To Shield the Queen

by FIONA BUCKLEY

  In a corner of the parlour is a little prie-dieu; very simple, nothing Popish. There’s an English Bible on it, and a couple of candles in plain candlesticks. Amy, in her loose morning wrapper and warm slippers, because although it is still summer, she always feels cold, is kneeling there, at prayer. Her voice is low but I can hear the words, all the same. She is asking God to have pity on her, to heal her ills, to deliver her from her desperation.

  I know what she means by ills. I have now been here for a week. Under Pinto’s cold eye, I help Amy to dress and undress. Cecil had claimed that when he saw Amy there was nothing wrong with her, but he had only seen her dressed. I have seen her naked. Her left nipple is scarlet and discharging and beside it is a bulging lump which seems to have consumed all the natural glossy plumpness of a young woman’s breast. Her physician, Dr. Bayly from Oxford, has warned her that she is dying.

  He sounds a tactless man but I wish he still called, for Amy trusts him. However, he fell out with Anthony Forster. Amy told the doctor that she feared her husband was trying to hurry her out of the world by poison and thought Forster might be arranging it. Bayly believed her, accused Forster to his face, and was ordered off the premises. It was after this, as far as I could tell, that the rumours that Amy feared she would be murdered, began to spread across the country.

  I had been waiting for a natural opportunity to ask what had aroused Amy’s suspicions in the first place. When she told me of the quarrel between her doctor and Forster, it seemed to be the moment. It was my second morning and Amy, who had woken feeling weak, was taking breakfast in bed. I was sitting beside her, having eaten a slice of her toasted bread and drunk one of the two wine caudles which I now insisted should be supplied. Pinto was looking on, coldly (mainly, I think, because she hadn’t thought of this precaution herself).

  “But, Lady Dudley,” I said, “what gave you the idea in the first place that anyone, Forster or your husband or anyone else, meant you harm?”

  “My lady was sick,” said Pinto aggressively. “Three or four times, a while after dinner but not after any special dish. Oh, she was so sick! It was pitiful to see her! It was a blessing that she has so little appetite, in my opinion! Whatever was in her food, she didn’t eat enough to do her harm.”

  I had noticed how little appetite Amy had. At that moment she was nibbling her toast as though even that were too much for her. “I am glad you’re here to taste my food,” she said to me. Her brow clouded. “When I was sick, as Pinto says, I had pains in my limbs, too. Forster said that such things can happen to people with maladies such as mine, but Dr. Bayly was puzzled. The trouble stopped after he had it out with Forster. It was a few months ago now.”

  I was conscious of a queasy feeling in my own stomach. I didn’t like the sound of this.

  “Mrs. Blanchard,” Amy said earnestly, “I live here, out of the world, but the news of the world still reaches me. The queen is enamoured of my husband, and he—well, if he were free to marry her, he would be king of England. I know my husband. He is ambitious and proud, and he ceased to care for me long ago. He has placed me here, in Forster’s power—and I don’t like Forster. He controls this household. He doles out money for me, grudgingly, and people visit him who don’t visit me, but they talk about me. Ask Pinto there.”

  “Pinto?” I said.

  “Tell Mrs. Blanchard,” said Amy.

  Pinto shrugged. “It was some while ago. I was going to Forster’s wing to look for one of the maids who was doing work over there when she was needed here . . . ”

  “Yes, Pinto. Our old grievance.” When Amy was well, I thought, she must have been very sweet, with a sly sense of humour. “But go on.”

  “Well, I was hurrying along the cloister when I heard voices through a window. Forster was talking to visitors in there. I heard Lady Dudley mentioned. That’s all. I didn’t hear anything else. Only I didn’t like the tone, somehow.”

  “And I don’t like Forster’s eyes,” Amy said. “There is something in them. He says reassuring things to me but his eyes say something different.”

  “He made out to be as shocked as could be about the idea of poison,” Pinto put in, “but my lady was sick, several times, earlier this year, and for no good reason.”

  “I ached and my stomach hurt,” Amy added. “Forster may say, as much as he likes, that my illness was the reason and that I am prey to melancholy fancies, but I am still afraid.”

  The young Ursula whom I see in my memory, surveying the summer sky, is pretending to wonder whether the fine weather will hold. Young Ursula, actually, has stalked to this window to conceal her face because, today, when Amy began her pitiful prayers, she was overtaken by such anger that she feared she would burst.

  Just as I was angry with God for letting the smallpox take Gerald, I was angry with him for letting this hideous disease attack poor Amy. I was also furious with Dudley, for peacocking about at court, playing the lover to Queen Elizabeth when he not only had a wife, but a wife in such extremity. And not only that. He had virtually deposited Amy in a human glory-hole. Whether or not it harboured schemes against Amy’s safety, I had never seen such an incredible household in my life.

  Forster had said it was really three households, and this was more or less true. Arthur Robsart and Thomas Blount, although they had brought money and letters for Amy, were being treated as Forster’s guests. If they dined with Amy, as they had done once or twice, when she was having a good day, it was in response to a formal invitation, as though they were being invited to a house five miles off.

  In fact, Arthur, although he was Amy’s brother, had actually declined one such invitation. Though he seemed fond of his sister, he spent little time with her. I thought he found her company depressing. I could understand that, for I too was oppressed by the atmosphere of fear and malaise in Amy’s rooms. When he did come, I was glad to see him, for he brought jokes and songs with him, even if briefly. He would be going home soon, and I told him I would miss him.

  But if the heads of the households kept their lives more or less separate, the way the servants were organised was a complete muddle. Each wing had its own staff, but that merely meant that each servant was on the payroll of either Lady Dudley, Mr. Forster or Mrs. Owen. Lady Dudley, however, as the bearer of a title and the wife of the queen’s Master of Horse, had a stipulated right to give orders to anyone in the house. However, it didn’t stop there, for Anthony Forster, who actually owned the property and paid all the farm workers, clearly considered that both he and the chilly-eyed widow, his sister-in-law Mrs. Odingsell, were free to do exactly the same thing, a belief shared also by the indolent Mrs. Owen.

  Mrs. Owen, I now knew, was the wife of the original owner of the property. Mr. Owen was a physician who had once attended King Henry. He was still alive, but like Mrs. Forster (who existed but apparently spent most of her time elsewhere) he was not in evidence at Cumnor. Mrs. Owen seemed never to have grasped that she was now a mere tenant and not the owner’s wife. Amy hadn’t the spirit to control any of them and perhaps had never had it, even when she was well.

  The result was chaotic. People were regularly stopped when on their way to perform one errand, and sent in the opposite direction to perform another. As Amy had observed, across her breakfast tray, it was an old grievance.

  Pinto—one of the few people who seemed clear about her duties and determined not to be enticed away from them—still regarded me with suspicion as a possible assassin sent by Dudley. However, she and I were positively shoulder to shoulder on the day when one of Amy’s maids came and said that she’d been bringing the fresh sheets for Lady Dudley’s bed as asked, but Mrs. Owen had met her as she crossed the courtyard from the wash-house, and told her to take them to her room instead. Pinto and I got them back with difficulty, and almost formed a partnership in the process, although it didn’t last.

  As for the kitchen, things there were even worse than I had imagined, since the cooks not only squabbled over who was to use which spit and which c
auldron, but half the time weren’t sure whose meals they were cooking in the first place. If Forster really had tried to poison Amy, he’d be taking a risk, I said to myself cynically. The doctored dish might well turn up accidentally on his table instead of hers, and as the cuisine was usually dreadful, he might not notice if it tasted cold.

  In my one week at Cumnor, I had been prostrated twice by violent headaches which ended in attacks of nausea. I had suffered from them at Faldene, but when I was with Gerald, they had stopped. Now, the effort of getting things done at Cumnor, mingled with my fury at this impossible and unkind situation, had brought them back.

  That and the uncertainty. Amy’s fears, now that she had explained them to me, were horribly convincing. De Quadra’s hints nagged at my mind and so did the mysterious message which John Wilton had refused to carry. My orders were to assure Amy that she was safe, but was it true? If not, was Dudley the threat? If he was, why had he sent me to protect his target?

  The possible answer to that was detestable. It would mean that I was here as his shield, not as hers. My appointment would be something he could claim as proof that he cared for his wife’s welfare. He would suppose, no doubt, that I could do nothing much in the way of protecting Amy effectively. This thought made me angrier than ever.

  I was still standing at the window, brooding on these things while I gazed out, when a horseman came into the courtyard. I stood rigid, eyes widening. I put out a hand to open the window so that I could lean out, and then hesitated.

  Behind me, Amy rose from her devotions and called to me. “Mrs. Blanchard! Would you help me, please? I would like to dress. Master Blount and my half-brother are to dine with us. It’s the last time. They’re leaving the day after tomorrow and tomorrow they’re engaged to dine in Abingdon. And I would like some mulled wine.”

  I turned to her at once. It was better like this, anyway. Better not to appear too eager. I must not seem to promise what I might never perform.

  The man who had just ridden in was Matthew.

  • • •

  I did not see who greeted him or brought him inside, but one of the maidservants approximately attached to Forster’s staff appeared when Pinto and I were helping Amy into her farthingale and gave her a note from Forster. Amy read it and then looked at me.

  “It seems you have a visitor, Mrs. Blanchard. A Mr. Matthew de la Roche. He wishes to call on you, and Forster asks if he may be received here. Are you willing to see him?”

  “I . . . yes, of course, Lady Dudley. How very kind of him to call.”

  “Who is he?” Amy enquired. “A connection?”

  “No. He . . . he’s someone I met at court.” Pinto and Amy were both gazing at me with interest. I felt myself turning pink.

  “A suitor?” said Amy in a wistful voice.

  “Well, yes,” I said. “But I am still in mourning and as yet he is no more than an acquaintance. I shall not desert my post with you, Lady Dudley. I promise you that.”

  I was so very sorry for her. She was no more than a couple of years older than I was, but her blossom-time was already gone. She had been courted by Dudley, had married him and lost him, and for her there would be no new beginning. I too had had a husband and lost him, but I was strong and well and now being offered fresh opportunities. If she were resentful, I could not blame her.

  Pinto was resentful, all right. I saw it in her eyes, but Amy said, “If Dr. Bayly was right, then I shall not hold you back for very long, Mrs. Blanchard. If Robin is patient just for a while, nature will set him free, and save him, and possibly Forster, an unpleasant task.”

  Dutifully, I said what I was being paid to say. “Lady Dudley, I assure you, I promise you, that Sir Robin wishes you no ill and . . . ”

  Amy hushed me with a gentle wave of her hand. “Perhaps. Perhaps not. But I am sure now that you intend no harm to me, Mrs. Blanchard, and I wish you happiness. Even if it means that you must leave me.” This was tantamount to saying she was fond of me, and Pinto positively glowered. “I will ask Mr. de la Roche to join us at dinner,” said Amy, unheeding. “May I make a suggestion?”

  “Yes, of course, Lady Dudley.”

  Amy gave me a smile. “Put off your mourning. Just a little.”

  • • •

  I took Amy’s advice. After all, to exchange a black dress for a cream one was nothing much. Many a young widow would have remarried by now, and in my straitened circumstances nine young women out of ten would have been energetically trying to lure Matthew to the altar, no matter how much Kat Ashley and Lady Katherine Knollys advised caution.

  Gerald and I had broken the pattern and married for love. I knew what that was like. If I married again, then I wished it once more to be for the man’s own sake, and not simply for the shelter he could offer me.

  I was not sure if that man could be Matthew. I was older now than when I had run off with Gerald. Then, I hadn’t understood what a gamble I was taking, but I realised it now. I was lucky: Gerald was all I believed he was. I might not be so fortunate a second time. Much as I liked Matthew, there were things about him which made me uneasy. Kat Ashley and Lady Katherine Knollys had hardly needed to point them out, for I already knew.

  Still, there could be no harm in asking Dale to look out, for once, a dress that wasn’t wholly or partly black. It had crossed my mind before I set out that perhaps I would soon want to relax my mourning, and in my luggage I had a cream satin gown with a pale gold latticework of embroidery on the sleeves. It wasn’t too showy; indeed, like most of my clothes, it was somewhat out of date. It had no ruff, just a V-shaped neckline and a turned-back collar with a little embroidery to match the sleeves.

  When I tried the dress on, I looked well, especially after I had brushed my dark hair glossy and put it into a gold-thread net with a few pearls here and there, and hung a gold chain and pearl pendant round my neck. These items were the only good jewellery I had left, having sold the rest. The ensemble was pleasing. It would do.

  Amy’s dining chamber adjoined her parlour. Because I must see that Amy herself was dressed before I could attend to myself, I arrived late and everyone else was already assembled. There was a sense of occasion, and for once, the atmosphere of shadow and fear which so persistently hung about in Amy’s rooms was dispelled. Everybody had exploded into slashed satins and gold chains and freshly laundered linen and I knew that the reason was Matthew.

  Matthew, very splendid in plum-crimson and tawny, dominated the room, and when all eyes turned to me as I entered, I knew that he had told them all he was here to court me. Amy, who had chosen a most exquisite gown—even though white was not the best choice for someone who already looked like a ghost—at once began half-deferring to me, as though I were somehow on show.

  There was no doubt about it. I was in the presence of matchmakers.

  I felt momentarily irritated, but the admiration in all the male faces was warming, and so was Matthew’s evident gladness at being with me again. I was amused, too, when Arthur Robsart said, “My faith, Mistress Blanchard. I thought you were a quiet cygnet but now you are a swan. What an elegant dress!”

  As usual, the food was not particularly good, but at least, with so many of us sharing the same dishes, I need not taste Amy’s portions, and there was so much laughter and witty conversation that the uninspired cooking didn’t matter. Matthew retailed the latest court news, with shrewd comments of his own, in his agreeable French accent. Arthur Robsart made puns, and Blount put in dry jests now and then. Even Amy laughed sometimes. Soon I was thoroughly enjoying myself.

  Most of the time, life with Amy was very bleak. Arthur’s visits had brought a little lightness, but they were always so short. There had been nothing like this and I was giddy, almost effervescent with the relief of it.

  After the meal, Amy declared that we must have some music. Forster was skilled with several musical instruments, she said, but he had not joined us, so we must do without him. However, there was a lute in the parlour and Ursula must play. “She
plays so well, Mr. de la Roche. Have you ever heard her?”

  “I think not, Lady Dudley.”

  “Then come!” cried Amy and made us all repair to the parlour, where she put the lute into my hands, insisting that I should play some popular songs which they could all join in singing.

  Amid the laughter and the wine, I had let myself forget about the matchmaking. I had responded unthinkingly to the admiration of the men, to the fact that one of them had pursued me from Richmond to Oxfordshire. Now I realised with renewed force and considerable embarrassment that I was being displayed to Matthew like a horse being trotted up and down to show its paces, and that everyone was assuming I wanted this. And then I saw the lines of pain round Amy’s eyes, and realised too that her seeming merriment was all a pretence.

  It wrenched at my heart. I took the lute, but the laughter had died out of me. I played adequately but not with sparkle, although the singing was enthusiastic enough to cover for me. I kept to familiar melodies, and was glad that Matthew knew them all and was able to take part.

  I was beginning to wonder, by this time, what would happen next. Matthew had not come all this way to leave without talking to me privately. But when that moment came, what would he say?

  I became nervous, played several wrong notes, and said apologetically that I was tired. The party began to rise to its feet and bow over Amy’s hand.

  Amy said, “Mr. de la Roche has ridden all the way from Richmond to see Mrs. Blanchard and no doubt there are things they wish to discuss. I have had my writing room opened for you, Mrs. Blanchard.”

  I had never been in the writing room before. It was rarely used and was usually locked. It looked as if it had once been the abbot’s study. There was a scarred oak desk and matching chair which might well date back to the monastic days, a silver writing set, some shelves, and a modern settle which looked out of place. The place had been dusted but it smelt airless, and I opened one of the slender windows. Then I stood with my back to it and my hands folded at my waist, and said, “It was very kind of you to come so far to see me, Master de la Roche. I appreciate it.”