The farmer had two sons and a grown-up daughter, and they all clearly wondered why we were trying short cuts when the road was perfectly straight, and found our lack of saddlebags suspicious, but a couple of gold angels worked miracles. They invited us to share their supper and gave us pallets in a loft room. I didn’t sleep much. My reawakened body cried in the darkness for the company of Matthew’s body. But Matthew was not there and would never be there again.
In the morning we started off again. We avoided Guildford, in case the pursuit had gone on along the road in that direction. This meant making a detour and for a while we missed our way. It took all day to reach Windsor.
When we arrived there, Brockley and Dale were surprised that I would not let us present ourselves at the castle forthwith, insisting instead that we take rooms at an inn.
Puzzled, Brockley said, “Are you not not intending to report to her majesty, then, madam?”
“Not at once,” I said. “And when I do, I’ll begin, I think, with Sir William Cecil.”
17
The Card House
I prepared carefully for my return to the court. Dale washed and brushed my hair and packed it smoothly into the net I had been wearing under my hat, and she shook out and brushed all our clothes. Attended by maid and manservant as a lady should be, I arrived at the castle in the early morning, and asked for an audience with the Secretary of State.
The moment I was within the castle walls, the court atmosphere surrounded me, scented with herbs, musty with the smell of the elaborate fabrics on the walls and on the people, full of movement and bustle. It was invigoratingly alive and also, to me, curiously steadying because for some reason I felt at home there.
All the same, reaching Sir William Cecil took some time. I was passed from one official to another, and made to wait in one anteroom after another, until at length, I arrived at a most obstructive and patronising senior clerk who explained to me, as though I were a child, that the Secretary of State was a very busy man and that if I had anything of importance to say—his expression told me that he found this hard to believe—then I could say it to him.
“I am one of her majesty’s ladies,” I said. “If I am refused admittance to Sir William, then I will make my report to her majesty. But it should properly be to Sir William Cecil and if he learns through her majesty that you have refused even to let him know that I wish to speak to him, you may be reprimanded. Will you please at least inform him that Mistress Ursula Blanchard wishes to see him—and that in so doing, I am keeping a promise which I made to him and to Lady Mildred when they kindly entertained me in their private quarters!”
I was pleased to see that this haughty speech had taken him aback. We were asked to wait in another anteroom, where several clerks, working at desks under the windows, eyed us all with interest. A leggy young page came to fetch me. Dale and Brockley must remain in the anteroom, he said, but if I would come this way, Sir William would see me. A moment later, I was in the Secretary of State’s private office.
• • •
It was a big room, panelled in light brown wood. The windows faced south-east and at this time of day let in the October sunlight which streamed through the leaded panes and cast silvery-gold criss-cross patterns across the floor. It was pleasant. All the same, I was uneasy. I stood beside one of the windows, now and then glancing out. On this fine day, the courtyard below was well populated. Ladies and courtiers strolled; a messenger was led quickly across to an entrance; a man I recognised as the Lord Treasurer, William Paulet, sauntered by with the Under-Treasurer, Sir Richard Sackville, and Sir Thomas Smith, except that Smith lumbered rather than sauntered.
There was grass in the centre of the courtyard, and in the midst of this, Lady Catherine Grey stood talking to Lady Jane Seymour and Jane’s brother Lord Hertford. The three of them were trying to teach a rather dimwitted small pup to beg for titbits.
When I first came to the court, the Cecils had said I should come to them if ever I needed help, and in order to see him, I had reminded Cecil of that promise. However, here in his office, listening to a tale of treason, he was not quite the same as the Cecil to whom I gave that undertaking. Seated behind his desk, with his shelves of books and papers behind him, dressed in workaday russet but with a massive gold chain across his chest to proclaim his authority, he was very much the Secretary of State: judicial, dispassionate and chilly of eye. The lines on his face seemed now to be not so much anxious as harsh.
“Let me be clear on what you have told me, Mistress . . . Blanchard or de la Roche?”
“Legally my correct title is Mistress de la Roche, but I would prefer still to be known as Mistress Blanchard.”
“Very well. So, Mistress Blanchard, your servant John Wilton was set upon near an inn called”—he consulted the notes he had been taking and dipped a quill in readiness to make corrections—“the Cockspur, close to Maidenhead. He was carried to the inn and died there. You were sent for and came in time to hear him whisper details which suggested that his assailants were not footpads, but three seeming gentlemen whom he had met on the road. You then set out to find these gentlemen and traced them to a number of large houses—manor houses mainly—where, however, no one wished to talk about them. You believe that some of these places were Catholic in their sympathy. You are reluctant to say which houses they were. Would you care to reconsider that?”
“If you find those three men, John’s killers,” I said, “William Johnson, Mr. Brett and Mr. Fletcher—those are their names—then I daresay they will give you that information.”
“Indeed they will, Mistress Blanchard.” Cecil did not say it cruelly or lingeringly. He said it in an almost dismissive tone which was even more chilling. If arrested, Johnson, Brett and Fletcher would talk. They would have no choice in the matter and that was that.
“I would rather not name those households myself,” I said. “I like some of those families. I think they believed they were just helping to finance priests and religious teachings. I can’t believe they mean harm to her majesty.”
“I think you could trust us to be judges of that. However, as you say, the information may well be forthcoming elsewhere. I will not press you now. Your womanly feelings no doubt do you credit,” said Cecil. “To continue. You eventually traced—you seem to have quite a gift for investigation, Mistress Blanchard—these men to Withysham in Sussex where you found that their employer was none other than Matthew de la Roche, a remote cousin of Arundel who visited him at Richmond last summer and was, I hear, paying his addresses to you. Was Arundel’s name mentioned in connection with this business?”
“No, Sir William.”
“I’m relieved to hear it. I’ve always thought him an honest man, though I know the younger courtiers find him funny. In the days of Queen Mary, you know, when our present queen was the Princess Elizabeth and was accused of plotting against her sister, Arundel was one of her interrogators. But her youth and desperation touched his heart.”
For a moment, the dispassionate Secretary of State had softened. “He went down on one knee,” Cecil said, “in the middle of questioning her, and said that he could see she was telling the truth and was sorry to trouble her so. I would hate to think that he had turned traitor now. However, de la Roche may have used him as a means of discovering possible supporters among the nobility. Arundel is essentially Catholic himself; he would know who else is, although that’s a digression. Now, you also discovered that your Uncle Herbert and Aunt Tabitha at Faldene have had dealings with de la Roche and his trio of associates, Johnson, Brett and Fletcher. You are willing to name your Faldene relatives, I notice.”
“I can scarcely avoid it,” I said quietly. “It was through my uncle’s account books that I confirmed the truth. I accept that I must name them, though it’s very unpleasant to think of any member of one’s own family being arrested for treason, although they did steal my daughter,” I added.
For the first time, Cecil let himself smile a little. “Your daughter i
s safe and you are not at heart vindictive? Be easy. From what you say, the number of people who have been talked into making contributions may be quite large. We can hardly clap them all in the Tower. Most will just be fined. For the rest—though they may include your uncle—a short stay in the Tower may be thought sufficient. It’s the big fat salmon we want. Matthew de la Roche is one of them but I daresay he is now making good his escape to France. There are ways of avoiding the main ports,” he said. “If he does escape, will you be glad or sorry?”
“Glad,” I said.
“Even though you were forced into marrying him?”
“He thought marriage would bind me to him. That’s why I agreed to it. I knew I would be watched, but I thought I would have just a little more chance of escape as his wife than as his prisoner, and I think I was right. He was right, too, in a way. It did bind me to him, though not as tightly as he hoped—I’m here, after all—but I think I should tell you that I arrived in Windsor the day before yesterday. My servants and I went to an inn and waited there for a day. I did it to give Matthew a chance. I hope to God that my husband is by now either on the Channel or already in France. The weather is calm, fortunately.”
Cecil’s eyebrows shot up in astonishment and his eyes became cold. “You deliberately delayed to give this traitor a chance of escape?”
“Is he really a traitor?” I asked. “He was reared in France. I suppose he might say his loyalties lie there.”
“He had taken up residence in England. He is a traitor as far as I am concerned! What were you thinking of, Mistress . . . de la Roche would seem to be the most appropriate name!”
“Of my husband,” I said. “He is my husband. I have slept in his bed, in his arms. I have known his body. The bodies of traitors are cut open alive and . . . what wife would abandon her husband to that? Yes, I pray he has escaped.”
Cecil gazed at me steadily, as though he were trying to fathom the workings of my mind, then he replaced his quill in its holder and leaned back in his chair. “You are really in love with him, then.”
“Yes,” I said, “and I’m married to him. I’ve been torn apart.” I turned to look down into the courtyard once again, unable to meet those too-penetrating blue eyes. “I had the choice between betraying her majesty and betraying my husband. I chose her majesty. I have told you how we hid and how I saw the pursuit go past. I saw Matthew’s face. He is still in love with me, too. He was grieving. Am I a good citizen, I wonder, or merely a faithless wife?”
“But you were compelled into the marriage?”
“Virtually, yes.”
“A vow, of marriage or anything else, is not valid if extracted under duress. Whatever your emotions, Mistress . . . er . . . ”
“Blanchard, please. I prefer Blanchard.”
“I suppose I must say that once again your womanly—in this case your wifely—feelings do you credit.” Cecil allowed his features, once more, to relax into an austere smile. “But rest assured, Mistress Blanchard, that you do not owe Master de la Roche the duties of a wife. We can probably get you an annulment. You most certainly did right. Have no doubt of that.”
I was silent. He reached for his notes again and glanced through them. “You chose not only her majesty,” he said, “but the safety of England. Remember that. The queen will certainly be grateful to you for the sake of her people as well as herself. Now . . . you say that Johnson, Brett and Fletcher were sent away from Withysham before the marriage took place, at your insistence, and that they went to the midlands. You doubt if de la Roche can warn them of your defection in time for them to get away as well.”
“Yes. The midlands are a long way from the coast. Even if Matthew’s messengers have found them already, and that’s not particularly likely, there’s a good chance of catching them before they have a chance to reach the sea.”
“I fancy you are correct.” Cecil spoke with satisfaction. “Messengers will be on their way to both the midlands and the home counties today and the proclamations will be read out in many places before nightfall, tomorrow morning at latest. They will name and describe the wanted men and offer rewards. Our friends will find it hard to slip through the net I mean to spread for them. We must forgive the day of grace you have given Master de la Roche. I can understand your sense of guilt towards him. I hope we can now put a stop to a very dangerous movement. I shall have agents alert for traces of other fundraisers in other parts of the country. As I said, an annulment may well be possible.”
I nodded. Even to talk of Matthew brought him back to me so vividly that I could hardly keep my eyes from filling, but I must not break down in this businesslike room. Besides, there were other things to be discussed. “There is another matter I must mention,” I said. “It’s about Sir Robin Dudley.”
“About Dudley?”
“Yes. I imagine that gossip has continued, despite the verdict at the inquest, but I believe he was innocent.” I told him of the letter I had seen and he listened thoughtfully, nodding his head from time to time in agreement.
“I agree with your conclusions, I admit. I must say you have a subtle mind, Mistress Blanchard.”
“I know that there are many who would like to see Dudley discredited,” I said, and recalled Sir Thomas Smith making a remark about a horse-master swanking about in ermine, although I didn’t repeat it. Half the court had heard it, anyway. “Some would like to see the queen discredited too,” I said seriously. “During the last few days, I have met people who hope, even now, that her majesty will marry Dudley and outrage public opinion so much that it will give Mary Stuart a chance. I am telling you this, Sir William, in case you can, well, warn her.”
Cecil nodded. “I will pass on what you say. And now, Mistress . . . Blanchard, I think you should return at once to your duties with her majesty. It will distract your mind from . . . anything from which it needs to be distracted.”
Such as Matthew. I kept on having to look away to hide my feelings. I wondered if Cecil realised why I continually turned to the window. Did he think I was so fascinated by the people in the courtyard that I could not attend to him properly? I must stop this. However, just as I was about to return my gaze to Cecil, I noticed a man whom I recognised coming out of a door into the courtyard. I stiffened in surprise, and then in more surprise still as he walked up to Lady Catherine Grey and spoke to her, and she moved away from her companions to talk to him.
“Sir William,” I said, “please—could you come and look? I want to know who that man is, down there, talking to Lady Catherine Grey. At least, I know his name. I just want to know who he is, if you understand me.”
Cecil obligingly rose and stepped round the desk to see. “Which man do you mean? Peter Holme?”
“Yes, that’s the one.”
“He’s one of Lady Catherine’s household—he runs messages, performs errands. Why?”
It was like that moment in the inn yard of the Cockspur, when the ostler spoke of the piebald horse and my brain made an instant connection between the word “piebald” and John’s half-heard whisper of the syllable “bald.” Things hitherto unconnected slid together, whirled in my head and settled into a pattern.
It was too soon to speak of it to Cecil.
“I just wondered,” I said. “I’ve seen him about quite often and never been quite sure where he fitted, that’s all. He seems to talk to so many different people.”
“Really? You know, Mistress Blanchard, you are a remarkable young woman.” Cecil sat down again, linking his hands on the desk before him. “Your name means a she-bear but you remind me of a gaze-hound. You have only to glimpse something that intrigues you, and you are off on the hunt. You have wept for this treasonous husband of yours, have you not? Your eyes are tired and the lids are heavy. I have daughters! But at the sight of Peter Holme, you changed, as though you had just drunk strong wine. What is it that interests you about him?”
I was being ridiculous. It couldn’t be. The shape which for a moment I thought I had glimpsed through a
confusion of odd little facts couldn’t really be there. “I’m sorry,” I said. “I’m making a fool of myself, but in the summer, I did see Holme about the court and—” I thought quickly—“and just for a moment, I thought I had recognised him as someone I saw at Withysham. But I’m wrong. Now that I look at him again, I can see that it’s not the same man at all. One of the men at Withysham was a similar type, that’s all. Sir William, these last few days have taken their toll of me. Could I sit down for a few minutes?”
“Of course.” Cecil eyed me doubtfully and gestured me to a stool. “You may well be feeling out of sorts. A restorative would do you no harm.”
He went to the door to call for wine, and I sat on the stool and concentrated on my spinning thoughts. Amid the chaos, the half-perceived shape was still there.
Suppose Amy had been murdered after all. If so, then her killers were surely Verney and Holme. Although Verney was Dudley’s man he was not, in this case, acting for Dudley. Of that I was sure. That letter had revealed Dudley’s mind to me completely and Cecil agreed with my conclusions. Dudley was no victimised saint, but he hadn’t had his wife killed. Too careful of his own skin, probably! His father and one of his brothers had died on the block; he knew what the shadow of the axe was like.
In that case, Verney and Holme were acting for someone else. And Holme was Lady Catherine Grey’s man.
However much Lady Catherine Grey, the Protestant heir, wished to remain the heir, however passionately she hoped that the queen would never have children, however fiercely she hated the idea of giving place to the upstart Dudley’s offspring, could she possibly, all alone, have hatched such a scheme?
I didn’t think so. And there inside my head, I saw a little scene. A morning in Richmond Park. Myself, walking with the Spanish ambassador, de Quadra. A few yards away, Peter Holme was walking with Sir Thomas Smith and Edward Stanley, Earl of Derby, and de Quadra was drawing my attention to them. De Quadra was a wary man. If he wasn’t sure of his facts, he might well hesitate to speak openly. Had he, obliquely, been trying to warn me of danger from those three? Of danger, perhaps, to Amy?
To Shield the Queen Page 27
