The Doublet Affair (Ursula Blanchard Mysteries)

by Buckley, Fiona

  Kat was among the few people who knew of my second marriage. It was one of the secrets she had been allowed to know because of her position in authority over me, but had been ordered to keep to herself.

  Taking the letter, I saw my name, my legal name, Mistress de la Roche, written on it in strong black ink. The writing was masculine and elegant, a little ornate; the seal showed the letter M within a circle. I knew the hand and I knew the seal, from notes sent to me in the past, millenia ago—was it really only last year?—when Matthew de la Roche paid court to me.

  “You bade me make haste,” I said. “Please leave me now. I will be with the Queen in a few minutes.”

  Kat Ashley sighed, and heaved herself to her feet with a grunt. “Too many stairs for my liking, to get to these rooms. You’re spryer than I am, and just as well. You have ten minutes at most, Mistress Blanchard.”

  I sat down at my toilet table. “Do my hair, Dale. Quickly. While you’re doing it, I’ll read this.”

  “Oh, ma’am! Is it from your husband? I know you said you’d written to him. And quite right too, in my view. A woman should be with her husband. Even if she doesn’t agree with everything he says or does, she still ought to be with him. I’d be lost without Brockley, now that we’re wed.”

  I met her eyes in the mirror, and smiled affectionately. Dale, like Brockley himself, was over forty, and she was not beautiful, any more than he was conventionally handsome, but she had regular features which were pleasant in their own way. If she had a few pockmarks from a childhood attack of smallpox, this was a common misfortune, and Dale’s pocks were not so very obvious. They had somehow grown less noticeable, and her features softer since she and Brockley married. Her correct name now, of course, was Mistress Brockley, but I was used to calling her Dale and she was used to being thus addressed, so we had gone on with it.

  Brockley had done well by her, I thought. If not an Adonis, he was still well looking, with the co-ordinated movements and air of strength which can be more impressive than facial planes. He was resourceful, the kind of man whose wife can rely on him. He had been a groom before I took him on, but he had also been a soldier, in the days of King Henry, and had been to war in Scotland and France. He knew the world.

  Dale, when I first knew her, had been inclined to complain too much, but she had improved since her marriage, although I had never been easy to work for, and this had certainly not improved.

  For one thing, I was often short tempered out of sheer envy, because Dale had the company of her husband whereas I had parted from mine. My reasons at the time seemed good and honourable, but I had learned, through lonely nights and long days of empty busy-ness, that virtue is not only its own, but its only reward. No matter how often I told myself that I had been right to put the welfare of the Queen and the safety of the realm before my own private happiness, it could not comfort my longing or heal my grief. I wanted Matthew.

  In the end, after much secret crying in the darkness, I had put my need into words and found a messenger—a merchant travelling to the Loire valley where I believed that Matthew now was. I hoped to God that my letter would reach him, that it would bridge the chasm between us and that he would answer.

  Until now, my only answer had been silence. I had tried to tell myself that my letter hadn’t reached him, but it was all too probable that he didn’t want me any more, and who could blame him? I had vacillated over writing to him again. Now, after all, the reply was here.

  Though I did not yet know what was in it. As Dale took my hair, which was long and thick and very dark, out of its silver net and set about brushing it, I sat turning the letter over in my hands. When I first recognised Matthew’s handwriting, I had been filled with joy, but it had now occurred to me that it was as likely to contain bitter rejection as impassioned invitation.

  As I broke the seal, I was afraid.

  CHAPTER 2

  Delicate Mechanisms

  As I unfolded the letter, I wondered just where and when he had written it. At what time of day? Morning, noon, evening? Looking out, perhaps, on the Loire? He had described the river to me: its beauty, its moods. Had it been sunlit or pocked with rain? Or had he sat down late at night to write by the light of lamp or candle? Had he been pensive, or unhappy, or angry? Had his pen raced swiftly, the words pouring from his heart, or had it travelled slowly, while he weighed every word before inscribing it?

  What had he said? Well, Ursula: read it. Then you’ll know.

  The letter was in French. It began brusquely, without endearments.

  Ursula. I have received your letter, asking if I still care for you and if I will take you back as my wife. What am I to say? Half of me rejoices to hear from you, and wants to call you my beloved Ursula and summon you to me. The other half, to say the least of it, feels otherwise. That half wants to fling your letter in the fire and forget you. How could you abandon me like that? You write saying that you had honourable reasons to do what you did. You say you had a duty to the Queen. What of your duty to your husband who had promised to love and protect you always? What of the love you said you felt for me? Do you remember how we lay in each other’s arms? Do you remember how I said I loved your salty tongue, and how I nicknamed you my Saltspoon? You wish to come to me if I will have you, and if I will give a home also to your daughter Meg. Meg I would receive gladly, for she is a child who has done me no harm. But you? No, I do not know what I should say.

  Yes, I do, for there is only one thing I can say. I still love you, although, God knows, there was a time when I could have killed you. If you mean what you say, then come to me and bring Meg. I live in a house called Château Blanchepierre, a few miles west of Saumur, beside the River Loire. I am sometimes away in Paris but my household would make you welcome while they sent word to me. You need not be afraid of them, although they know what you have done. Madame Montaigle was very shocked, but if I command it, she will put the past behind, as will I. Send me an answer, if you can find a messenger. Or simply come. Yes—after all, I send my love to you, my Saltspoon.

  Matthew.

  Tears burned my eyes. Dale was urging me to stand, so that she could brush down my clothes—a bodice of cream satin criss-crossed with tawny embroidery, a small farthingale and a tawny damask overdress open in front to reveal a kirtle which matched the bodice. I rose to my feet, blinking the tears away. As Dale began to brush, I folded the letter and pushed it into a pocket just inside the open skirt.

  “Hurry, Dale. I must go. Oh, Dale!”

  “Ma’am?” said Dale.

  “Dale, if I go to France, will you and Brockley come with me?”

  “You’ll have to ask Brockley yourself, ma’am, but . . . well, I wouldn’t say no.” In the mirror I met Dale’s eyes again and saw that hers, a lighter blue than Kat’s, were bright with pleasure for me. She finished brushing and stepped back.

  “Oh, Dale!” I said again. I wanted to run, then and there, to the Queen to tell her that I wished to leave her service and go to join my husband, but of course I could not. Such an interview would have to be formal, set up through Mistress Ashley. For the moment, I must wait, clasping my precious secret to me.

  “Matthew had a nickname for me,” I said huskily to Dale. “Because of my sharp tongue. He called me Saltspoon. He reminds me of it in the letter. It brings him back so. I can hear him saying it!”

  My ten minutes were up. I must put on a calm face and make haste to attend upon the Queen. I would not wish to irritate her by any lack of promptness. Without her consent, I could not leave the country or take my daughter out of it. I needed her goodwill.

  • • •

  Elizabeth had been to a council meeting and had as usual retired to her private rooms afterwards, to deal with any matters of business arising from the council. As a Lady of the Presence Chamber, I held a privileged position, but I was still not one of the high-ranking Ladies of the Privy Chamber and the Bedchamber, who attended on her in private. I could only pass through the private door by special i
nvitation. Now, I merely joined the throng who were waiting for her to emerge into the public anteroom.

  I was just in time. Barely had I taken up my position, when the Queen’s door opened, the trumpeters blew their fanfare, and out swept Elizabeth, amid a cloud of ladies, including Kat Ashley, and a bevy of favoured gallants. Sir Robin Dudley, the Master of Horse, splendid in a red doublet slashed with gold-embroidered azure, his gipsy good looks polished by expert barbering, was at her side and she was saying something to him with laughter in her voice.

  In that year of 1561, I was still young and so was Elizabeth, for we were near in age. I have seen her change greatly over the years but one thing has never changed in the least, and that is the impact she makes whenever she comes into view. It is colossal, even on people who are used to her.

  But it isn’t always the same impact. Her mood goes ahead of her like the bow wave of a ship, and her moods change. You never know beforehand which version of Elizabeth is about to burst upon you. She may be majesty personified, or wrath incarnate; she may be all merriment, or all pensive sadness, or all mischief.

  This time, it was mischief. I saw instantly that my queen and liege lady was as dangerously playful as a cat when its fur is full of sparks and it is ready to pounce on anything that moves, from a mouse to a piece of trailed cord to an incautious human hand, and stick all its claws in. Her eyes sparkled in her pale, shield-shaped face; even the pearls in her hair and the silver embroidery on her white satin dress seemed to have an extra glitter. I curtsied, along with the other ladies, and stood up again, with a sense of misgiving. I must arrange my interview soon, and the royal mind was not in its most favourable condition.

  Elizabeth’s bright gaze collected us all up. “We are bound for the River Chamber to give a private audience,” she informed us. “An English craftsman wishes to make us a gift of a clever device, his own creation, or so my good Cecil tells me. We understand the man is already here and waiting, so it behoves us not to be late ourselves. Come!”

  Away we went, crowding in the royal wake, heralded at every turn by the trumpeters, surging through a series of galleries, collecting more people on the way, among them the Spanish ambassador, Bishop de Quadra. Elizabeth set the pace, walking as fast as anyone well could without breaking into a run. The Queen had moments of exhaustion, but the rest of the time did not scruple to wear us all out with dancing and walking and riding (frequently at a headlong gallop, in all weathers. Several of her ladies pretended that they couldn’t ride except on a pillion, simply to avoid what they considered a suicidal form of exercise). Her notions of dancing and walking were no less energetic. We reached the River Chamber in a remarkably short space of time.

  The River Chamber was long and light, with tall windows overlooking the Thames, and a polished oak floor. On a dais at one end was a high-backed chair with a soft fur rug thrown over it, and a little table alongside. In the hearth halfway along the room, a wood fire burned, giving off a sweet smell.

  Elizabeth settled herself in the chair, and Lady Katherine Knollys, who was related to the Queen and was one of her favourite attendants, arranged her wide skirts for her. Kat Ashley placed the rug over her knees. The crowd of courtiers clustered on either side of the dais and straggled down the sides of the room. Dudley and de Quadra, and some of the ladies including myself, had places on the dais, near the queen. Pages hovered, ready to undertake errands. Elizabeth pointed a jewelled forefinger at one of them and despatched him to tell Sir William Cecil that she was ready.

  While we waited, I saw de Quadra edging towards me. He paused a moment to ask politely after the health of one of the other ladies, Jane Seymour, who had recently been ill and still looked wan, but then stepped quietly to my side. He was not very tall, and our eyes were almost on a level. We were not friends (one does not search the document cases of one’s friends), but we did enjoy a kind of mutual respect. I murmured a greeting.

  “Your daughter is well, Mistress Blanchard?” he enquired in French, which we used as a common language. “I heard that you had placed her with friends of Lady Cecil.”

  “Yes, the Hendersons. They live at Thamesbank, by the river near Hampton. How kind of you to ask. She seems happy there. Her old nurse, Bridget Lemmon, is with her. I’m glad to see her settled in a house where she can be brought up as a young lady, but where people are good natured.”

  De Quadra nodded. “I know you found it hard to support your daughter on your stipend, but the Cecils have come generously to your rescue. In gratitude for your services to the Queen last year, I imagine?”

  “Quite so,” I said, stifling a laugh. De Quadra was obviously fishing. The stipend had most certainly been inadequate, since it was never meant for ladies who had no other means of subsistence, and the death of my first husband Gerald had left me with no other means whatsoever. De Quadra had undoubtedly guessed that my services to the Queen were ongoing, and were the solution to my financial problems (not much happened at court without the Spanish ambassador having some inkling of it); this was no time to confirm his suspicions, however. Not just after my discovery in that document case.

  “I am not sure if Bridget is quite as happy as Meg,” I said lightly. “Mistress Henderson is the soul of gentleness, but all her servants must wash themselves all over once each week, except in the severest winter weather, and Bridget thinks it unhealthy.”

  “Poor Bridget,” said de Quadra, amused, and Robin Dudley glanced round at us and grinned.

  “You are much blessed, having a child to remember your husband by,” de Quadra said to me. Elizabeth half-turned her head in order to look at him, and a grave smile lit his olive-skinned face. “Is it not so, madam?” he asked.

  “I’ve never seen Ursula’s daughter,” said Elizabeth, also using French. “Cecil tells me she is a charming child. She shall come to court when she is older, Ursula. But for now, quiet. Here comes Cecil with my craftsman.”

  Sir William Cecil entered the room in his usual businesslike fashion, the folds of his formal mulberry velvet gown swinging to his stride. His companion was a short man, whose amber velvet doublet and breeches spoke of prosperity, but whose air was timid. He had an insignificant face, with small features and a blob of a nose and he seemed overwhelmed by his surroundings. He walked two paces in the rear, glancing about him and up at the high, painted ceiling, as though impressed by the size of the room and the costly clothes of the people in it. Another two paces behind him was an oxlike young man, presumably a servant or assistant of some kind, although with those massive shoulders, which were putting his plain dark doublet under strain, he would have made an excellent bodyguard. He was in charge of a cloth-wrapped bundle, which he carried in ceremonious fashion.

  Cecil was brisk, as usual. He was a busy man and his days were always overcrowded. The line between his light eyes was clearly marked, probably with impatience, and within his fair beard, his mouth was set in a straight line.

  “Your Majesty,” he said, as all three of them bowed, “I wish to present to you Barnabas Mew, Master Clockmaker of Windsor, and his assistant Joseph Wylie. Mr. Mew has brought the gift of which I spoke to you some days ago.”

  The two men straightened up while Cecil moved aside. Wylie came up beside his master, and handed him the bundle. Mr. Mew then stood looking from the sparkling young queen on the dais to the bundle in his hands, apparently wondering what to do next.

  Cecil clicked his tongue irritably and took the bundle from him. “This device needs to be demonstrated. May we step on to the dais?”

  “By all means,” said Elizabeth, and Cecil, pushing Master Mew ahead of him, stepped up beside her.

  Cecil unwrapped the cloth and revealed a gilded box, which he placed on the table. The box measured perhaps a foot each way, and was about six inches deep. A delicate pattern was engraved all over it, and the letters E and R were set into the lid in what I thought were moonstones. It was evidently lockable, for it had a little key. After my instruction sessions with Master Bone, I had
become observant about such things and noticed that the lock was unusual in that it was placed not at the front of the box, but in the side.

  “A pretty toy,” said Elizabeth. “A device, you call it? Is it a clock? But how does it tell the time? There is some mystery here. Come, don’t be so afraid of us, Master Mew. It requires to be demonstrated, according to Sir William. Well then, demonstrate it.”

  “May it please Your Majesty . . .” said Mew, his voice was thin and nervous. “It is most gracious of you to allow me to . . . I am only a plain man, although I hope I have some skill in these poor fingers . . .”

  “No need for so many words, Master Mew! Show us how the thing works.”

  Master Mew, accordingly, gave up trying to explain, took hold of the casket and began to turn the key. I realised that he was not operating a lock but winding up a mechanism of some kind. Then, as he finished winding, the box began, in little tinkling notes, to play a tune that we all recognised.

  “Why, that is a song my father wrote,” Elizabeth exclaimed. “It’s ‘Greensleeves’!”

  “May it please Your Majesty,” said Master Mew, in agreement.

  “It pleases us well,” Elizabeth said.

  Oddly enough, this was probably true. I say “oddly” because, as all the court was well aware, the song had been written by King Henry when he was courting Elizabeth’s mother, Anne Boleyn. “Alas, my love, you do me wrong to cast me off discourteously,” were the first words of the lyric. In the end, however, it was Henry, not Anne, who had done the casting off, and by the most discourteous method imaginable, for he had had her executed, and although Elizabeth scarcely ever mentioned her mother, she was known to grieve for her.

  Paradoxically, Elizabeth had admired her father, too. She might justly have loathed the melody of “Greensleeves” because of its bitter associations, but she did not. She had never explained why, but perhaps the song spoke to her of King Henry’s cultured, gifted, romantic side. At any rate, “Greensleeves” was played and sung quite freely about the court and even used sometimes in masques.