travel aboard her, and where Bruni and Morelli were, but I preferred not to make inquiries. I didn’t even speculate out loud.

  20

  Betrayal

  Catherine de Médicis was no longer young and I doubt if she was ever beautiful, or had any of Elizabeth’s spirit of incantation. But she was royal; she had style. When we paid over the ransom for Dale, the business was performed with ceremony and panache.

  It also took nearly a week to arrange, which exasperated us all. Brockley was thankful to see us, but became taciturn with frustration and impatience; and my father-in-law, his nerves already undermined by the Levantine Lions and ten days of seasickness on the voyage to St. Germain, turned into a bundle of ill-temper and jitters.

  His state of mind was not improved either by the alarming news that greeted us in France. The civil war was now in full flower. The prince of Condé and his Huguenots had seized Orléans, despite an order from Queen Catherine to lay down their arms, and although St. Germain was still quiet, violence stalked the rest of the land. The glimpses we had caught of it on the way to Paris had been nothing by comparison. “I won’t be happy till I see Dover’s white cliffs again,” Blanchard said to me fervently.

  But the day for which we had striven and waited came at last. Queen Catherine presided, dressed in blue velvet and seated with dignity in a great carved chair halfway along a gallery in St. Germain. A trestle table, spread with a blue cloth, stood before her in the midst of the gallery; ladies and courtiers, all in blue and silver, stood behind her and to either side. Sunlight streamed through the tall windows. It was the seventeenth of May, and the days had grown warm.

  At the exact hour of nine in the morning, the two parties came in from opposite ends of the gallery. Through the east door came the Seigneur de Clairpont, followed by a clerk carrying two scrolls, and finally by Dale, between two helmeted guards, each grasping an elbow.

  I entered through the west door, walking between Brockley and Blanchard, and behind Sir Nicholas Throckmorton, who was leading the way. Behind us came Jenkinson, and after him, Harvey, Ryder, Arnold, and Sweetapple, carrying the ransom between them in two chests. I had been lent the same apartment as before and the chests were part of the furnishings. They made an impressive way to bring in the treasure.

  The parties advanced toward each other and halted, a few yards apart. There was a pause. But De Clairpont and his clerk had moved a little aside, and we had a clear view of Dale. I had been allowed to send her fresh clothes and a comb, and she was in a clean gray gown and a white cap, with good shoes on her feet. But her hollowed, bloodless face was dirty and the hair straggling from under the cap, though combed, was in rats’ tails from lack of washing, and even from where I stood I could see how sunken and haunted were her eyes. Beside me, I knew that Brockley had seen all these things, too. I felt him jerk forward, and gently I placed a hand upon his arm.

  We waited. Queen Catherine smiled, enjoying herself, enjoying the little impromptu ceremony that she had created to enliven a morning that would no doubt, otherwise, have been full of more portentous business. “Proceed,” she said.

  “You know what to do.” Throckmorton had briefed us carefully. “Go on.”

  Our men stepped forward with their burdens and placed them in the center of the table in front of the queen, opening the lids. “Show us,” said Catherine.

  One by one, the items were lifted out and ranged on the table, on either side of the chest. Dishes, bowls, goblets of chased gold; the crenellated golden salt; the scalloped silver salt; and the remaining smaller items.

  The clerk undid one of his scrolls and came to lay it on the table, trapping the corners under some of the ornaments to keep it flat. Edging forward and craning my neck, I saw that it was headed Inventory. Throckmorton and De Clairpont both went to examine the objects. They handled them, conferred together, referred to the list, nodded. My father-in-law, beside me, quietly seethed. “The goods have been inspected. Clairpont sent assessors three days ago! What’s all this?”

  “Formalities,” I whispered, and added, in anguish in case he gave offense and we lost Dale even now: “Hush!”

  But Blanchard had at least had the sense to mutter into my ear, and no one had noticed. De Clairpont turned to the queen. “The treasure would seem to be correct according to the inventory made by the assessors, and the quality of the items meets the descriptions given. The value is in fact greater than that originally offered by Mistress Blanchard.”

  Queen Catherine asked to examine the salts more closely. More formalities: a way of giving the ceremony strength through length, as it were. I understood that, but the delay was torment. Brockley’s face was rigid with strain and Dale seemed to shrink and grow more sunken-eyed than ever.

  But it ended at last. Queen Catherine was satisfied. “Let the business be completed,” she said.

  De Clairpont’s clerk stepped forth, importantly unrolling his scroll.
He read out a declaration to the effect that inasmuch as a ransom consisting of (he went painstakingly through the list), approximate value ninety thousand crowns, had been paid over for the release of the English prisoner, tirewoman Frances Brockley, otherwise known as Frances Dale, the charges against her had been withdrawn and she was free to return to her husband and her employer, who would, however, be held responsible for her good behavior as long as she remained in France.

  Then Dale’s guards, at last, let her go and she ran to us. Brockley’s arms went around her, tight and hard. I was glad to see it, and I was thankful to feel such gladness—to know that it was not diluted because I was alone without either Gerald or Matthew and might never feel loving arms around me again. It always is a blessing when one feels the right emotions without having to strain after them.

  There were a few more courtesies. Throckmorton gave a short speech of thanks. I curtsied to the queen and spoke my own thanks. But Catherine was already tired of her little drama, and besides, she had business waiting. Every day now she had reports to hear; councils of war to attend. De Clairpont’s men came and packed up the chests again, and we were dismissed.

  With Throckmorton, we left with Dale, by the west door. “It’s over,” I said with relief as we made our way back toward my apartments. “Oh, Dale, we are so very happy to have you safe, and with us again.”

  “I’m grateful, ma’am. All you’ve done . . .” But Dale, half-carried in the crook of Brockley’s arm, was too overcome to say very much and her eyes were brimming. Brockley murmured something soothing, and hurried her along a little faster.

  “I doubt if any of us will be able to call ourselves safe until we’re out of this country,” he said to me bluntly. “We’ll be leaving for England soon, I trust, madam.”

  “Yes,” I said. There was, for the moment, no other course to take, but I still had the future to think about. I had had so little opportunity to make any decision about Matthew, but soon I must. Where was he now? I could hardly seek him out across this war-torn country; nor would he expect that. But the war must end one day and if he survived it . . . oh, Matthew, what if you don’t . . . ? but if, God willing, he did . . .

  What had he said, when we parted at Le Cheval d’Or?

  Ursula, since you cannot come with me now, finish what you came to France to do. Pray for peace, so that France may grow safe again. And then—make your choice. This way, you will have time to think. Only, let it be the right decision, and the last. When you know your mind, let me know, somehow. . . . Ursula, don’t leave me wait ing and hoping and wondering for too long.

  I would have to take shelter in England until the turmoil in France had subsided. Besides, Meg was there. For the time being, I would have to go back to the court. But when France was at peace once more . . . then what would I do? I didn’t know. I couldn’t see that far ahead.

  Throckmorton was saying something, telling us that our journey home would be easy to arrange. “You’ll be able to travel under safe conduct. You’ve returned at the right moment.”

  “How do you mean, Sir Nicholas?” I asked him.

  “Ah,” he said, amused. “Wait and see.”

  He would say no more. He left us at the door of my apartments and Harvey also took the men off, saying that they were going to celebrate in a tavern by the quay.

  “The one we have in mind is hosting a cockfight after dinner,” Ryder added.

  The rest of us went inside. I had set food and wine in readiness, and now I left Blanchard pouring wine for himself and Jenkinson, while Brockley and I took Dale into my bedchamber. I had myself laid a fire in the hearth and put a kettle of water beside it. I lit the fire and started heating the water so that Dale could wash, and then went to fetch a tray of food.

  After that, I left them alone together and went back to the sitting room. My father-in-law handed me a glass of wine and observed acidly: “You are waiting on your servants, I see. An odd reversal of the usual state of things.”

  “It seems right, at the moment,” I said mildly.

  “I’ve looked after my men when they’ve been hurt or ill, on journeys,” Jenkinson said. He was at ease on the window seat, one knee drawn up and a dish of meat pasties in his hand. “Once when Longman had a fever, I sat beside him three times a day for six days, spooning milk into his mouth as if he were a baby. That was last year, on the way south to Persia. Longman couldn’t travel; we had to pitch camp and stay put for nearly a fortnight.”

  “The other men should have looked after him,” Blanchard said fastidiously. “Such menial tasks were not your business.”

  My father-in-law was in one of his irritable moods and was determined to bicker. Jenkinson always seemed to find it amusing but I did not. I was relieved when we were interrupted by a tap on the door. I opened it to find a page on the threshold. He bowed deferentially and said, with a creditably correct English pronunciation: “Sir Henry Sidney, madam.”

  Dudley’s brother-in-law looked exactly as he had looked the last time I saw him, which was in the Tower of London, when Elizabeth inspected her treasury. He was as lissome in his movements as ever, his auburn beard as precisely trimmed; and I thought he was wearing exactly the same russet velvet doublet and breeches. His shoes matched; so did the hat he was politely carrying in his left hand. He came in, bowed courteously to us all, and then gave me a friendly hug.

  “My dear Mistress Blanchard! I am most relieved to find you here, safe and well and all your household with you. I have heard from Sir Nicholas about your troubles. I am so very sorry and so glad that you have your tirewoman back unharmed. Sir Nicholas said you had Anthony Jenkinson with you, too . . . ah, Master Jenkinson! He and I have met before, in England, Mistress Blanchard. Master Jenkinson has attended council meetings to report on matters to do with trade. And this is . . . ?”

  “I am Luke Blanchard, the father of Ursula’s late husband Gerald.” Blanchard, putting bad temper aside and obviously impressed by this exalted visitor, bowed politely and gestured to the wine.

  “I arrived the day before yesterday,” Sir Henry told us, taking a seat and accepting the offered refreshment. “When Sir Nicholas told me your news, I said I must see you as soon as possible, but he said, better wait until this morning’s ceremony was over and your woman was safely back with you. As soon as Sir Nicholas sent me word that all went well this morning, I set out to see you. Did Sir Nicholas tell you that I was here, by the way? Because I said to him that of course, you could travel home with me.”

  “He didn’t mention you by name,” I said. “But he hinted something about our journey home being made easy.”

  “Very easy,” said Sir Henry. “I sailed over—and will sail back—on a most comfortable ship; modern vessels really do take the misery out of sea journeys.”

  “Can anything?” asked Blanchard.

  “Oh yes, to some degree. Deeper keels, more stable construction altogether; these things make such a difference. When we arrived,” said Sir Henry cheerfully, “we berthed next to a ship that I would hate to sail in. Built, by the look of her, for maximum wobble, and not even well maintained. The St. Margaret, she was called. I only hope her saint is watching over her; she must need supernatural help to stay afloat.”

  At the name of the St. Margaret there was a momentary pause, which I quickly covered by saying: “But what brings you here, Sir Henry? How do you come to be in France?”

  “Ah. As to that . . . now, there’s an interesting thing, and another reason why I wanted to see you, Mistress Blanchard. If I might . . . ?”

  He glanced politely but meaningly at Jenkinson and Blanchard. Taking the hint, they picked up their wineglasses and retired into the second bedchamber. I took Jenkinson’s vacated perch on the window seat and looked inquiringly at Sir Henry.

  “Really,” he said, “it’s most odd. Most odd. I can’t account for it at all. I am here to present to the queen regent a letter from our Queen Elizabeth, offering to act as a mediator between the Catholic government an
d the Huguenots, in the hope of bringing about a peace. It would save many lives and might well save the Huguenot cause. Elizabeth fears they will be crushed if the war continues unchecked and she does not want that. Wherever there is a country where Protestants thrive, she feels England has friends. England completely surrounded by solidly Catholic countries is England under threat.” Sidney sighed. “I myself would see no harm in it if England reverted to the old religion but few would agree with me, I know. Queen Mary Tudor saw to that.”

  “Yes. She did.”

  “I see that you hold that view. Well, well, never mind. The point is that the prince of Condé has sent appeals for help to all countries where there are Protestant communities, and one of them, of course, is England. The letter I brought to Queen Catherine is Elizabeth’s response. But when I delivered the letter, I learned that Queen Catherine had already received one. Mine had various proposals for the ways in which mediation might be carried out and I learned that the earlier letter was much less detailed. What I cannot understand is why there was an earlier letter at all. Queen Elizabeth is good at being one step ahead of everyone else, but there seemed no point in this. At the time when she wrote the letter, war had not yet begun. There had only been a few isolated acts of violence, and no one had appealed for foreign help.”

  “Indeed?” I said cautiously.

  “Yes. There is normally a protocol in these matters. One does not intrude in foreign affairs unless asked. In fact, that earlier letter has done harm. Queen Catherine seems to feel that our own queen is much too anxious to help; she suspects ulterior motives and I fear that she will reject the offer I brought. But she spoke to me with some frankness; she knows I have sympathy for the Catholic faith. I learned, Mistress Blanchard, that the bearer of the earlier letter was yourself. Can you throw any light on this oddity?”

  I looked away from him, out of the window, at the river. I could not, from here, read the names on the vessels down there but one of them was presumably the St. Margaret. I wondered again who had journeyed on her.