“Pirto!” the steward called out, “these are the ladies from the palace. Sent by the queen. Do you understand?” It was odd to hear Mistress Clinkerte referred to as a lady. The steward meant to flatter her, I supposed. Or possibly he genuinely mistook her for one, despite the coarse fabric and poor cut of her gown, her lack of jewels, the old-fashioned style of her headpiece. All the indications that, to a courtier, would have given away her modest status in the hierarchy of royal servants, and her low birth, at first glance.
The old woman nodded, at the same time seeming to shrink down, as if trying to make herself even smaller.
“They have come about the bedcurtains. See that they are given whatever they want.” To us he said, “This is Pirto, the late Lady Dudley’s maid. She was devoted to her late mistress.”
He left us then, and I went over toward the great high bed. Hanging around it, foot and sides, were some of the richest, most elaborate bedcurtains I had ever seen. Tapestry work in brilliant colors portrayed mythological scenes. I recognized the rape of Leda, Venus and Adonis embracing, Psyche bending over Cupid, holding her lamp low to reveal his beauty. The stitching was exquisite. No wonder the queen wanted these bedcurtains to install on her own new cedarwood bed—though there was no escaping the bald meaning of her seizing them.
“Pirto,” I said, addressing the maid, “will you please take down these hangings and have them packed safely for our return journey to London?”
But the only response was a loud sniffing.
“Please,” she managed to whisper, “please don’t let them take me.”
I looked at her more closely. She was frightened to death. “No one is going to take you anywhere. We have only come for these curtains.” Seeing that she went on sniveling, I added, in a softer voice, “It was you who left the flowers on the staircase, wasn’t it?”
She nodded, then looked at me for the first time. There was great sorrow in her old eyes, red-rimmed and ringed with deep wrinkles. Sorrow—and fear.
“The soldiers—all the soldiers—they will take me to a dungeon—”
Mistress Clinkerte strode firmly toward the weeping old woman and slapped her.
“Stop indulging yourself and do as you are told!”
But the only response was a fresh outburst of weeping.
“Where are the baskets?” Mistress Clinkerte asked impatiently. “I’ll pack the bedcurtains myself.”
“The soldiers—the soldiers—” the old woman kept repeating. “My mistress—where are they taking her? Where will they take me?”
Mistress Clinkerte was yanking down the beautiful bedcurtains and attempting to fold them, stiff and heavy as they were, into a pile on the bed. Meanwhile Pirto had gone to a tall cupboard and was opening it, her hands trembling as she fumbled with the latch. She brought out a metal box decorated with scrollwork and with the initials AD in a gilded design. Taking a ring of keys from her pocket, she chose one and fitted it to the lock, then opened the box.
I watched as she laid the box down on a chest and began taking the contents out.
“These are my lady’s keepsakes,” she said in a reverent voice. “Her precious things.”
“Lord Robert should have them.”
“He cares nothing for her things. Or even for her poor broken body.” Pirto’s voice was low but full of anger. “Do you know where they have laid her? In a plain wooden box, behind the alehouse. The churchwarden had her laid there, and the vicar said a prayer over her and that was all.”
“Surely there will be a churchyard burial at some later date. This loss has come as a shock. No one was prepared for it. And Lord Robert is much occupied with the queen’s affairs. She relies on him very much. He cannot be away from court.”
The maid looked at me sharply, accusingly. As if I had uttered some slander about her late mistress.
“Lady Dudley was the one who needed him. Who relied on him—and he was never here.” Her face crumpled into a tearful mass. “I was the only one who was here. I am the only one who knows—”
“Who knows what?” Mistress Clinkerte asked curtly, looking up from attending to the bedcurtains. “What is it that you know?”
But instead of answering, Pirto held up one of the things she had removed from the box. A miniature portrait, so small I could not tell whose face it represented. She held it up to the light, and contemplated the tiny image, smiling through her tears. At the same time I saw her surreptitiously take a folded piece of paper from the box and, turning aside from us, conceal it in a pocket of her apron.
“I know what happened the day she died,” she said, raising her head to look at me—this time with a look of defiance. “And I am going to tell the coroner, at the inquest.”
TWELVE
The bare, whitewashed courtroom was filling with noisy spectators who elbowed one another as they fought for space on the hard wooden benches provided for them, quarreling loudly and reeking of ale. The coroner’s inquest concerning the death of Lady Amy Dudley, late of Cumnor Place, was to convene at four o’clock and the taverns had been open since noon. Few of the village residents had failed to partake of the local ale as they waited impatiently for the inquiry to begin. Still fewer were in any doubt about the outcome.
“He’s bought them all, every last man,” went the whispered verdict of the villagers as they frowned at the members of the coroner’s jury, a nervous group of men hastily assembled in recent days, as the steward at Cumnor Place told us. “Lord Robert’s sent his men up from London to pay them off, the foreman too. They say he’s already wed the queen, in secret, and will be crowned himself just as soon as ever he can be.”
The foreman, a short, raddled fellow who fussed with his vest and did not meet the eyes of the watching spectators, looked distinctly uncomfortable as he shifted from one booted foot to the other.
“Bribed,” was the common opinion. “All of them, bribed to say Lord Dudley had nothing to do with it.”
A chill wind swept through the unheated room as the coroner entered, his pursed lips in his round, cherubic face fixed in a sardonic half-grin, his small eyes looking out contemptuously over the quarrelsome men attempting to secure seats on the benches. He commanded no respect, but all those in the room rose and grew quiet as another man came in, a tall figure in a long red gown and fur-lined hood, august and magisterial in his manner as he took his seat on a dais behind the coroner and looked out across the room with the quiet, impartial authority of a man accustomed to being obeyed.
“That’s Rouge Cross Puirsuivant, sent from the royal court. To represent the queen.”
“As if the queen could be an impartial member of this jury,” said someone and the spectators burst into laughter.
“Be seated,” the coroner called out, and the benches creaked as the crowd sat down, muttering and murmuring, a few still laughing over the jibe at the queen.
“In the matter of the death of Lady Amy Dudley, this court being duly assembled, shall hear the testimony of several witnesses,” the coroner began, droning on through the remainder of the afternoon, as witness after witness gave his or her evidence. Mistress Clinkerte and I, seated toward the back of the room, listened as the witnesses described Amy’s last afternoon, how she insisted that all the servants leave the house and attend the local fair, how she became angry when a few of them insisted on staying with her, eventually driving them away, how on that afternoon—as on many afternoons—her state of mind was very low, and she was in tears and bereft, complaining of her lot, taking medicines to relieve the strong pains she suffered, and praying to be delivered from desperation.
“Would you repeat those words?” the coroner asked the doctor, who had been describing Amy’s depressed spirits.
“I said, she prayed to be delivered from desperation.”
“That very afternoon, you heard her pray for this deliverance.”
“Yes. Or I heard words with that meaning.”
“I require you to be precise.”
“As well as I
can recall, she stood before her cross, that hung above her bed, and—”
“But there was no cross above her bed,” I said, rising from my bench. “Mistress Clinkerte and I were in her bedchamber only this morning, removing the bedcurtains, and we saw no cross there, only the hangings with their depiction of pagan scenes.”
The coroner looked at me, his eyes narrowing. Rouge Puirsuivant also regarded me with calm interest.
“Are you certain of this?”
“Yes.”
“Surely you do not mean to imply that the lady was not a Christian?”
“No, Your Honor. Merely that the doctor’s recollection must be inaccurate, because there is no cross above Lady Dudley’s bed.”
Rouge Puirsuivant spoke. “Was nothing in the room touched or altered, from the hour Lady Dudley died until the bedcurtains were removed today?” he asked the coroner gravely.
“Nothing.”
The onlookers, who had been alternately fidgeting and dozing with boredom during the testimony of the previous witnesses, sparked to life. I felt many pairs of eyes on me.
The doctor was glaring at me, exasperated. “Possibly she made the sign of the cross then,” he said through clenched teeth.
Now it was Pirto who spoke up. She had been sitting among the witnesses, awaiting her turn to tell what she knew.
“It was never my lady’s habit to cross herself in the Roman fashion,” she said curtly, and sat down again.
“What difference does it make?” the doctor cried out, tense and irritable. “All that matters is what she said.”
But I could tell that Rouge Puirsuivant did not trust the doctor’s words. He pressed him further, making him more and more nervous. He began to hem and haw and contradict himself, until it was evident to us all that he was not being truthful.
“Now Dr. Huick,” the coroner put in, speaking in his most serious tones, “I am going to put to you a question of the gravest importance, and you must answer as an honest man, or I assure you, you will suffer for your dishonesty.” He cleared his throat. “Has anyone paid you, either in money or in favors, to deceive this court, to give the false impression that the Lady Dudley was in such a state of suffering that she put an end to her life?”
To my surprise, the doctor looked angry.
“Of course not!” he snapped. “I am a man of means.”
The laughter that greeted this response could not be suppressed. The doctor, flustered, and not realizing the impact of his words, threw up his hands.
But the coroner pressed him again, once the noise in the room had died down.
“Are you in fact deceiving this court by your evidence?”
The doctor did his best to recover his composure before he spoke. “I am telling you what I recall, Your Honor.”
Now Rouge Puirsuivant resumed his questioning.
“When, exactly, were you in Lady Dudley’s apartments on the day she died?”
“After she had eaten her midday meal.”
“Who was it that served her that meal, if all the servants were ordered to go to the fair?”
“I served her,” Pirto said, from the bench where she sat. “I never left her.”
“And were you present when the doctor came in to see her?” the puirsuivant asked.
“Begging your pardon, Your Honor, but on my word as a Christian woman, the doctor did not visit my mistress that afternoon.”
“Of course I did! The woman is lying!” the physician burst out. His red face was covered in sweat, and his voice trembled.
“Put your hand on the Bible and swear that you tell the truth,” said Rouge Puirsuivant. A Bible was brought to the front of the room and presented to the witness.
“I swear,” said the doctor as he placed one beringed hand on the heavy book, “that I heard Lady Dudley pray to be delivered from desperation.”
“Was she on her knees when she prayed this prayer, or standing?”
Puirsuivant had come to stand next to the shaking doctor, his tall charismatic form clearly intimidating the shorter, younger man.
“Standing, as I have said.”
“She always knelt to pray,” Pirto said, with granite in her tone.
The room grew silent.
“Perhaps, doctor, you are mistaken in your recollection. Let us hear from the maid, who was with her mistress on the fatal afternoon.”
“Lady Dudley was a strange woman of mind,” the doctor cried out. “She was not in her right senses. She had no wish to live.” But at a nod from Rouge Puirsuivant two guards had taken the physician’s arms and were leading him out of the courtroom, still shouting, his words lost in the moaning of the wind.
Meanwhile Pirto, holding the miniature she had taken from the box of Amy’s treasures, went to stand in front of the court, facing the jury. And at a nod from the coroner she began to speak.
THIRTEEN
At Pirto’s first words the onlookers bent forward on their benches, straining to listen. Unlike the doctor, she was composed. She conveyed a quiet assurance—the opposite of her demeanor when Mistress Clinkerte and I were introduced to her the previous day. The seriousness of the occasion did not intimidate her, indeed it seemed to bring out a newfound confidence in her. I watched her, and listened to her, with growing attention.
“My lady was a good and virtuous lady,” she began. “She prayed daily on her knees. She read her Bible. Her faith made her strong. She always knew her worth. She was proud of her family, and her wealth. Yet she was a sweet lady, with the face of an angel—”
“Like no angel I ever saw,” Mistress Clinkerte whispered to me through clenched teeth. “She had a long sharp nose and eyes that could drill through walls. And there was nothing sweet about her.”
Having never met Amy Dudley I did not know what to think of her, though I was inclined to imagine that Pirto was exaggerating her virtues. She was doing her best to protect her mistress, and her mistress’s good character, even beyond the grave.
“On the afternoon of her accident, she was full of happiness. I had never seen her look more joyful.
“ ‘Oh, Pirto,’ she said to me, ‘send everyone away! I have a special visitor coming. I want to keep her visit a secret, a secret from everyone, even my husband. There must be no servants in the house.’
“I did not know what the reason for this secrecy was, but I did what she asked. I sent everyone away. When her visitor arrived, I understood. It was the midwife from London. You see, my lady was with child.”
A gasp of astonishment swept through the rapt crowd. “Ah!” I heard several women exclaim. I looked over at Mistress Clinkerte, who appeared dubious.
“She was not sad, or wanting to die,” Pirto was saying. “Oh no! She was in a state of delight. She was looking forward to giving her husband a son to carry on his name.”
“And to the best of your understanding, her husband did not know of her condition,” the coroner said.
“No one knew. Only my lady, the midwife from London and myself. And I found out only that afternoon.”
“I take it her physical appearance gave no hint of her approaching motherhood.”
“No. She did not expect her child to be born until the spring.”
The buzz of excited talk in the room increased. The stout, red-faced jury foreman shouted for order, but no one heeded him.
“And I want to say one more thing,” Pirto went on, speaking to the coroner.
“Yes?”
The crowd grew quieter.
“I want to say, my mistress was very happy, because she believed that now her husband would stay home with her and not dishonor her any longer.”
“Dishonor her in what way?” was the coroner’s sharp question.
“By staying with the queen. Beside the queen.”
Rouge Puirsuivant’s deep voice boomed forth.
“You had better say precisely what you mean, and I advise you to choose your words with great care when speaking of our monarch.”
Pirto raised her o
ld head on her long wrinkled neck, and fixed her faded blue eyes on the tall, red-cloaked official.
“I speak a truth known to many. Lord Dudley is the queen’s para—”
Before she could complete the word “paramour,” the double doors of the courtroom were thrown open and crashed against the wall with a loud bang.
“Lord Dudley is what?”
Robert Dudley burst in, armed in glittering steel, a jewel-hilted sword at his waist, a look of outrage on his handsome features. He strode rapidly to the front of the room, agile and athletic despite the weight of his body armor, and confronted the cowering Pirto.
“Spit out your words, old woman! Lord Dudley is what?”
Chaos erupted in the room, while the tramp of boots told us all that Lord Robert’s escort, dozens of guardsmen strong, had come in after him and were taking their place in forbidding formation surrounding the open doorway.
It was hard for me to see what was going on, for all around us men were shouting, some (the most drunk) guffawing, struggling to stand, pushing and shoving. I did manage to see that Pirto had tried to run from Lord Robert, but had fallen. With a single sweeping gesture Lord Robert scooped her up in his arms, as if she weighed nothing, and sat her down on a bench.
Rouge Puirsuivant shouted for silence, and eventually, after more unseemly scrambling in the room, and a good deal of swearing, a murmuring quiet fell.
Lord Robert stood over Pirto. “What were you saying, Pirto?”
She swallowed, and turned very pale, but managed to speak. “That you are the queen’s para—”
“Paramount adviser, you were going to say? Or paragon? Or perhaps parasite? I have been called all these things, and worse. And the truth is, neither you nor anyone else but the queen herself knows all that I do for her, as her trusted servant and member of her royal council.”
“If you please, Lord Dudley, we are here to inquire into the death of your wife,” the coroner said bravely, refusing to be cowed by either the nobleman’s power, or his strong presence or his equally strong emotion. I held my breath, thinking, he’ll draw his sword and cut Pirto in half. He’ll set his guardsmen on the coroner. He’ll overturn the court.
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