To Shield the Queen

by FIONA BUCKLEY

  No one demurred, although as we set off again, Sir Thomas Smith lumbered up to Arundel on his semi-carthorse and growled under his breath that Dudley gave himself airs and threw out orders too freely.

  “The queen chooses to permit it,” said Arundel, “so what have we to say?”

  “Plenty!” Smith snorted. “The queen is a young girl and lacks wisdom. Someone should tell her to take care of herself. A nice mess the country will be in if she kills herself before there’s an heir of her body, though I hope not of Dudley’s body too. If Cecil’s wrong and Lady Dudley really is dying—does anyone know the truth about that?”

  “No,” said Lady Catherine Grey. In her usual heedless way, she ignored the fact that Dudley was probably within earshot, and added, “But it is to be hoped that if Amy does die, the queen will not so forget herself as to marry her horse-master.”

  Dudley certainly heard, for I saw him give her an unfriendly glance. They were relatives by marriage but I had noticed that they didn’t like each other. Lady Catherine always shrank a little when Dudley came near her, as though his intense masculinity somehow offended or even alarmed her, and I had seen him eye her in a way which reminded me irresistibly of a cat looking at a sparrow which, just now, it is too lazy to stalk.

  Then, unexpectedly, he reined back to bring himself alongside us, and grinned at us boldly. “The trouble is, everyone has a favourite candidate and they’re all different. Take Arundel here! We know who he favours.”

  Henry FitzAlan of Arundel, already pink as a result of being too warm, went pinker still and glared at Dudley.

  Dudley grinned again. “Then there’s Derby,” he said, sliding smoothly past the embarrassing subject of Arundel’s own rejected suit and turning his attention to the equally annoyed Edward Stanley. “You’ve been sighing with regret ever since Philip of Spain wedded his French princess and fell off the end of the queen’s list of possibles.”

  “We’ve had him already,” snapped Smith. “When he was married to Queen Mary. Most people didn’t want him back.”

  “The realm could have gained greatly from friendship with Spain,” said Derby.

  “There I agreed,” said Arundel. “It might well have been better to have him back as our queen’s husband than arriving as an invader to take England by force, which is what many people fear.”

  “Oh, he won’t do that,” said Dudley easily, and to my surprise, caught my eye. “He can’t afford to mount an invasion. He’s up to his Hispanic beard in debt. Ask Mistress Blanchard there. She knows.”

  To my embarrassment, they all stared at me and began pushing their horses closer to Speedwell. Arundel’s guest said in astonishment, “I don’t understand.”

  “This is a friend of mine, Matthew de la Roche,” said Arundel. “Matthew, this is Mistress Ursula Blanchard, who has recently joined the court. Her husband died last winter.”

  “They were in Antwerp at the time, with Sir Thomas Gresham,” said Dudley. “Her husband was well placed and I have sometimes heard Mistress Blanchard speak of Antwerp myself. You always preserve admirable discretion,” he added, addressing me directly, “but there is no need for that in present company. Council members and their advisers can be trusted. Why not speak for yourself?”

  Coming from Dudley, it amounted to an order. “Gerald—my husband—did work for Gresham,” I agreed. “And yes, he did mention to me that King Philip was known to be in debt.” Gerald, in fact, had been the one who discovered the details. “King Philip of Spain has been borrowing heavily from the Brussels bankers,” I said. “It is true that he isn’t at present in any position to mount an invasion.”

  “Ah. Sir Thomas Gresham. A famous name, these days. That explains it,” said de la Roche. “Gerald Blanchard?” He smiled at me. “A French surname and an Irish Christian name. Unusual.”

  “My husband’s mother came from Ireland. I believe she named him,” I said. “The name Blanchard comes from his grandfather. He was French by birth. He married the daughter and heiress of the house and lived there with her.”

  “And you, Mistress Blanchard? Are you all English, or do you have varied origins, as your husband did?”

  “I’m entirely English—my maiden name was Faldene. Your own name sounds French, too.” He also had a trace of accent, I thought.

  “My father was French,” he said, “but my mother was English. I’m also a cousin, in a remote way, to FitzAlan here. But from what part of England do you come?”

  “Sussex,” I said.

  “Ah. I thought I knew the name Faldene although I haven’t met the family. I have settled in Sussex myself. I have been most of my life in France, but when my father died last year, my mother grew homesick for England, and I came over with her to buy a property here. Sadly, she too died not long ago. But I shall make the best of the place we bought—although it needs much setting in order. It has kept me so busy that I have had no time for social contacts.”

  His voice, accent and all, was pleasant. He was not a conventionally handsome man, not with that long chin and those wide, bony shoulders, but there was an attractive quality of vigour about him, and I liked his eyes. They were dark and diamond shaped, set under dramatic black eyebrows, and they had in them a glimmer of amusement. His way of studying the person to whom he was talking, as though truly anxious to know what they were thinking and how they felt, reminded me of Gerald.

  I bit my lip. Something rustled in the undergrowth, and Speedwell once more snorted and pranced. I quietened her. Around us, the tension had settled down. Dudley had stopped provoking people and lost interest in me and was talking hawks with somebody else. De la Roche said, “You ride well, Mistress Blanchard. Is that your own horse?”

  Lady Catherine Grey answered for me. “No, Ursula has no horse of her own. She borrows from the royal stables.”

  “No horse of your own?” De la Roche sounded quite shocked. “But why ever not? Someone as skilled in the saddle as you are should have her own mount. You must buy a horse without delay. Arundel, can you not recommend a dealer for Mistress Blanchard?”

  A moment ago, I had liked him. Now, without warning, I was convulsed with fury. I was so sick of my straitened circumstances and the embarrassment of trying to hide them, in this court where to be hard up was to be second rate.

  You must have a maid. A white or silver under-kirtle, perhaps, with matching sleeves. Buy a horse without delay. Spend money I hadn’t got!

  “I can’t buy a horse,” I said. I forgot about not being sharp. “I can’t afford one!”

  “Can’t afford one? But, you are a Faldene and surely they are a family of some eminence. And your husband was a successful man. I don’t understand . . . Mistress Blanchard! I beg your pardon. I see I have said something I should not.”

  I had turned away my head but he had still glimpsed the tears in my eyes. They were mostly tears of rage. I found myself looking at Lady Catherine Grey instead of de la Roche, and she was clearly amused by my discomfort. I straightened my back and addressed de la Roche once more.

  “Yes, I’m a Faldene. So was my mother and she never changed her name. Do you know what I’m saying?” I saw the contempt in Lady Catherine Grey’s face but I was too angry to care. “I was brought up at Faldene on sufferance,” I said. “A child with no father. My husband was a younger son. He had no property of his own and he married me against his family’s wishes. He died before he could gather any substance to speak of. I have very little—except a small daughter whom I love, and must support. Now do you understand?”

  I waited, simmering, to see if contempt would now appear on the face of de la Roche.

  It did not. Instead, he said seriously, “In such circumstances, did neither of your families . . . No, forgive me, it is not my business. But . . . ”

  I had banished the tears, by sheer willpower. “My own family offered me shelter of a kind,” I said. “I preferred to enter the queen’s service and earn my stipend. It is modest but I am glad not to be living on grudged charity
. I have no complaints. However, I cannot afford to buy, or keep, a horse.”

  “I am very sorry.” Master de la Roche looked quite shaken. “I did not know. Please accept my apology. I had no wish to hurt your feelings. I have the utmost respect for anyone, like yourself, who bears up under such misfortune. If there is dancing this evening, and I ask you to partner me in a galliard, will you accept?”

  I looked into those dark, diamond-shaped eyes and I saw contrition, and sympathy, and something else.

  I saw admiration, not just for a young widow making her way in the world under difficult circumstances, but the admiration of a man for a woman he desires.

  We were in the midst of languorous summer, and Gerald had been gone now for more than six months. Deep within me, momentarily, something stirred in answer.

  I stamped on it at once. No, said a shocked voice inside my head. No! He isn’t Gerald. There can be no one for you but Gerald.

  However, what was being offered, I could not utterly reject, either. I hadn’t danced since Gerald’s death, but perhaps now it was time to ease the bonds of sorrow. “Of course, Master de la Roche. I shall be delighted to dance with you,” I said. “And I am sorry,” I added, “if I was discourteous just now.”

  Matthew de la Roche laughed. “Mistress Blanchard, I prefer conversation to have a little salt in it, like a good dinner.”

  I laughed, too. I was being pleasant, making amends. I hoped he would see no more in it than that. I hoped there was no more in it than that.

  • • •

  During the next few days, Matthew de la Roche was hardly ever out of my sight. It seemed that I had ridden out hawking as an unattached young widow and come back with a suitor. I didn’t want a suitor, or so I told myself, but I let him dance with me that same day because I wanted to dance. After that I could not have got rid of him without being rude and I didn’t want to do that either.

  It was quickly obvious that he was behaving towards me as Dudley was behaving towards the queen. He was always there. We danced together; he rode out with me. He invited me to watch him play tennis or practise tilting. He did both very well and I knew that he was proud of his skill and enjoying showing it off to me.

  When, with others of the court, I accompanied the queen out walking, I found him at my elbow. He was at my elbow the following Sunday when the public were admitted to the Presence Chamber to see the queen pass on her way to the chapel. He seemed to like me in the same way that Gerald had, because he thought my dark hair and pointed face attractive and because the edge on my tongue was to him exciting instead of objectionable.

  In so many ways, our minds were in accord and I was drawn to him physically. Before long I knew that it was like the attraction of a cliff edge, for I was not only fascinated but also afraid, and I wasn’t alone in my doubts. The day came when I was called to Kat Ashley’s room. Lady Katherine Knollys was there too. They looked at me anxiously.

  “Ursula, my dear.” Mistress Ashley patted the window seat beside her.

  Sensing that some serious matter was about to be raised, and not knowing what it was, I remained standing. “Yes, Mistress Ashley?”

  “This is so difficult. We are only concerned with your welfare. But even the queen has noticed that Arundel’s guest, Matthew de la Roche, is very much in your company. We understand that he is a widower. Does he have serious intentions towards you?”

  “I don’t know, Mistress Ashley.” Kat Ashley always made me uneasy. She took the same avid interest in matters of love and marriage, as any village woman whose favourite occupation was gossiping round the wellhead.

  “There is nothing against him as far as anyone knows, but no one seems to know a great deal.” Lady Katherine, who had also remained standing, spoke seriously. “However, I must tell you, Ursula, that the queen is very much opposed to any sign of scandal among her ladies.”

  Alarmed, I said, “Has the queen actually . . . ?”

  “Expressed concern? Yes, she has, although she has not criticised your behaviour. You have done nothing yet to give rise to scandal, but you must be careful. I should also,” said Lady Katherine, “be careful in another sense. It may not be against the law to have Catholic sympathies—if it were, half the council would be in the Tower; Henry FitzAlan of Arundel and Edward Earl of Derby for example!—but all the same, de la Roche was brought up in France and presumably in that faith. It is a point you should consider before . . . taking any final decision.”

  I nodded. Matthew had told me about himself. I was aware that he was a widower, and I knew that the young wife who had died in childbed had been French. I also knew that both he and she were Catholic. I had been very silent when I heard that. “I will be careful,” I said.

  “I was sure you would be sensible,” said Lady Katherine. “The queen is impressed with you, you know, Ursula.”

  The summons from the queen came the next day.

  • • •

  Elizabeth had been shut away all morning. Kat Ashley was with her but all the rest of us were out of doors, taking advantage of the bright light to get on with various kinds of stitchwork. I was making a pair of white silk sleeves with silver leaves embroidered on them. It was cheaper than buying them ready made.

  We had chosen to sit out in a walled garden, a favourite place of ours because it was so pretty, with its rose arbour in one corner and the fruit trees trained round its mellow brick walls. It had a scythed lawn with a yew tree in the middle, and neat, geometrical flowerbeds aglow with phlox and gillyflowers and here and there the tall spikes of lupins, and delphiniums like blue flames. The flowerbeds were edged not with lavender, as in the big entrance garden, but with box, which had its own, more subtle fragrance. It was a charming place.

  We were sorted out according to rank. The exalted Ladies of the Privy Chamber occupied the rose arbour, while the humbler Ladies of the Presence Chamber had the square of grass round the yew tree. To my regret, I was seated next to Lady Catherine Grey, who had admired my work, but added that such meticulous stitching was tiring; would I like the name of her own gown-maker? The woman was expensive, of course, but so skilled . . .

  Lady Catherine Grey had a real talent for the acid-in-honey kind of remark. It put my much simpler form of sharpness to shame. I was a frequent target because I was hard up and I had rebuked her for gossiping about Sir Thomas Gresham; and at the hawking party I had admitted in her hearing that I was illegitimate. But I was learning how to retaliate. Smiling at her, I said I enjoyed the satisfaction of doing good work and then added, “Of course, it requires concentration.”

  Lady Catherine was quite a skilled embroidress but she was incapable of concentrating for long at a time and sometimes abandoned projects halfway through. Lady Jane quite often finished them for her. I saw some of the others glance at us with covert amusement.

  It was said that Lady Jane Seymour’s brother, Lord Hertford, was sweet on Catherine and she on him, and it was true that they often danced together, and that she always watched him, and looked resentful when he danced with anyone else. She was pretty in a way and might have been nicer if she had met with more kindness, but her parents, dead now, had been noted more for their ferocious ambition than for their loving natures, and Elizabeth candidly disliked her. Most of the people close to Lady Catherine seemed either to value her or detest her because of her royal birth, and none of them, except for Lady Jane and her brother, were at all interested in her as herself. Perhaps Hertford, if her sulkiness didn’t discourage him too much, would one day make her happy and soften her edges.

  They certainly needed softening. Lady Jane did try but without noticeable success. When a page came into the garden, spoke to Lady Katherine Knollys, and then came across to me to say that the queen wished to see me in her private apartments, I was glad of the excuse to get away. I gave my needlework to one of the others to look after and followed the page indoors. The summons was a surprise and I was afraid I had inadvertently done something wrong, or else was about to face another in
quisition about the state of affairs between myself and Matthew de la Roche. He was off somewhere with Arundel just then and I was relieved because his constant presence worried me. I was not yet finished with Gerald. I needed, still, to remember and to mourn and I did not want to be distracted.

  Elizabeth was waiting for me in one of her private chambers, a long, narrow room, with a window at the far end, overlooking the river. The sunlit water threw ripples of light on the white-painted ceiling. The queen was in a chair by the window, with her back to the light. She was not alone. Dudley was there too, standing beside her chair, and Kat Ashley was seated on a stool near the door, engaged on a piece of sewing.

  The page withdrew, closing the door. I curtsied and rose, and Elizabeth beckoned me to come forward. She was in informal dress, a long, open-fronted gown, peach-coloured and patterned with silver, over a loose white undergown, free of stays and hoops. Dudley was in shirtsleeves above his puffed breeches. Elizabeth half-turned her head and gave him a nod and it was he who began the talking, and not about Matthew.

  He wasted no time on preamble. “Mistress Blanchard, I imagine you have heard that I have a wife, who is ill.”

  I said yes, I had heard this. Looking from one face to the other, I saw that Dudley’s mien was unusually grave and that Elizabeth seemed, for once, to be tired, almost haggard. It struck me that she was too intelligent not to realise that she was giving rise to damaging talk. No matter how much she wanted Dudley, she must know that a queen could not dally with a married man, and that a queen should, in any case, choose a husband with exceptional care, to please her council and her people as well as herself. And that Dudley, even without a wife, wouldn’t please them at all. If she were in love with him, as we all believed, then she must be at war with herself.

  What Dudley felt was much harder to guess. Did he still have affection for his ailing wife or did he simply long for her to depart from the world and leave him free? I could tell nothing from that hard, dark face. Dudley had immense male magnetism but I could not imagine falling in love with him. I could not love where there was no kindness.