Queen of Ambition

by Buckley, Fiona

  “Ursula!”

  “Aunt Tabitha? My dear aunt, how cold you look. Please come and sit by the fire.”

  “Ursula, I can’t waste time on politenesses. We need your help. Our son … your cousin Edward … he has gone to Scotland and … I think he’s gone to do something … something that people might say is wrong …”

  “To do with Mary Stuart?” I asked sharply.

  “Yes. Yes! He’s been before. Your uncle and I have been worried for a long time. I wanted to ask your advice in the summer, before you went off to court but I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t think I could trust you. Not after what you did to my husband. Only, now … we’re frightened. His wife is frightened too and … Ursula, you’re the only person now that we dare trust. You’re family. We want you to go after him and bring him back and … stop him before it’s too late! It would be in the interest of the queen … yes, I know we’re Catholics, but we can’t let Edward risk himself like this … young people can be so passionate … Ursula, please help us!”

  Lady Lennox, I thought wryly, was not the only one who could be called a queen of ambition. I too had my ambitious longings.

  I was glad of this. This was the summons back to my own world, of secret missions and adventure and the subterranean labyrinth of scheme and counter-scheme that lies below all the dignified and glittering affairs of state, the audiences and receptions and banquets—the council meetings and the festive processions.

  It was the summons back to a world where to win prestige might mean alienating old friends like Rob Henderson, but where the prestige rested on defeating such fierce challenges that nothing, not even Rob’s enmity, could destroy one’s satisfaction. I was of the temperament that could not win such satisfaction from a well-planned Christmas dinner or shelves full of preserves, and if that was wrong, well, it was the way I had been made and those who disliked it had better address their complaints to the Almighty who made me.

  It was like a sudden jolt, a surge of excitement, and a rush of new, hot blood through all my veins. It was like the call of the wild geese in the cold, wide sky.

  I motioned Aunt Tabitha to a seat and without taking her eyes from my face, she accepted and sat down. I sat down opposite to her. “Now,” I said. “Tell me everything. If it is in Elizabeth’s interest, I will help you if I can.”

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  PAWN FOR A QUEEN

  FIONA BUCKLEY

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  Pawn for a Queen….

  It had happened so quickly. Only twenty-four hours before that dismal dawn start, I had woken to what I thought would be an ordinary day at home. Before midday, I had been confronted in my own parlor by an Aunt Tabitha I hardly recognized, dressed in an old cloak that she must have snatched up without looking at, and with her gray hair escaping from her cap, and a desperate expression. “We need your help. Our son … your cousin Edward … he has gone to Scotland and … I think he’s gone to do something … something that people might say is wrong….”

  “To do with Mary Stuart?” I asked sharply. Mary Stuart was Queen Elizabeth’s rival for the throne of England and she was in Scotland. And the Faldenes had conspired on her behalf on a previous occasion.

  “Yes. Yes! He’s been before. Your uncle and I have been worried for a long time. I wanted to ask your advice in the summer, before you went off to court, but I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t think I could trust you. Not after what you did to my husband. Only now … we’re all frightened. His wife is frightened too and … Ursula, you’re the only person now that we dare trust. You’re family. We want you to go after him and bring him back and … stop him before it’s too late! It would be in the interests of the queen…. Yes, I know we’re Catholics, but we can’t let Edward risk himself like this…. Young people can be so passionate…. Ursula, please help us!”

  I asked her to tell me what she meant. “If it’s in Elizabeth’s interest, I will help you if I can.”

  “It would be to the queen’s advantage,” said Aunt Tabitha earnestly. “We want Edward to stop what he’s doing—stop completely. Ursula, come back to Faldene with me. Your uncle’s there, and Helene, Edward’s wife. They want to talk with you too. Come now,” Aunt Tabitha implored me. “Then I won’t have to explain it all twice.”

  An hour later, I was in Faldene House, sitting by the hearth in the great hall. The fire was well made up against the cold, and on a nearby table stood glasses and a wine jug, meat pies, and sweet cakes. A hovering servant girl was ready to refill glasses and offer the dishes.

  Aunt Tabitha set great store by the social niceties. Her servants were so well trained that they were sometimes attentive to irritation point, and my aunt would always proffer refreshment to a visitor, no matter how odd or harassing the circumstances. When the Faldenes went in for conspiracy before, Uncle Herbert had been arrested, and according to my kitchenmaids, who had kinfolk in service at Faldene, she had even offered food and drink to the men who came to do the arresting.

  My uncle owed that unhappy experience to me. When I was at court, I had done rather more than walk, dance, and ride with Queen Elizabeth, and occasionally, as a privilege, carry her prayerbook and hand it to her in chapel. I had also undertaken a number of confidential and sometimes dangerous tasks for her Secretary of State, Sir William Cecil. Withysham had been granted to me in payment for one of those tasks. It was my success in another that had led to Uncle Herbert’s removal, for several months, to the Tower of London.

  In other words, I had first stolen his daughter’s betrothed and then sent my uncle himself to jail. It was hardly surprising that he detested me. Nevertheless, it was through the episode of the Tower that he and my aunt had learned of my secret other life. Now I sat sipping their wine and thinking that all this had an ironic side to it. In this hall, I had been shouted at and bullied and even beaten; in this hall, I had wept with pain, trembled with fear, and seethed with rage that I dared not express. Now I was the one with the power. Today, they were in such desperation that they wanted to call on my services themselves.

  It was plain enough, of course, that my cousin Edward was in some way breaking the law. That gave me a qualm, but if whatever was required of me really was in Queen Elizabeth’s interests, then surely I could do it, and keep my family’s counsel as well. For one thing, although in the past I had suffered unkindness at their hands, I had not actually wanted to send my uncle to the Tower and certainly didn’t wish to do so again. Whatever pain he and my aunt had caused me in my childhood, I had already done them more than enough harm to outweigh it.

  Also, like it or not, Aunt Tabitha was right: the Faldenes were family; and as I had never known my father, they were the only family I had. Big, fleshy Herbert Faldene, with his inborn stinginess and his gout, was nevertheless my uncle, my mother’s brother, and his son Edward, Helene’s husband, was still my cousin. Anyway, there were children involved.

  When the rest of the family had joined me by the fire, Helene was the first to speak.

  “You have come to see us at my mother-in-law’s plea. Does that mean you will help us? I beg you that you will, madame.” Helene had been brought up in France and had retained French mannerisms. Marriage, indeed, hadn’t changed her at all as far as I could see. She was still the same lanky young woman I had first met three years ago, with the same pale complexion, mousy hair and round shoulders. “I have two little girls,” she said. “If anything befalls Edward, they will be fatherless.” She also retained the high-pitched and self-righteous voice that had always set my teeth on edge.

  “It is a dreadful thing for children to be deprived of a father,” said Aunt Tabitha.

  “He would be a martyr,” said Helene, “and that is noble—but …”

  I couldn’t quite resist letting them know that old hurts still rankled. “You feel that the substance might be better than even the mo
st admirable shadow?” I said caustically. I turned to Aunt Tabitha. “I had no father,” I said. “And my daughter, Meg, lost hers and much you cared.”

  “Please, Ursula.” It was extraordinary to hear that tone of appeal in my aunt’s voice.

  My uncle was less restrained. “Your mother was always gentle in her manners, I’ll grant her that. You must take after your father—whoever he was,” he said. He leaned toward me as he spoke, his stiff, heavily padded red doublet creasing across his ample stomach. His right foot, sliding forward, bumped into the table leg. He yelped. “Damnable gout! It’s the curse of my life. Despite the fact that we didn’t know who on earth your father was, my wench, we gave you a home and an education. You owe us something. Without a good upbringing, you would not have been acceptable at court. Do you forget that?”

  “Herbert, I beg you!” Aunt Tabitha protested, and Helene, taking out a handkerchief, wiped tears from her eyes. Her distress was obviously real, and in spite of myself, I felt sorry for her.

  “You are our only hope,” she said tearfully. “Please don’t fail us!”

  “I spoke my mind,” I said. “I admit I have a sharp tongue.” My second husband’s nickname for me had been Saltspoon. My saltiness was part of my attraction for him, although from the moment we were wed, he did his best to make me sweeter. Poor Matthew.

  I would never hear him call me Saltspoon again.

  No use to think of Matthew now. “Tell me the full story,” I said. “My cousin Edward, I take it, has been dabbling in …” I was going to say treason but checked myself “… in politics.”

  “As did your French husband, Matthew de la Roche,” said Uncle Herbert. “In fact, they were in touch, working together.”

  The story came out, told by first one and then another. Being Catholic, my family did not regard Queen Elizabeth as the rightful monarch since their Church didn’t acknowledge that her parents, King Henry the Eighth and his second wife, Anne Boleyn, were ever lawfully married. For Catholics, the true queen was Mary Stuart of Scotland, an undoubtedly legitimate descendant of King Henry the Seventh.

  “As you well know,” said Uncle Herbert grimly, “I was imprisoned for the crime of helping to gather money for her and collecting information about English households willing to support her claim. Ah, that Tower! The cold! I confess it—when I was freed, I feared to go on with the work, but my son Edward volunteered in my stead and his contact was Matthew de la Roche.”

  “I was so proud of him,” said Helene mournfully. “But …”

  “I knew that Matthew was engaged in dealings of this kind,” I said. “But we never discussed them and I had no idea that he was still in touch with Faldene.”

  “As part of his work,” said Uncle Herbert, “your husband compiled a list of households friendly to Mary and sent it to Scotland. Edward was one of his informants, one of many, of course. When the civil war broke out in France, the work virtually came to a halt, but last year, after the war had ended, Edward went to France.”

  “He didn’t go on … on political business, not at first,” said Helene. “His purpose, madame, was to sell my property there. We hoped to use the money to buy a house here.”

  “Edward, as you know,” said Uncle Herbert, “is not our eldest son. Faldene will eventually go to his elder brother, Francis. Edward and his family are welcome here while we live, but they cannot stay here forever.”

  “Edward managed the sale and brought the money home,” said Helene. “But while he was in France, he also called upon your husband, the Seigneur de la Roche.”

  “Did he? I had no idea.” I spoke bleakly, thinking with sorrow how much Matthew and I had had to conceal from each other. “I suppose I had come back to England by then,” I added.

  Matthew and I had lived together in France for a while, and my visit to England the previous spring should have been only a brief absence from him, to deal with a family matter. But first one thing and then another had intervened to keep me on this side of the Channel, and then the plague had come and taken Matthew’s life.

  “I expect so,” said Helene. “It was in May.” I nodded. “Anyway, your husband was pleased to see Edward. Seigneur de la Roche wished to set the work going again and to prepare a new, up-to-date list.”

  “The list would certainly have altered during the interruption of the civil war. Some people would have died and others would have changed sides,” said Uncle Herbert. “Very often,” he added sourly, “those are the ones who are living in what used to be abbeys. They are afraid that if Mary Stuart were to come to power, she would want to restore the stolen buildings to the Church. I daresay you understand, Ursula. After all, Withysham was once an abbey.”

  Aunt Tabitha rolled her eyes, and I found myself giving her a reassuring smile. “It’s all right,” I said. “I am not going to take offense. Please go on.”

  Edward had apparently agreed to communicate with some of Matthew’s sources of information in England. He would write to some and visit others personally. He had been educated in Northumberland and was acquainted with a number of the said sources in that district. He had agreed to visit these himself in order to coax worthwhile offers of support out of them. Having obtained as much information and as many promises as he could, he would send a report to Matthew, who would meanwhile have collected extra details from various other people with whom he was directly in touch. He would complete the updated list and dispatch it to Mary. “For the time being, we put off looking for a house of our own,” said Helene. “Edward had much to do. He had many letters to write and he had to take great care in choosing trustworthy messengers.”

  “He dismissed his valet,” said Aunt Tabitha. “He found the man reading his correspondence and suspected that he was a government spy. A shocking thing. Such a betrayal of trust.”

  “There is more than one kind of treachery,” I said, and saw them flinch. “What happened next?” I asked.

  “I became frightened, because of the valet,” said Helene. “It looked as though Edward might be under suspicion …”

  “To begin with,” said Aunt Tabitha, “Edward didn’t tell us of his meeting with your husband in France. We didn’t at first know that he had begun the work again or realize why he had sent the valet away.” She beckoned to the hovering servant girl. “The wine jug needs refilling. And go and make sure that my guest’s manservant has had proper refreshment.”

  “Please, madam, do you wish for any further cakes or pasties?”

  “Yes, yes, by all means.” Aunt Tabitha waved the girl impatiently away. “What was I saying? Just after the valet was dismissed, Edward traveled north to see his contacts there in person as he had promised to do. He told us—his parents—that he was simply going to see old acquaintances in Northumberland. But while he was away, we saw that Helene was very anxious over something. She was pregnant at the time and she was so worried that it made her ill.”

  “I kept fainting,” said Helene miserably. “And weeping.”

  “At length,” said Aunt Tabitha, “we persuaded her to tell us what was wrong and then we learned why he had really gone to Northumberland and also that he intended to visit Scotland as well—and that before he left, he had had reason to think that his valet was spying on him. We agreed with Helene that this must mean that someone somewhere suspected Edward. We were greatly alarmed. That was when we first considered coming to you—except that we were afraid to trust you.”

  “I had never been easy in my mind about Edward’s work for Mary Stuart,” said Uncle Herbert. “But he was so eager …”

  “And I encouraged him,” said Helene, sniffing. “As I said, I was so proud of him. But not after the business with the valet! I tried to dissuade him from going north and I was so thankful when he came safely back. I implored him to take no more risks. He said he wouldn’t. He said that he had learned some very useful facts. He had only to put them together with the reports he had asked for, from other people in different parts of the country, and then he could prepare
his final document for Matthew and his task would be done. The other reports had mostly come while he was away, so he was able to get on with that without delay. And then—”

  I interrupted. “How did Edward communicate with my husband? Or indeed, with his contacts elsewhere in the country?”

  “We have reliable servants here,” said Uncle Herbert. “They carry messages within the country. For keeping in touch with Matthew de la Roche, in France, we used Matthew’s own couriers. There were two regular ones. They even kept to their normal schedule throughout the time of the civil war. They traveled back and forth between France and Scotland. One was an itinerant tooth-drawer and the other was a peddler. The tooth-drawer went on foot; the peddler had a mule. They were excellent couriers because they were so ordinary. They were the sort of folk no one ever notices.”

  I said nothing, but inwardly I sighed. Matthew and I had disagreed about so much, but I had truly loved him, and curiously, one of the most endearing things about him had been a kind of innocence. Matthew genuinely believed that Mary Stuart ought to be queen of England and that if she became so, she could simply tell the English to return to what he called the true faith, and that would be that. The truth was that Mary would never gain the throne without a vicious and gory civil war, and if she won it, then England would be wide open to emissaries of the Inquisition with all its attendant horrors. I could never make Matthew see it. When I tried to point these things out, it was as though my words just slid off from him, turning away like beggars from a closed front door.

  Now, I thought, my uncle and his family were displaying the same streak of innocence. From working with Sir William Cecil, I knew very well that ordinary men making commonplace but frequent journeys were the likeliest bearers of treasonable messages and that they were far from unnoticed. Cecil had a payroll on which literally hundreds of harbormasters, innkeepers, and ships’ captains were listed, and they kept him informed of who traveled on what routes and how often. I had no doubt that the journeys of the tooth-drawer and the peddler had been noted long since. What Helene said as she resumed the story confirmed it.