To Shield the Queen

by FIONA BUCKLEY

  Searching rapidly back through the ledger and those of the year before I found that Uncle Herbert had, as usual, made a few charitable donations. A man in his social position was virtually obliged to make them, although my uncle, who gave the servants his cast-offs at Christmas, wasn’t going to be bountiful to the poor in any circumstances. He had kept his genuine donations small.

  Five pounds for the relief of poor people in the parish of Faldene—that was an annual one which I remembered from the past, and he only kept it up because his father had started it and to discontinue it would have looked bad. Five shillings—my dear uncle, what a skinflint you are!—to clothe poor women in London. A pound to a hospital in Chichester; ten pounds for the care of orphans and widows in the county of Sussex. Among these modest offerings, that 200 marks shone forth like a beacon.

  I turned back to the entry in question and began to shiver. Family was family, however obnoxious, and much as I detested Uncle Herbert and Aunt Tabitha, I did not want to bring them into the kind of danger that this promised. I wanted to harm the Westleys and the Masons even less.

  However, there was John, and not only John. It was wider than that now. If this meant what I thought it did . . .

  Perhaps it didn’t. Perhaps I had read more into this entry than was really there, although I had been looking for it. I had guessed and guessed right. It was so much: two hundred marks!

  For a few moments, engrossed in the possible meaning of my discovery, I had ceased to keep alert for sounds elsewhere in the house. I had also forgotten Uncle Herbert’s talent for treading softly and creeping up on people undetected. I only realised that someone else had come into the room when the draught from the open door made the flame of my own candle stream. I sprang up and turned.

  There in the doorway, wheezing slightly, as though he had come across the hall too fast, a fur-trimmed gown wrapped over his nightshirt, and a thick palm shielding his candle, was Uncle Herbert.

  “And what, Ursula, is the meaning of this? I looked out of my bedchamber window and I saw a light moving across the hall. What are you doing out of your bed at this time of night, and what are you doing in my study, and what the devil are you doing with my ledgers?”

  Shaking with fright, I did my best. “You have taken Meg into your charge against my will, Uncle Herbert. I . . . I was looking to see if you have recorded money set aside for her, or money already spent on her.” As a lie, it was pitifully lame. I tried to infuse my voice with vigour. I was a mother, defending her offspring. “Frankly, Uncle, I do not wish you to have charge of Meg and I would remind you that you have no rights over her and . . . ”

  I was not only frightened, but tired, and was making mistakes all the way. I hadn’t kept alert for footsteps and I hadn’t had the sense to slam the ledger. He stepped to the table and looked at the open page.

  “Why were you studying this page in particular?”

  “I wasn’t. I was just reading it through.” The item concerning the two hundred marks seemed to rewrite itself in giant letters and spring off the page to meet us.

  “If you wished to know what we were spending on Meg, you could have asked us,” he said. “You had no need to creep about in the night like a miscreant for that. My head groom tells me that when you arrived here, you showed a remarkable interest in William Johnson’s piebald horse. Why was that?”

  I managed not to jump. The stance of my uncle’s bulky body, enlarged by the shadow which the candles threw on the wall behind him, suddenly seemed extraordinarily menacing.

  I thought of John then, and was overtaken, without warning, by sheer rage. I lost my temper, so completely that it overwhelmed my sense of danger. I flung the truth in my uncle’s face.

  “I was interested in that piebald horse because I’ve been trying to trace its rider and his friends. They’ve been travelling about and apparently calling at houses of Catholic persuasion. I don’t know why but no one will speak of their purpose or even admit they’ve been there, and at a guess, they’ve been collecting money for the Catholic cause. Tell me, Uncle Herbert: that two hundred marks you so generously gave away on the third of September—what was it for? It wasn’t a contribution to a possible Catholic uprising, was it, by any chance?”

  My uncle’s thick brows drew close together, forming a line of heavy shadow across his fleshy face. “And if it was,” he said, “do you think that you would be allowed to hinder it?”

  “No,” I said recklessly, “and I have a feeling that someone else, quite recently, wasn’t allowed to hinder it either. Johnson and his friends murdered a servant of mine, John Wilton, perhaps because he found out what they were doing. I’ve been hunting his slayers across country. I now understand that Johnson lives at Withysham, and that he has dined here. You’ve had a murderer at your table, Uncle Herbert!”

  “I know nothing of that,” said my uncle, “but if you are right, well, such things happen when great causes are afoot. The safety of many may depend, alas, on the death of one.” He sighed, with unconvincing regret.

  I leaned against the desk, my knees quaking. I had been carried away by anger. I’d let it happen because—well, this was Faldene, where I had grown up, and I had known my Uncle Herbert all my life. I didn’t like him and he didn’t like me, but nevertheless, however reluctantly, he and my aunt had reared me. Like the heavy eyebrows, a strong sense of family was a Faldene characteristic, and this one I shared. I just hadn’t believed that he would really harm me. I was less certain now. “So you . . . condone murder?” I said.

  “I wish to see the country returned to the true faith and ruled by a Catholic queen.”

  It was an evasive answer, to say the least of it. “Queen Mary is dead,” I said. “Elizabeth is on the throne now.”

  “For the time being,” said my uncle with a chesty chuckle, “but not necessarily for good; not if she surrenders to lust for her Master of Horse, as seems very likely. Meanwhile,” he added, “I must decide what to do with you.” There was a silence. In the candlelight, he stared at my face. “What were you ever in this house,” he said at last, “other than a symbol of your mother’s disgrace? Are you now to be the ruin of all our hopes as well?”

  There was another silence. My heart raced with the desire to fight or flee. I wondered how much danger I was really in, and whether I could get hold of the candlestick or the inkstand to use as a weapon, but neither was within arm’s reach.

  The silence was broken not by either of us but by the arrival of a third person, also with a candle. “Herbert?” said Aunt Tabitha’s voice. “You said you thought someone had gone into your study with a light and you went to see and when you didn’t come back . . . Ursula!”

  “She’s been reading my ledgers,” said my uncle. “She seems to think it is somehow her business that we have been contributing to the cause of our faith.”

  I found my voice again. “It is my business. Those who were collecting the money killed my manservant, John Wilton.”

  “What is she talking about?” demanded Aunt Tabitha.

  Uncle Herbert explained. My aunt, standing there in an oyster-satin wrapper and a white nightcap, holding her candle, stared at me with fury. “Your manservant is nothing to do with us. How dare you pry and poke into your uncle’s affairs? You were always an ingrate, but this!”

  “That isn’t the point,” said Uncle Herbert. “Of course she’s an ingrate; there’s nothing new about that. What is new is that she is now in a position to do us harm. We have a viper in our midst.”

  “I’m one of the queen’s ladies,” I said. “I am to return to court at the end of October. If I don’t present myself then, enquiries will be made.”

  My aunt frowned, pursing her prim lips. “I think, Herbert, that we need advice. I would not, myself, wish to harm this wretched girl. She is our niece, however sorry the state of her soul. I think we must keep her under lock and key until we have had time to consult Withysham on the matter.”

  Withysham, I thought, feeling panic rise up i
n me. Withysham, where William Johnson lives. Where John Wilton’s murderers live.

  “It could then be taken out of our hands,” Uncle Herbert said thoughtfully.

  I became aware, not for the first time, of the curious, delicate balance of power between my uncle and aunt, and also, of the weird and convoluted nature of Aunt Tabitha’s morality. You don’t smother illegitimate babies; you rear them as servants. You love God, and are prepared to hand over to the most terrible of deaths anyone who doesn’t share your views on the fine detail of doctrine. You don’t strangle your inconvenient niece; you consign her to someone else who may or may not do it for you, but either way you’re not responsible.

  My uncle gripped my upper arm. “And don’t trouble yourself to call for help,” he said. “All the servants are loyal to us.”

  I did try to resist, more by instinct than because I had any real hope of escape. Even if I broke away and got out of a window, the mastiffs were loose. I couldn’t break away, anyhow. Even stamping on Uncle Herbert’s gouty foot didn’t work. He let out a torrent of swear words but he kept his grip on my arm. It was two to one and they were determined. The only effect my efforts had was to make Aunt Tabitha say breathlessly, as she hung on to my other arm, “The attic room is too far to drag her. Put her somewhere nearer! I’ll fetch her woman. I daresay she’s Ursula’s confidante. They ought to be kept together.”

  I spent the rest of the night in the best spare bedchamber after all, with Dale for company.

  15

  Upon Conditions

  The best spare bedchamber was in one of the towers, at the corner of the frontage and the south wing. It was on the first floor, and its mullioned windows, like those in the hall, looked both to the front and into the courtyard. It had a huge fourposter bed equipped with a down mattress and hung with blue velvet embroidered in silver. There was a tall walnut clothes cupboard, a generous fireplace, fur rugs on the floor on either side of the bed, a stone-topped washstand with a silver basin and ewer, three branched candlesticks of silver with fresh candles in them. It was a most luxurious prison.

  However, it was still a prison, and Dale and I were the frightened captives. We huddled together in the big bed, and I explained as much as I could to her: my suspicions, and what I had learned from the ledgers. I wished I could have kept her out of it, but my aunt and uncle assumed that she was in my confidence, so I might as well make it true. She was caught up in this now and had the right to know why.

  “I’m sure they won’t actually harm us,” I said, reassuringly. One thing I had not said was that my uncle had turned to Withysham, and therefore to William Johnson, for advice. I must not alarm her too much. “But we may be kept here for some time. I’ve brought you into an uncomfortable situation, Dale. I’m sorry.”

  “You didn’t mean to, ma’am.” Even hand in hand with me as we were then, for comfort, Dale remained the perfect lady’s maid. “I’m sure all will turn out well. After all, you are a Lady of the Queen’s Presence Chamber.”

  “I told them that,” I said. “I hope they were listening!”

  We fell asleep eventually, out of sheer exhaustion, and only awoke when someone entered the room in the morning. It turned out to be Aunt Tabitha, in person, with breakfast on a tray, followed by a maidservant with hot washing water, and another one with our clothes.

  Neither my aunt nor the maidservants spoke to us, however. They set down their burdens and withdrew. Dale seemed inclined to huddle in the bed but I ordered her to take some breakfast and then to see to my toilette and her own. “Don’t fret,” I said.

  This was good advice, although hard to follow. There was nothing to do but peer restlessly from the windows and try to work out what was going on from what little I could observe. I saw Uncle Herbert in the courtyard, giving a letter to one of the grooms, and saw the groom saddle up and ride off. To Withysham, presumably. The thought made me feel ill.

  We were given more food at noon, and once again I was trying to eat something and urging Dale to do the same when we heard hoofs. The groom had returned, and was not alone. Four other horsemen came with him. I looked from the front windows and saw the five riders pass. I took in at once that the tallest of them had a small ginger beard and ginger hair just visible under a dashing blue hat with a feather in it. Darting to the other window, I saw them enter the yard.

  Another of the horsemen, the moment he saw one of the grooms, called out loudly, “How is Magpie? Is he sound yet?” and at once I tensed. Magpie had to be the piebald. That man, then, was Will Johnson. I stared at him, taking him in. He dismounted and I could see him clearly: a stocky, strutting fellow with a thick neck. He pulled his hat off in order to scratch his scalp, revealing a round dark head.

  Three men had been concerned in John’s murder. One was Johnson. One, almost certainly, was the ginger-haired man. Down there in the courtyard, behaving just like ordinary men, walking, talking, asking anxiously after the progress of a lame horse, were two, at least, of the men who had attacked John, plunging a blade into him and leaving him under a gorse bush like a sack of unwanted rubbish. For a moment I almost forgot my own danger. My eyes fastened on them, as though I hoped to skewer them with a stare and let their lives out of them.

  Was the third there as well, and if so which one was he? Apart from the groom, whom I recognised as belonging to Faldene, there were two others. One, who had also dismounted and was leading his horse away himself, was quite young and still had a few boyish spots on his face. The fourth I couldn’t see at once because both he and the ginger-haired man were slow to dismount, and Ginger Hair was in the way.

  Then, at last, Ginger Hair threw his leg over his horse’s back and swung to the ground. The last man in the group, who was still in his saddle, leaning forward to speak to Will Johnson, came into view at last.

  He too was tall, but looser-knit and wider of shoulder than Ginger Hair. As I watched, he straightened up, took his feet out of the stirrups and joined the others on the ground, turning his face towards me as he did so. I took in his features: the long chin, the dramatic black eyebrows.

  Then he looked up and saw me at the window, as I stood paralysed, while the blood withdrew from my face and tears of shock pricked my eyes.

  Oh God. What a trick for fate to play on me. How can he be with them? What on earth is Matthew de la Roche doing here in the company of Will Johnson?

  However, if the sight of Matthew had paralysed me, the sight of me had a galvanic effect on him. He let go of his horse’s reins altogether and ran into the house. A moment later I heard his voice, shouting to someone, and within seconds, or so it seemed, Uncle Herbert was opening the bedchamber door and standing back to let Matthew stride through. By then, I had stumbled from the window to sit on the side of the bed with my hands clasped tightly together to stop them from shaking.

  Matthew looked over his shoulder at my uncle, and barked, “Leave us!” Uncle Herbert obeyed at once, taking orders under his own roof as though Matthew were the master here and my uncle merely the butler. Matthew came to me, sat down beside me and took my hands. I snatched them away.

  “Don’t! Ursula, my dear, my very dear. I have wanted so much to see you again but not like this. I was told that Herbert Faldene’s niece was here but I didn’t know it was you. Herbert has many nieces. I was told she had . . . had . . . ”

  “Learned things you didn’t want known?”

  “Oh, Ursula,” said Matthew, which wasn’t an answer.

  “Your Sussex home,” I said. “You never told me where it was. It’s Withysham, isn’t it? You’re the new owner of Withysham?”

  “Yes, but what of it?”

  “When my uncle didn’t know what to do with me, he said he would consult Withysham. I thought he meant that man Johnson but he didn’t: he meant you, didn’t he? You’re the one in charge. My uncle left the room when you told him to. Johnson’s your subordinate. Those men you came with, they’re your . . your retainers, aren’t they?”

  As I faced him
, my heart was turning somersaults. He was still Matthew. His features, his body, were those to which I had been so powerfully drawn. I had walked and laughed and danced with him; I had had dreams of making love with him. After I had parted from him at Cumnor, I had longed for a letter from him, and I had hoped to find one when I returned to court. When I looked into his sparkling dark eyes now I wanted to dive into them as if into a sunlit pool, and drown there, but there were things that must be said and questions that must be asked.

  “It is certainly true,” Matthew said, “that I own Withysham and that Johnson and the other men who rode here with me just now are in my employ. They would commonly accompany me when there was any . . . emergency.”

  “Are you using Withysham as . . . as some kind of headquarters?”

  He didn’t answer. His eyes were kind but worried; I had the impression that he didn’t know what to reply.

  I had hoped to find him in Sussex and ask his advice! I almost burst into hysterical laughter but fought it down and pressed on. “I don’t know what Uncle Herbert has said to you. I rather think he expects you to . . . ”

  Kill me. The words wouldn’t come out. “Never mind,” I said. “I want you to tell me something and please tell the truth. You rode into the courtyard just now with that red-haired man and Will Johnson. Were you with them when they travelled, not long ago, down through Oxfordshire and Berkshire? Were you with them when they stayed at an inn called the Cockspur, not very far from Maidenhead? And did you help them kill a man called John Wilton?”

  • • •

  Some time later, although I had stopped crying because my feelings had been bludgeoned numb, I was still sitting upright on the side of the bed, resisting the invitation of Matthew’s arms and refusing to rest my head on his shoulder.

  Round and round we had gone and now we were starting another treadmill circuit.