To Shield the Queen

by FIONA BUCKLEY

  “But, Lady Dudley,” I said protestingly.

  “Don’t argue!” said Amy, almost fiercely. “Do as you’re told!”

  Amy had not only told us that we were to go to the fair whether we liked it or not; she had even dragged herself through the house to see Mrs. Owen and Mrs. Odingsell and tell them that she wanted them to go as well. Both, however, had declined. Mrs. Owen couldn’t be bothered, she said (I had once heard the groom Roger Brockley remark that Mrs. Owen was so idle that to get her to take a journey you’d need a door-to-door litter carried by six Nubian slaves, which was rude, but true).

  Mrs. Odingsell had refused on the grounds, I gathered, that the Sabbath was no day for respectable gentlewomen to be gallivanting to fairs; on Sundays, decent people stayed at home and read devotional works.

  “Such nonsense!” Amy fumed. “Time was, people went to church on Sundays and then spent the rest of the day in harmless amusements and no one questioned it. Now there is all this long-faced talk of enjoyment being a sin on the Sabbath. I have no patience with it! Ursula, I’ve told you that I want you to go. Do as I say!”

  There was no question of Amy attending church—she hadn’t done so now for weeks—but the rest of us must set out shortly for the service, and then, it seemed, we must proceed to Abingdon. Pinto had gone to mix a painkiller for her mistress to take before we left. I stood worriedly beside Amy’s chair. She was sitting very upright, her face determined.

  “You’ll be alone all day,” I said. “Do you really mean . . . ?”

  “Yes, I do. Why not? You all do so much for me; why shouldn’t I give you all a day off at the fair? And I won’t be alone. I wish I were! It’s what I want. But Mrs. Owen will be here, it seems! If I want to, I’ll have her in to dine with me. The cook’s leaving a cold meal.”

  “But . . . ”

  “Oh, Ursula!” said Amy.

  I knelt beside her chair. “What is it, Lady Dudley? There is something behind this, isn’t there? Can’t you tell me?”

  Amy studied me with those brilliant, sunken eyes. Then she said, “When you first came, Ursula, I thought you meant ill to me. I thought . . . ”

  “I know,” I said. “It isn’t true, Lady Dudley, really it isn’t.”

  “No, no, I realised that long ago. You’ve been good to me. But someone means ill, all the same. I don’t trust Forster or that man Verney. You said that when you overheard their talk, they spoke of messages so secret that it was hard to find messengers they could trust, and there was a document for Forster and some mention of money to be paid to him. Ursula, I may be ignorant, and ill, but I am not silly. Something secret was being discussed and it could well be something dishonest. Would you agree with that?”

  “You’re certainly not silly,” I said uncomfortably. “I would call you very shrewd.”

  “Yes, you had your doubts, too.” Amy nodded. “You wanted to protect me, but I saw it in your eyes. And for a long time, I’ve seen something in Forster’s eyes too, something that disturbs me. Ursula, he was the one who first told his servants they could all go out today. Then he suggested that Mrs. Owen should tell her staff the same thing, which she did, and after that, he suggested it to me. That was several days ago now. It was all his idea in the first place.”

  “Was it now!” I hadn’t known that.

  “Yes. As if he wanted to empty the house as far as possible. But it doesn’t matter. I’m dying and I know it and lately I have suffered so much that . . . I no longer fear death.” The brilliant eyes filled with tears. “I think I fear life more—life which drags on and on in pain from which there’s no escape. If when I’m alone someone comes to stab me, they’d be doing me a kindness. So I’m going to help Forster send everyone away for a day. If he—or anyone—is waiting to kill me, let them have their chance. Let them release me from this body that’s falling to pieces while I’m still alive in it. I want to go free.”

  “What?” I was horrified. “Lady Dudley, if you really believe that, then someone must stay with you. It can’t be true,” I said resolutely, trying to convince myself, “but if it is, then you don’t really want it to happen. If someone . . . attacked you, you wouldn’t want to die. You’d be terrified. You’d cry out for help. You’d . . . ”

  Amy wiped her eyes. “And could you supply the help?” she asked. She sounded almost amused. “You’d be the only one here. Everyone else will obey me, including Pinto. Could you alone fight off my assassins?”

  I was silent.

  “You couldn’t,” said Amy. “I’ll tell you what would happen if you were known to be here. You were sent here by Robin. You would be accused of murdering me yourself.”

  “That would be ridiculous! He sent me here openly. I’m known to be his employee. He would hardly instruct me to do away with you!”

  “No,” said Amy, “I don’t suppose he would. But ordinary people, in alehouses and round wellheads and dinner tables, do you think any of them would work that out? I believe I am in danger, Ursula, but I will not let you share it.”

  “This is all nonsense,” I said, but even as I spoke, I remembered that during that curious, elusive conversation between Forster, Verney and Holme, they had mentioned Abingdon Fair. Forster had said that one year it had rained throughout the entire fair, and Verney had said that would be a disaster. It assuredly would be, if they wanted an empty house in which to commit a murder without being interrupted! The servants might refuse to be sent out into a downpour! I heard my voice trail away.

  “Ursula,” said Amy, quite calmly, as though this were a commonplace conversation about what to have for dinner, “I believe that if any attempt on my life is being planned, it will take place when everyone is at the fair. I am, if you like, opening the door to it. If you don’t want to risk being hanged, go to Abingdon, and stay in the company of the others every minute, and come home with them at sundown.”

  9

  The Small Cold Voice

  I went to the fair under protest and, to all intents and purposes, under guard.

  We set out on foot straight after the church service in the morning, in a crowd consisting of nearly everyone who made up the three Cumnor households. Lady Dudley, Mrs. Owen and Mrs. Odingsell had stayed at home, of course, and Forster had gone separately, on horseback, but all the rest of us were in the party.

  Once we were in Abingdon, people went this way and that in small groups. Dale and I were accompanied and hemmed in by Pinto, the manservant Bowes, who was lean and taciturn and alert, and Roger Brockley, the groom who was so good at looking tactfully blank. Brockley was a well-built man, with wiry brown hair just touched with grey at the temples. He had a scattering of gold freckles, a high, back-sloping forehead and a conscientious nature. He was the kind of man who has his own opinions and he didn’t seem to dislike me, but he had had his orders and would carry them out.

  Amy had not only insisted that I attend the fair; she had also apparently decided that I couldn’t be trusted to do as I was told. She had informed Pinto that I might want to return before the others did and that I wasn’t to be allowed to do so.

  Pinto, of course, had interpreted this to mean that Amy was afraid of me. She didn’t actually say so but I saw it in her face. What she did say, in my hearing, to Bowes and Brockley, was that her mistress had insisted that she was to be left alone today and that it wasn’t anyone’s place to question her or to go back too soon. Mrs. Blanchard, she added, might attempt to do this but her mistress was not to be upset by disobedience. Amy’s fears were common knowledge in Cumnor Place, and so was the fact that Dudley had sent me there. Brockley was on Amy’s payroll and Bowes was on Forster’s, but they were equally prepared to take orders from Lady Dudley. They might or might not share Pinto’s suspicions, but Lady Dudley wanted me under surveillance, and they clearly didn’t intend to let me out of their sight.

  Pinto was a blinkered soul. She was so sure that if there were danger, it must lie in me; therefore she could not entertain any other possibility. Dale was an
noyed on my behalf and the two of them weren’t speaking.

  Abingdon Fair was one of the great local events of the year. The whole of the little riverside town was caught up in it, with flags across all the streets, and jolly processions of apprentices and tradesmen, accompanied by musicians, wending their way through every now and then, to advertise their trades.

  The meadows beside the Thames had been cleared of sheep and cattle for the day and entirely given over to the fair. At one end, all through the day, there were sporting contests such as high-jumping, wrestling and archery. At the other, there was a horse fair and a sale of livestock.

  In between, market stalls sold hot pies, sweetmeats, jams and cordials and simples; gloves, hats, belts and ribbons; linen and woollen cloth and hanks of yarn; cheap scent and cheaper jewellery; fresh cheese, elder-flower and dandelion wine, ale and butter and new-laid eggs. There was a woman selling basketware, a hardware merchant offering tools and rope and kitchen pots; a potter who had brought his wheel along was making his products on the spot, and a nervous silversmith who had put his goods on display had two hulking sons and a large growling dog to discourage the lightfingered. Whatever you happened to want, the fair was a likely place to find it.

  When the Cumnor party arrived, we were held up as we made our way through the main street by slow-moving farm wagons bringing pigs and coops of poultry and goods to be sold. There were entertainments, too. Just after we reached the town, a bear-baiting started in the middle of the main street, and a troupe of travelling players commenced a drama in front of the abbey.

  By midday, the fair was hot and noisy. Vendors bawled their wares; actors ranted and clashed swords in a mock fight which looked alarmingly real; horses whinnied, dogs bayed and poultry cackled. Onlookers watching the sports applauded spectacular vaults and good archery shots and a medley of smells filled the air, of spiced meat and fresh pastry; ale and farm animals and human sweat; dust and perfume and the tang of the river.

  As my watchful escort and I threaded our way among the thronged stalls, the sun flashed off the river, and I could feel it scorching through my cap. I had eaten an over-flavoured pie which I didn’t want and, in an attempt to lull my companions’ suspicions by appearing properly interested in the fair, bought a workbasket which I didn’t really want, either. I now had to carry it. Dale was already burdened with purchases of her own: a length of linen and a pot of honey.

  I had a menacing twinge above one eye; possibly the start of a sick headache. There was so much noise, so many smells and so much conflict in my mind. Amy had been right to think that I would want to disobey her and go back to Cumnor early. But how?

  All through the church service and all the way to Abingdon, I had felt, more and more, that I ought to be with Amy. She was wrong to say that I would be no protection. Mrs. Odingsell and Mrs. Owen were both at Cumnor. If I could get both or even one of them into Amy’s company on some pretext, surely we would amount to an adequate bodyguard. I might distrust Forster but I really couldn’t see his righteous sister-in-law being a party to murder. Amy would be safe with the three of us, and under the eyes of Mrs. Owen and Mrs. Odingsell my reputation would be safe, too.

  Time was passing, however. It had taken us an hour and a half to walk to Abingdon, and noon was now gone. Even if I escaped from my guardians immediately, and I could see no prospect of this, it would take me another hour and a half to get back. I couldn’t get hold of a horse because ladies on their own didn’t hire horses. If Amy were right, and she might be, oh yes, she might be, then God alone knew what was happening at Cumnor meanwhile.

  “Shall we watch the potter?” Bowes enquired. “It always makes me marvel, the way the clay just grows under their hands. I’d say it was witchcraft if I didn’t know better. Over here, now.”

  I went unprotestingly across the crushed grass, thinking irritably that we might as well watch the potter as do anything else. Then Dale pulled at Bowes’s arm. “Look, a juggler!”

  The juggler hadn’t been there a moment ago; he had evidently just set up his pitch. Dressed in a medieval motley of red and yellow, with dagged sleeves and a crazy coxcomb of a cap and announcing his presence with the help of a small boy with a drum, he had placed himself between a stall selling preserves and another one peddling cures for everything from warts to impotence, and he was collecting an audience. Bowes let himself be distracted from the potter, and we all pressed forward to watch. The juggler was tossing up brightly coloured skittles and while he juggled, he danced, ducking and twirling, catching skittles behind his back, even twisting round to catch one on the tip of his nose.

  Children in the crowd squealed with wonder and excitement and a big farmer with a toddler on his shoulders pushed in between me and Bowes, who was on my left. He was followed closely by an equally massive wife, with another child holding to her skirt and a baby in her arms. Unable to see past her husband, she moved to one side and paused by my right shoulder.

  Casually, I took a step backwards.

  Bowes had been on my left but all the others were on my right. The farmer had obscured me from Bowes, and the farmer’s wife now hid me from the rest. I swallowed, drew a long breath, waited for a few brief seconds until the juggler started a new routine, and then I edged away into the crowd behind me, and was free.

  Most people were in their best clothes but I had had the good sense to put on one of my everyday dresses with no farthingale and no hot, prickly ruff, and my shoes were comfortable, too. I slipped quickly behind a row of stalls and then made my way at a fast walk, across the meadow and out into the streets of Abingdon, and presently, into the fields beyond.

  I would go by the field paths, I decided, because the others wouldn’t take long to realise I had gone and they would give chase. By not taking the road, I might evade them. The paths were rough, though, and twice I had to walk in the wrong direction for some way before I found a gap in a bank or a place to cross a ditch. I became hot and irritated and the workbasket I was clutching was a nuisance. I got rid of it, eventually, in one of the ditches. My headache, I noticed, had disappeared as soon as I got away from the others. Finally, I returned to the main track, keeping an ear open for sounds of pursuit.

  I could be there before half past two, I thought. If only Amy were still all right. She had said she might have Mrs. Owen in to dine with her; if so, that would help.

  Hurrying along, thinking as I went, I didn’t hear the approaching horsemen. They came across a field from my left and took me by surprise, leaping the bank and ditch into the road and landing almost on top of me. The foremost horse knocked me aside with its shoulder and I lost my footing and almost fell into the ditch. The riders paid no heed to me but thundered on their way as though I didn’t exist. I sat beside the ditch, rubbing a wrenched ankle and staring after them. I had had a momentary glimpse of the horse which had knocked me down, and the man on its back. The horse was a good-looking chestnut, and the man’s hawklike profile, though so briefly seen, reminded me of . . .

  Sir Richard Verney. Had the riders been Verney and Holme? If so, they were going, at speed, straight towards Cumnor. They would arrive there long before I did.

  My ankle hurt. I stood up, put my weight on it and hastily sat down again to massage it anew. I was still engaged in this when I heard the sound I had been listening for earlier: familiar voices. Round a bend in the road hurried Pinto, Dale, Bowes and Brockley, all perspiring in their Sunday best. They rushed up to me, exclaiming.

  “So there you are. What a pace you set us!” Bowes had pulled off his cap and his balding scalp was bright red from the sun. “Mrs. Blanchard, you shouldn’t have done this,” he said reprovingly.

  “Oh, ma’am, whatever are you about? This Pinto creature has been saying such things. I can’t abide to listen to her! But to go off alone like that . . . ”

  “Oh, you wicked creature. I knew you would make off if you could. Didn’t I say so, Mr. Bowes? We lost you at the fair but we knew which way you’d go! We saw you in the fie
lds, in the distance. That’s her, I said, and we’ve got to catch her up before she reaches Cumnor and works some mischief there . . . ”

  “Things like that she’s been saying and I’m ashamed to have heard them, ma’am!”

  “You’ve hurt yourself,” said Brockley.

  Roger Brockley did at least seem to be regarding me with a glimmer of human sympathy. I gave him a grateful glance.

  “I’ve turned my ankle,” I said. Once again I tried to stand and, to my relief, it felt better. “It’s nothing much. And you’ve no right to call me a wicked creature, Pinto. That was insulting. Yes, I want to go back to Cumnor to be with Lady Dudley. I know she ordered me to come to Abingdon but I have other orders to obey as well. Those other orders were to look after her. That’s what I’m paid for and none of you had any business to interfere!”

  “You’re being paid by her husband, deny it if you can, you deceitful thing!” cried Pinto.

  “Now, now. It’s true that a gentlewoman like Mrs. Blanchard shouldn’t be running about the countryside alone but there’s no need to forget your manners,” said Brockley severely.

  “I am certainly being paid by Sir Robin Dudley,” I said, “but his orders were to comfort and protect Lady Dudley, whether Pinto believes it or not. And now . . . ”

  I stopped. I wanted so very much to share my load of worry with someone, but John Wilton wasn’t back yet and I had had no word from Cecil. I feared to trust anyone beyond those two: my manservant and the Secretary of State.

  In the people now standing round me in the road, I dared not confide. I thought they were honest, and I included Bowes in that—he had a respectable air even if he did work for Anthony Forster—but none of them was skilled enough in clear thinking. Amy’s voice echoed in my head, commenting on the intellectual shortcomings of people in alehouses and round wellheads. And the queen’s voice spoke in my mind, too: What touches Sir Robin’s honour, touches mine.

  Then came the moment of which I am ashamed to this day. I know I cannot actually be accused of betraying Amy. Between my ankle and my companions, I had no hope now of getting back to Cumnor, and even if I did, if those horsemen really were Verney and Holme, and they were making for Cumnor with evil intent, they were far ahead of me. Until I had seen them, some part of me had still clung to the hope that perhaps I was wrong, and Amy was wrong, and no harm was intended to her after all, by anyone. Now, that hope had died. I believed fully in her danger, and with that, my mind had horrifyingly cleared.