To Shield the Queen

by FIONA BUCKLEY

  I valued kindness. Gerald had been kind, at least to me, if not to his hapless band of reluctant spies. That used to puzzle me, and once I asked him if he ever felt sorry for the officials he victimised into collaborating with him. He said yes, often; that many of them were pathetic rather than wicked but his duty was to Gresham, and beyond Gresham, the queen; and to me and Meg because we were the family he loved and must support. I supposed, doubtfully, that he was right. At least, in Gerald, the kindness was there. I thought Matthew had it, too, but in Dudley I could sense no kindness, no softness, whatsoever.

  “It is also being said,” he informed me now, “that my wife’s illness is due to poison. In fact, that I am trying to get rid of her in order . . . to marry elsewhere.” The hard eyes fastened on my face. “Have you heard that, too?”

  The whole court had heard it. There was little point in looking horrified and declaring that no one had ever suggested such a thing. “Yes, sir,” I said.

  “And do you believe it?”

  I wondered if he seriously expected me, if I did believe it, to say so to his face. I spoke carefully.

  “It would be a very terrible thing to do and it could place you in danger, sir. I find it very hard to credit,” I said.

  Dudley’s genial smile revealed the amazing depth of charm which he had at his command. He glanced at Elizabeth. “Mistress Blanchard has a remarkable grasp of the situation.”

  “Proceed,” said Elizabeth.

  “I will be frank,” said Dudley. “You are short of money, are you not, Mistress Blanchard? I heard you say so to Matthew de la Roche, not so long ago, in a quite forceful manner.”

  “That is true, sir,” I said. What in the world was all this leading up to?

  “We cannot offer you a bigger stipend than that of the other ladies of your rank,” put in Elizabeth, “but we are willing to lend you, as it were, to undertake an honourable task, suitable to your condition, for extra pay. You would continue to receive your stipend. Dudley is fully informed about you and has our permission to say what he is about to say.”

  Dudley bowed. Then he turned back to me.

  “Lady Dudley—she is still often known by her girlhood name of Amy Robsart—is genuinely ill, Mistress Blanchard. Sir William Cecil, who called on her on his way back from Edinburgh, says he saw nothing wrong with her but she puts on a show for visitors. The truth is that she has a growth in one of her breasts and the doctors doubt if she will see next Christmas. She has also heard the rumours that I mean her harm. We have been estranged for some years. Ours was an impulsive marriage and it didn’t prosper, but I do not wish her ill. She has a woman attendant always with her, of course, a Mistress Pinto, but my wife is in great distress of mind and body. Her fears are feeding rumour and I wish those rumours to be stopped. Mistress Pinto knows of this, but her task is a heavy burden for just one woman. I want you to join my wife’s household, assist Mistress Pinto, and convince Lady Dudley, if you can, that she has nothing to fear from me. You are not linked to me or to my wife either by blood or previous service. If you are there when the end comes, and can confirm that my wife died naturally, by the will of God, you will be protecting my reputation.”

  “And mine,” said Elizabeth. “In this matter, what touches Sir Robin’s honour, also touches mine.”

  Scandal would not smooth the way to the altar, I thought, and was startled when she added firmly, “It is our wish that Lady Dudley’s life should be preserved as long as possible. That means giving her peace of mind. Will you assist in that? It would help us, and would, I think, be a way of helping you.”

  Elizabeth did indeed have a personality full of mystery. I was sure, immediately, that she was not merely saying the right things, but meant them, although in that case . . .

  I was not given time to pursue this puzzling idea. “I myself can do little for Amy,” said Dudley. “I visited her not so long ago and she wept and trembled at the sight of me.” He shrugged, more in exasperation than pity, I thought. “The kindest thing I can do for her is keep away from her. But if you will succour her, I can offer you . . . ”

  The sum he named made me gasp. It should solve all my financial problems for at least three years.

  It had crossed my mind that if Matthew asked me to marry him, I would not have to worry about money any more. I had even wondered if I ought to encourage him for Meg’s sake. But here was a way to earn, which did not involve marriage before I was ready for it, would demand no disloyalty to Gerald’s memory.

  “Where is Lady Dudley living?” I asked.

  “In Berkshire, near the Oxfordshire border,” Dudley said. “Close to Abingdon. The house is called Cumnor Place.”

  I had no idea what lay ahead of me. At the time, it seemed to me that I was to be highly paid for simply comforting a frightened, sick young woman and trying, kindly, to stop her from spreading rumours. It might be distressing; but it didn’t sound difficult and I would have money to spend on Meg. She must by now be growing out of everything she had had when I parted from her. She would need new caps, gowns, shoes. I looked at Elizabeth.

  “Ma’am, is it your wish that I should go to Lady Dudley?”

  “Yes, Ursula, it is our wish. We have your interests in mind,” Elizabeth said. “It may be as well for you to be away from the court for a while. There is a matter on which you may wish to meditate, undisturbed. Is there not?”

  She meant Matthew. I saw from the amused glint in Dudley’s eyes that he knew all about it, and I reddened.

  “But it is not our command,” said Elizabeth. “You are free to choose. Do you need time to consider?”

  No, I didn’t. I did want time away from Matthew, and I needed Dudley’s money. I thought of the gowns and caps and shoes for my daughter and said yes, at once.

  4

  Cumnor Place

  Elizabeth clearly felt I should be separated from Matthew and I agreed with her. I knew that I must tell him why I was leaving the court. He had been paying his addresses to me and I had not dismissed him; I owed him some courtesy. He and Arundel were expected back that evening and I would see him then, I thought.

  However, before evening came, I received a note from him delivered by the page Will, who ran many of the errands connected with the queen’s ladies. He handed it over with a knowing look, which annoyed me, but I gave him the expected gratuity, and went to break the seal in private.

  It was an apologetic little letter, saying that an urgent matter had arisen connected with the refurbishment of his house. He must leave at once and would be gone by the time I received the note. He would return in perhaps two weeks, and hoped to have the pleasure of seeing me then. I would be constantly in his thoughts.

  I would be in Oxfordshire long before the two weeks were up. There was nothing to do but write a reply which he could be given when he came back.

  My letter thanked him for his, explained that I had gone, at the queen’s wish, to attend on Lady Dudley, who was ill, and civilly hoped that his business with the house had gone well. It was a pleasant, polite letter, but I was careful in what I wrote. This was not a love letter, just a few words to a friend. As yet, I could go no further.

  • • •

  Dudley presented me with generous funds, and said that he would provide an escort. When I was introduced to them, I found that they were the fair-haired, azure-clad young gallant and the quietly clad middle-aged man who had caught my eye on my first day.

  I remembered being told that they were connected in some way to Dudley. It seemed that they were not often at court but occasionally visited him there and sometimes took messages to his wife. The middle-aged man was called Thomas Blount, and was a cousin of Dudley’s by marriage. The fair-haired young fellow, who greeted me with an extravagant bow and a declaration that he was eternally at my service, and was now disporting himself in rose-pink instead of azure, turned out to be Lady Dudley’s half-brother, Arthur Robsart.

  For all his elegance, he, like Blount, had come without a servant.
When this point arose, while we were all discussing how the party to Oxfordshire should be made up, he added that he normally lived in Norfolk, and smiled at me with raised brows, as if inviting a reply.

  “Ah yes. I believe I have heard of the Norfolk bylaws that forbid the inhabitants to travel with attendants,” I said solemnly.

  Arthur suddenly grinned and the young fop turned on the instant into an entirely masculine and somewhat mischievous young man. “Some parts of it are fairly rustic and it’s a good way from court. Plain living is more admired away from cities. My wife Margaret is Norfolk-born and her tastes are simple. So are mine, in many ways. I prefer to travel uncluttered and I only wear rose satin at court because it’s the thing to do. When in Rome imitate the Romans.”

  “Or make fun of them,” said Blount, who though serious of face, was not humourless.

  “Exactly,” said Dudley. “Arthur makes fun of fashion, Mistress Blanchard. He puts on satins in pretty colours fit for a maid of honour, as a backhanded way of gibing at our peacocks and popinjays. Can we keep to the matter at hand? I’m sending a manservant of my own with you because I shall want him to bring back word of your safe arrival. His name is Martin Bristow and he knows the route. Now, Mistress Blanchard, you are a gentlewoman going to stay with another gentlewoman, so you had better take your maid. Can she ride? If she can’t, she’ll have to follow you. Pillion passengers slow everyone down and I want to get you there quickly.”

  No one who is perching sideways on a cushion behind the saddle, hanging on to the belt of the rider in front and without stirrups, can keep in place for long at anything faster than a dignified walk. I had ridden behind John on the way from Sussex, so that the spare horse could carry the luggage, and we had taken two and a half days over it.

  “I’ll ask her,” I said.

  Fran Dale was turning out my modest wardrobe and repairing things ready for the journey, and rather than call her from her work, I went to her. It turned out that although she disliked riding—“I can’t abide long journeys, and that’s the truth, ma’am, and it’s why I didn’t want to go traipsing up to the North with my last lady”—she could ride and was willing to put up with it if her employment depended on it.

  “It does,” I told her, and assured Dudley that my maid could accompany us, if he could supply us both with mounts.

  “I think you should also have a manservant of your own,” he said. “You should have proper status if you are to be a personal attendant on Lady Dudley. I’ll pick someone out for you.”

  I instantly thought: John Wilton! I could afford his services now, and for the foreseeable future too. I explained. I didn’t know precisely where John was, but his sister Alice, with whom I had stayed on my brief visit to Sussex, would probably know. So might Bridget, since John had said he would watch over her and Meg.

  Dudley agreed. Despite his wish for haste, we had to leave a day or two for a courier to go ahead and announce our impending arrival and there was just time to send to Sussex. Bristow, a smart young fellow who regularly rode round the countryside on Dudley’s errands, set off, carrying with him some money for Bridget and some lengths of bleached linen, woollen cloths of blue and grey, and some rose-coloured damask from which she could fashion new clothes for herself and Meg. He was back in two days with John and also with an endearing note from Bridget.

  Gerald and I had chosen Meg’s nurse because she was kind and wholesome and experienced with children. She was the eldest daughter of one of the Blanchard tenants and had ten younger brothers and sisters. Few people are perfect, though, and Bridget had two drawbacks. One was that none of her family washed very often. We overcame that by being stern in unison until we had convinced her that although we were good humoured and would feed her well and wouldn’t hit her, we meant it when we said that she must wash all over at least once a fortnight, and wash Meg, too.

  The other drawback was that although she could read and write a little, it was a very little. That hadn’t mattered at first, but when I came to court, I had worried about it. I would need to send instructions to her, and I would want to receive reports.

  However, she had managed. I read the letter several times over, blessing it as a physical link between myself and the Sussex cottage where my child lived.

  I got your letter, Mam, and vicar here helped me read it. I’m makin shift to write this myself. I am plantin the gardin like you sed, Mam, an heve got hens. They are sittin and I hope to hev chiks. Meg is well and arstin for you offen. Yrs respeckfully, Bridget.

  I sighed over that letter, longing unbearably to be with them both, aching for my daughter, who was asking after me, but I must turn my mind towards Oxfordshire.

  I was very, very glad to see John; at the sight of his plain, trustworthy face and his spiky hair, a little of my bygone happiness seemed to live again.

  “You leave tomorrow,” Dudley told us.

  • • •

  On the afternoon before we left, I walked in the park with the queen, along with various other ladies and courtiers, for until my actual departure I was still on duty. We were joined by Bishop de Quadra, the Spanish ambassador. His short, black-clad figure found its way to my side, apparently by intent.

  “Mistress Blanchard, may I speak with you?” De Quadra had talked to me before, casually, during the many hours which the whole court spent standing about in anterooms and galleries in attendance on Elizabeth. His English was clumsy but he spoke French and so did I. He spoke French to me now. “I hear,” he said, “that you are bound for Cumnor Place tomorrow, to reassure Lady Dudley that although her life may be in danger from disease, it is not in danger from assassins.”

  “Yes, that is so,” I said.

  “For your sake,” said de Quadra, “I hope that what you intend to tell her is the truth.”

  “What?”

  My face showed my amazement. De Quadra considered me thoughtfully, his own olive-skinned features expressionless. “I believe,” he said, “that your husband was no friend to my master King Philip. Possibly, therefore, you distrust me, but in fact, I wish you no harm. You are young, and a woman, and I understand that you have a child dependent on you. I speak to you not out of any personal interest, but as a human being. Take care. You may be stepping into danger.”

  “Danger?” I was startled.

  “An art you should acquire,” said de Quadra, with perfect seriousness, “is that of holding important conversations while making them look trivial. Look as though we were discussing the weather, as you English so much love to do. Or discussing the people around us. I wonder what Edward Stanley of Derby and Sir Thomas Smith are talking about so earnestly? Those two amuse me. Sir Thomas is so big and outspoken, and my lord of Derby so neat and courteous; Sir Thomas such a rabid Protestant and Derby with so much Catholic passion in his past, yet they are often together. I believe much of their conversation is a duet of hatred for Dudley. I wonder who the third man in the group is.”

  I glanced at the little group, who were strolling together a few yards away. I wasn’t interested in them but I didn’t wish to offend the Spanish ambassador. “I suppose he’s another friend,” I said.

  “If so, he is not on their social level.”

  I looked again, and saw that de Quadra was right though I couldn’t make out why. The man was quite well dressed. “What is it about him that tells one that?” I said.

  “Oh, come, Mistress Blanchard. He looks at their faces when they speak and bobs his head to show his willingness to agree, and he is matching his pace to theirs, not the other way about. If you are to be involved in political affairs, you should cultivate habits of observation.”

  “But I’m not going to be involved in political affairs! I’m only going to comfort an ailing woman and hope thereby to quieten some rumours.”

  “If and when Amy Dudley dies, her husband will become free to marry and may seek to marry the queen. That is most certainly a political affair.” He used the French word affaire, dryly, with a double meaning. “
You English,” he said, “have a saying that where there is smoke, there is fire. In my experience, there is truth in that. The rumours that you hope to quieten are, I presume, the whispers that someone intends harm to Lady Dudley. They are persistent. There is much smoke. To me it suggests a flame somewhere.”

  I experienced a jolt in the stomach, not of surprise, but of alarm, as though a secret fear had been roused to life. “My lord bishop,” I said urgently, “if you know anything definite, please tell me.”

  De Quadra shook his tonsured head. “I know nothing specific. However, the rumours are not only persistent but strong. You speak of quietening them. I would counsel you to beware of them. If you go to Cumnor, Mistress Blanchard, I advise you to be very alert to all that goes on in that house. For your own sake, take care.”

  • • •

  We set out on the Friday, each of us with a few belongings in saddlebags. The bulk of the luggage would follow by packhorse. Like pillion riders, packhorses slowed travellers down. Dudley had mounted me on a dainty little mare called Bay Star, and Fran Dale had a stolid, broad-backed white gelding. I had asked Dudley to give her a safe, comfortable horse, in the hope of reducing her complaints to a minimum.

  I kept Dale because she was a very competent lady’s maid and completely honest, but her favourite phrase was “I can’t abide . . . ” The list of things that she couldn’t abide, apart from horse-riding, included moths round candles, loud noises, nasty smells, the flies that buzzed round horses in summer, and any place which was neither London nor the court. She had round blue eyes, a skin which must once have been good but was now marred by lines and smallpox scars, and a permanently aggrieved expression. John found her annoying. That first day he told her roundly, twice, to stop grumbling.

  Despite Dudley’s wish for haste, we soon saw that the journey would take at least two full days. We had avoided pillion passengers or packhorses, but Dale was a very poor rider and her white gelding was a maddening slug. However, we made the best time we could and if we didn’t overtake many other riders on the road, we at least went faster than the farm wagons and donkey carts. The roads we took were well used, with grass and bushes cut back on either side to discourage footpads from lurking.