To Shield the Queen

by FIONA BUCKLEY

  However, neither the bruises nor the nappy-cloth were serious compared to the second bandage, the one round his lower chest. This, too, was stained, and as I leaned to look at it, I found the source of the smell in the room.

  “He was stabbed as well,” said the landlord. “It missed the heart, but . . . ” He made a helpless gesture. “We did fetch a doctor. He said Master Wilton had a fever, which we knew, and suggested a herbal potion and an ointment. We’d already given him both of them. My wife Annie is good at such things. Then he charged a fat fee and went away to his dinner.”

  “You will include the fee in your bill, of course.” I looked at John again, anxiously. “I want to see the stab wound,” I said. “I want to know just how bad things are.”

  “I’ll call Annie,” Dexter said.

  Annie Dexter was as thin and bony as her husband was cylindrical. She came armed with warm water and unguents and clean linen and said it was time to change his dressings and perhaps I could help her.

  Well, I had asked to see and I saw.

  The head injury was clearly grave, though not especially repulsive to look at. The stains on the bandage had oozed from his ear. However, the stab wound was both serious and horrible to behold. I had to grit my teeth to drive off an attack of faintness. Mercifully, John remained more or less unconscious. He moaned a little and jerked once or twice when we were bathing him, but he did not open his eyes. When we had finished, Annie took the used dressings and the stained water away and I met Dexter’s gaze.

  “There isn’t much chance, is there?” I said quietly. “The stab wound has gone bad and his skull . . . ”

  “Is dented. But God works miracles sometimes. You mustn’t give up hope, Mistress Blanchard. Would you like to come downstairs again or will you sit with him awhile?”

  “I’ll sit here. You go and make out your account.”

  I stayed with John all the rest of the day. He did not wake, although Annie said he would swallow fluid if it were spooned carefully into his mouth. She brought milk and thin broth and I gave them to him at intervals. She brought some fresh wadding too, linen wrapped round pieces of fleece, and we changed him, as though he were an outsize baby. I left the room only once, to take a meal. No one could have eaten in the midst of that smell. I had to force my food down as it was. I paid John’s bill up to date, backed by a generous gratuity, and asked for a pallet to be put beside his bed so that I could tend him during the night.

  Brockley was intending to sleep in the stable hayloft, as grooms usually do, but when in the evening I went to see if all were well with him and the horses, he asked if my room were satisfactory. When I informed him that I was sharing John’s, on a pallet on the floor, he literally threw up his hands in horror. To deal with that, I marched him upstairs and showed John to him.

  “John Wilton was on an errand for me when this happened. I am responsible, Brockley. I don’t want to hear another word from you,” I said.

  Brockley lifted the dressing to examine the stab wound, and his attitude was altering already. “This looks like a sword-thrust and it’s gone well-nigh through him. I’m sorry, madam. I didn’t realise things were this serious, but you need to sleep. You take a room, in the proper fashion, and I’ll use that pallet. I’ll call you if there’s need. You should have fetched me before. A man needs another man to tend him, it’s only right.”

  “You have the horses to look after, Brockley.”

  “There’s an ostler and four stableboys down there. They can manage. They’d better, or I’ll have their hides.”

  “Brockley,” I said. “Thank you.”

  Annie found me a room on the floor just below. I was very tired and fell asleep more quickly than I expected. It was still very warm and I left the shutters open.

  When I woke, the dawn was creeping in, and there was a soft, insistent tapping at the door. I wrapped a robe about me and drew back the bolt. Brockley was outside, candle in hand.

  “Will you come, madam? He’s awake.”

  “Awake!”

  “I doubt it’ll last. I’ve seen something like it before. I was manservant once to a gentleman who took part in tournaments and got himself killed in an accident. His case wasn’t so different from this and he came round for a while but . . . oh well. These things are in the hands of God. Anyway, please come.”

  I followed him up to the attic, where candlelight and daybreak now mingled. John’s eyes were open but one pupil was huge and dark while the other was shrunk to a pinpoint. I wasn’t sure that he could see.

  “John? It’s Ursula Blanchard.”

  He stirred and murmured something and I thought his eyes were trying to focus on my face.

  “He knows you, I think,” said Brockley. “Talk to him.”

  “John?” I said again. “You were set upon by robbers. You’re in the Cockspur Inn. I’m here and I’m caring for you myself now. Oh, John, I am so sorry. To think that this should happen to you when you were carrying a letter for me.”

  He tried to speak. I bent closer. “What is it, John? I can’t hear.”

  He tried once more. The effort made the sweat spring on his forehead and his words came out in a blurred whisper, confused with the rasping of his breath. I could make nothing of them. They were only syllables with no meaning. Once, I thought he said his own name. His uneven gaze focused painfully on my face, pitiful with intensity, with the desire to communicate. Then, from the incomprehensible mumblings, came two lucid words, whispered, forced out as if through a barrier.

  “Red hair.”

  Across the bed, my eyes met Brockley’s. Brockley said quietly, “Were you attacked by a red-haired man?”

  Although he had a country accent, Brockley spoke clearly, and John understood him, answering, “Yes.”

  There was a pause, as though he were marshalling his strength. Then the difficult whisper came again.

  “Bludgeoned me. Blood in my eyes. Didn’t see who stuck . . . the sword in me . . . ”

  His voice faded and his eyes closed. “John,” I said urgently. “Please! These robbers should be brought to justice. Can you remember anything else?”

  On the pillow his head turned restlessly from side to side. He muttered again, but once more it made no sense. Beside me, Brockley too strained to hear, as the whisper dissolved in a rattling breath. Again John’s head turned from side to side and his body began to shudder.

  “Take hold of him!” said Brockley sharply. “Put your arms round him. Comfort him. Madam,” he added belatedly.

  I did as he said, and held John Wilton as he died.

  • • •

  Before we returned to Cumnor, I asked for John’s belongings and, when given them, I examined his jacket. Both my letters were there, untouched. He had not been killed for the letter to Cecil, that was certain. His money was gone, though. Robbers, then. Just commonplace robbers, one apparently with red hair.

  I reported to Master Dexter what John had said, and he shrugged. “Robbers come in all shapes and shades, and likely enough that one’s washed his hair in walnut juice by now and he’s going round as dark as a crow. Look, Mistress Blanchard, there’ll be an inquest on him but you were away in Cumnor when it all happened; you need not hurry back to be here for it. I take it you’ve another inquest to attend, that on poor Lady Dudley, and one is enough, I’d say! But will you arrange the funeral? It being warm weather still . . . ”

  “It shouldn’t be delayed. I understand,” I said. People pass so quickly, I thought, from being sick or hurt and in need of loving care, to being embarrassing heaps of debris which must be put underground quickly before they breed disease. Gerald too had had to be laid away without delay.

  The inn was not far from the parish church, St. Anne’s. Escorted by Brockley, I went there and gave the necessary instructions and paid in advance, saying I would return when I could, and place flowers on the grave.

  We went back to the inn to tell Dexter what had been arranged and take a fortifying cup of ale before Brockle
y went to saddle up, while I packed John’s belongings. I asked Dexter for writing materials so that I could write down what I thought John’s last words were and sign it so that it could be read out at the inquest.

  “Though I couldn’t make out the very last thing he tried to whisper,” I told Dexter. “Could you?” I said, turning to Brockley.

  “Well, madam, it sounded like ‘bald’ but it didn’t make much sense. He’d just said his attacker had red hair—I heard that right enough—so bald he can’t have been.”

  “But there was more than one! He said he didn’t see who stabbed him. It must have been a whole gang. Perhaps he was trying to tell us what the leaders were like.” I could see them in my mind, two ferocious robbers, one with unkempt, flaming hair; the other bald like Mr. Ellis the butler at Cumnor. “Well, it had better be reported. I’ll set it down anyway. Perhaps I ought to come back for the inquest after all,” I said uncertainly.

  Brockley shook his head, and humour for once glinted through his gravity, the same humour which had said that Mrs. Owen was too lazy to go to the fair except in a litter carried by slaves. “No, Mr. Dexter’s right. One’s enough. You’ll be bouncing from one inquest to another like a tennis ball between racquets otherwise.”

  “I agree with that.” Dexter gave us all some more ale and nodded at Brockley in a friendly way. “Mistress Blanchard, you’ve a good fellow here, and if you want a replacement for John Wilton,” he added unexpectedly, “I think you could do worse than ask Master Brockley if the job takes his fancy.”

  11

  The Huntress

  In my room at Cumnor, or what had been my room, for I would not sleep there again, Fran Dale was folding clothes neatly into panniers, ready for the packhorse, while I went through drawers and cupboards to make sure that we had left nothing behind.

  Amy was in her tomb, and the inquest on her death was all over. The jury had been sober and honest; made up of men who had Amy’s interests at heart. Two of her half-brothers were on it: one of them her mother’s son by a previous marriage; the other Arthur Robsart, dressed in black without ornament, his face serious as I had never seen it before; no sign now of either the fashionable gallant or the careless lover.

  The inquest was a farce. Since only I (and possibly Mrs. Odingsell) knew that horsemen had come to Cumnor on the day of Amy’s death, and only I had heard Amy say she wished to be alone to give any intending murderers their chance; and since loyalty to the queen kept me (and probably Mrs. Odingsell too) from repeating what we knew, there was no trace of evidence that Amy had died through foul play.

  If there had been, however, I doubt if either coroner or jury would have wanted to pursue the matter. According to Thomas Blount, Dudley had sent the strictest instructions that they were to find out the truth, and the queen had banished him from court until the inquiry was over, but I still had a strong impression that the jurymen knew very well that if their verdict even hinted at the possibility of murder the result could be a national disaster.

  Instead, they examined with great care the theory that Amy, grieving over her husband’s neglect and mortally ill, and in pain as well, had deliberately sent us all away so that she could commit suicide by throwing herself down two flights of stairs.

  Mr. Hyde, Forster’s tiresome brother-in-law, stated in evidence that Lady Dudley was deeply unhappy, citing as proof the fact that he had often called and tried to cheer her, without success. Inquests are hardly entertainment, and I didn’t expect that anything in the course of this one would amuse me. However, when I heard that and recalled Mr. Hyde’s tasteless methods of cheering people up, I found it quite hard not to laugh, until it occurred to me to wonder if Forster had covertly encouraged Mr. Hyde’s damaging visits, knowing how they would upset Amy, because he was looking ahead to a possible inquest. A suspicion of suicide might suit him very well. I was angry then, but there was nothing I could do.

  The jury decided against a suicide verdict, however. Pinto, who was terrified that her mistress would not be accorded a proper Christian burial, indignantly denied that Amy, who was so pious and spent so much time in prayer, would ever entertain such a wicked thought, while Dr. Bayly, called to testify on Amy’s state of health, said that it would be a foolish way to commit suicide because the chances were that it wouldn’t work.

  It was the only time I ever saw Bayly. He was one of those big, opinionated men with too many chins, and I didn’t take to him, but he did something to keep Amy from the horror of burial in unblessed earth. The jury’s final conclusion was that she had simply slipped, or felt dizzy, as sick people often did, and had fallen, and been unlucky (or lucky, some would say, since she had at least not had to die of her disease) in the outcome.

  Perhaps that was the truth. I did not think so, but I had lain awake, turning everything over in my mind, for many a night now, and still the wary, glittering, powerful and yet curiously vulnerable figure of Elizabeth blocked the road to candour. England needed her, and her name must not be smirched.

  Now the verdict was given I could set it all aside. Amy no longer concerned me. I had attended the huge and elaborate funeral in Oxford and I had wept genuine tears for her, but I was free of her now, and of Cumnor. Dudley, who had been exiled to his house at Kew and banned from the queen’s presence until the inquest was over, had come to Oxford for the funeral, solemn of face and dressed in mourning, head to foot. There he had given me my outstanding pay plus something extra and also given me a letter in which he formally made me a present of Bay Star “because,” said the letter, repeating what he had said verbally, “I hear from Bowes and Cousin Blount that you did all you could for my wife and performed your duties most admirably, and I would reward you for this.”

  I hated him for his hypocritical mourning and his long face, but I accepted graciously. I needed the money and I was thankful to have a good horse. Now that I was well mounted and in funds, I had written to the court and obtained leave of absence until the end of October, so that I could go to Sussex, see my daughter and give Bridget a further good supply of money. I also wanted to see John Wilton’s sister, Alice, and perform the sad duty of telling her of John’s death.

  In Sussex, I might even hear news of Matthew, whose house was in that county. If I could learn where he lived, I might venture to send him a message, although I wasn’t sure about that. His total silence since he left Cumnor was not encouraging. He had thought it over, I said to myself dismally, and decided that after all I was too difficult a woman for him, or perhaps he had met someone else.

  Well, I had sent him away myself and would do better not to brood. When I went back to court at the end of my leave of absence, I would if necessary approach Arundel and learn through him how matters stood. I might even find a message waiting for me!

  For the moment, I had much to think about. I had missed John’s funeral, but on the way to Sussex, I would visit the grave in the little churchyard of St. Anne’s, near the Cockspur Inn. Dudley’s party had left for London direct from Oxford, but I had had to return to Cumnor to clear my room. I had arranged an escort for myself and Dale. Taking Dexter’s advice, I had asked Brockley to enter my service in place of John and he had agreed. He was not John, who was part of my lost past, and I knew, with some irritation, that he thought I needed watching over and guiding, but I also knew too that like John he was honest, and I was glad to have him.

  There was a tap at my door, and Pinto came in. She too had been generously paid off by Dudley and she was going to Norfolk to rejoin Amy’s mother, who was taking her on as an extra lady’s maid and had even sent an escort for her.

  “I’ve come to say goodbye,” she said. “We’re ready to go. They’re bringing the horses to the door now.”

  “Goodbye,” said Dale stiffly. She had never forgiven Pinto for being so suspicious of me.

  Pinto glanced at her doubtfully and then said to me, “I want to say again that I’m sorry I made a mistake about you, Mrs. Blanchard. I see now you meant no ill to my lady. Only I
did love her so and she was so good to me and . . . ”

  “If there’s one thing I can’t abide,” remarked Dale to the pannier she was filling, “it’s jealousy.”

  “Stop it, Dale. It’s all right, Pinto. I’m glad you’re provided for and I hope you’ll be happy.”

  “I hope you’ll be happy too, Mrs. Blanchard.” She did not include Dale in her wellwishing. She held out a folded sheet of paper to me. “One of the maids says she found this, lying under the hangings of the bed in the guest room Mr. Blount was using till he went to Oxford. I don’t know if it’s important. I can’t find Mr. Forster, so can I leave it with you? I have to go now.”

  “Yes, of course.” I took it from her. “Well, good luck, Pinto, and a safe journey.”

  Her suspicions had been hurtful and although I said the right things, I couldn’t quite manage to kiss her goodbye. Fortunately she didn’t seem to expect it. She took her leave, and Dale went downstairs after her, I rather think so that she could watch Pinto ride out of our lives.

  Once alone, I stood for a moment, looking at the letter in my hand. Then I unfolded it.

  As Pinto had handed it to me, the doubled sheet had partly opened and I had recognised the writing inside. It was the same as that on Dudley’s note to me. I make no apology for what I did next. I could do nothing now for Amy, but I still longed to know how she had died. I wanted it so much that I was still prepared to listen behind wallhangings or read other people’s letters or do anything else which would bring me information. I opened the letter out, and read it.

  I can’t say what I expected to find. I had no suspicions of Blount, and the letter had probably been written to him. I think I was clutching at the vague possibility that it might turn out to belong to Forster, who after all lived here and had often been in and out of the room even when Blount was occupying it.