A Pawn for a Queen: An Ursula Blanchard Mystery at Queen Elizabeth I's (Ursula Blanchard Mystery at Queen Elizabeth I's Court)

by Buckley, Fiona

  “Er—how much does Darnley know about all this?”

  “It hasn’t occurred to him that his mother’s our hostage, no. He knows that the marriage is thought politically sound and that he’s expected to do his best to bring it about, and that his reward will be to be King of Scotland and father of England’s heir. The trouble,” said Rob glumly, “is that our golden-haired lad—the long lad the Scots call him, because of his height—is as vain as a peacock and likes the company of roisterers like Bothwell and Elboeuf. I saw them leave the banquet together and followed. Along with my man Barker . . .”

  “So that’s who it was! I thought I knew his voice.”

  “Yes, Geoffrey Barker. He’s one of my best men. He came with me when we went after Darnley and helped me get him out of the whorehouse that the Earl of Bothwell and the Queen of Scotland’s irresponsible uncle took him into. It was an expensive place,” said Rob fairly. “The clients are offered a choice of wines and a dish of oatcakes and a chance to talk to the girls before they pick one and proceed to business. The wines are cheap and the oatcakes are underdone and the girls talk such broad Scots that it might as well be Chinese, but never mind. I didn’t want to create a disturbance, so I had to pause to explain myself to the madam. That delayed me and I didn’t get at Darnley before he’d passed the refreshment stage. I just hope the girl was clean!”

  “How do you know the wine was bad?” I asked with interest.

  “You haven’t changed, have you, Ursula?” said Rob, and now the unfriendliness was back. “Trust you to ask a sharp, nasty question. For your information, the madam gave me some, but one sip was enough. It was horrible. But Darnley probably drank all of his and he’d already had a skinful at the banquet. He’s had a good education,” said Rob disdainfully, “but he has no taste. In any sense of the word.”

  “I didn’t intend to be sharp or nasty,” I said.

  “I daresay. You never do, but it seems to be part of your nature.”

  “Rob, please!” There was a pause. Then I said: “Why is it I haven’t seen you about the court before? I’ve seen Darnley often enough.”

  “I’ve been ill. That damned marsh ague I caught in East Anglia last year is recurrent.”

  Studying him in the wavering light of torch and candle, I saw that his handsome face was somewhat drawn, as though with recent sickness. It made him look older. “Queen Mary told me she had a guest who was ill. That must have been you,” I said. “Mattie said you’d had an attack, before Christmas. I’m sorry.”

  “Are you? It got me out of your way last year, if I recall.”

  “I needed your help and couldn’t have it,” I said in conciliatory tones. “Rob, I didn’t cause you to have the marsh ague and I didn’t want you to have it. Why do you blame me?”

  “I don’t.”

  “Then—why are you so angry?”

  “You make me angry because you continually interfere in things that are not your concern and you gained advantage, intentionally or no, from my sickness. Now you turn up in Scotland, where you have no right to be, without Queen Elizabeth’s permission. Or do you have it?”

  “No. I wanted to catch up with my cousin Edward Faldene, but he was murdered before I could reach him. I suppose you know about that.”

  “Oh yes. Most of Edinburgh knows about the killing of a man called Faldene, and I have seen a report of the inquiry.” He paused, as if he were trying to cool his annoyance and choose his words before deciding what to say next. “You amaze me, Ursula,” he said at length. “You set out—in January!—to ride the length of England to bring Edward Faldene home. Why? What was he to you? You used to talk to me and Mattie about your childhood, and you said that when you were both children at Faldene, you hated him.”

  “I did. He was spiteful and a bully,” I said. “But he was still my cousin. Also, he has children. They haven’t done me any harm. Edward’s parents and wife thought he was running into danger and I came, at least partly, to get the children’s father back for them. And now that I’m here, I take a poor view of finding a cousin of mine stabbed to death in his bed. Even a disagreeable cousin.”

  “Oh, my God,” said Rob exasperatedly. “Are you on one of your quests?”

  There was a silence. Then I said: “Yes, I suppose so. I want to know who killed him. I want justice for him. Wouldn’t you?”

  “If I were a young woman, I wouldn’t set about it personally. The authorities are the proper people.”

  “So far, they haven’t had much success! And anyway, there’s something else.”

  “And what might that be?”

  “Edward was bringing something with him,” I said. “I can tell you because he’s dead now and beyond harm.” Briefly, I explained about the list. “I wanted to get hold of it before it reached Mary Stuart,” I told him.

  “I see.” Rob considered. “And your understanding is that this is a list of English families willing to support Mary if ever she should invade England, by offering men, money, accommodation, and arms?”

  “Yes. Did you already know about it?”

  “I knew that such a list existed, certainly. Its earliest version was discovered some years ago, among Mary’s private documents here in Holyrood. Have you come across a man called Rokeby?”

  “Christopher Rokeby?” I said in surprise. “Why, yes.”

  “He’s one of ours. He has done a little bribing of clerks in the Scottish secretariat. He found that first list, copied it, and sent it to Cecil. I have a copy of that one myself. I keep it in my own document box and it’s here with me.”

  “I wish I knew if Edward did get the new version to her,” I said. “He wasn’t intending to go to her direct, and anyway, if he had, I think she would have mentioned it to me. She knows I am his cousin. He had two contacts, and both say they didn’t see him before he was killed, but one of them might be lying.” I hoped Lady Simone wasn’t. I had liked her so much. But Dormbois, I thought wryly, was capable of anything. “Or,” I added, “he might have handed the list to someone else that I don’t know about. It certainly wasn’t among his possessions.”

  “So,” said Rob, “you want to know what became of the list, and you want to know who killed Edward.”

  “The two things are probably connected,” I said. “I have a feeling that they are—like links in a chain.”

  “I daresay. But you shouldn’t be investigating them. Oh, in God’s name!” He ran a hand over his brow again, and studying him anew, I concluded that the drawn look on his face was not only due to recent illness but to genuine anxiety.

  “Rob,” I said. “I have to investigate.”

  “No, you do not! I’m serious, Ursula. Let me try to explain. You think I resent you and yes, in East Anglia I was very bitter against you, but it wasn’t simple jealousy. I was angry because you couldn’t see that you were harming yourself as well as me. I don’t wish harm to either of us! It’s the very opposite!”

  “I don’t altogether follow.”

  “Yes, you do! Don’t be obstructive! I’m speaking, and it’s time you realized it, as a friend!”

  “I’d like to think so,” I said. “We used to be friends, and I would like to think that in spite of last year, we still are.” I had known Rob for many years. We had worked together, helped each other. In all that time, curiously, although he was a very good-looking man and I was not ugly, we had never been more than friends, but it had hurt me when I thought we had become less. I wanted very badly to see that put right.

  “Then listen to me! I am anxious for you. I would like to see you living the life you ought to live, at home in Withysham with your daughter and in time, perhaps, with a new husband. Oh, I know you—I know there’s something wild in you that makes you different from most other women, but all the same, you’re not . . . forgive me, but you’re not a young girl anymore. You have a daughter who is growing up and a fine house to call your own, and both of them need your attention. Are you taking the best possible care of Meg?”

 
I wasn’t. But I wanted to. In that moment, sitting in that dimly lit room more than four hundred miles from home, with the sounds of someone else’s wedding revelry drifting down from above, I was nearly drowning in homesickness. Yes, I did want to give up, to go away, to set out at once for the south, for Withysham, for safety, and for Meg.

  “At heart, I agree with all you say,” I told him. “But still, Edward has been murdered, and he was on an errand which had in it the seeds of harm to Elizabeth. I can’t just—walk away.”

  “You can and you should. You should leave it to those whose business it rightfully is. Ursula, murder has been done, and where there’s murder, there’s danger. You’re in more than one kind of danger, as a matter of fact. Why were you here alone with Dormbois?”

  “I wanted information from him, of course! Nothing else, I promise you.”

  “I daresay, but Dormbois has a reputation as far as women are concerned. He’s not safe company for you.”

  “No,” I agreed, and I couldn’t keep the feeling out of my voice. “I would accept that.”

  “Then go home, for the love of heaven, and leave me to do the investigating!”

  “I can’t,” I said. “For one thing, Queen Mary expects me to stay at least another week . . .”

  “You could make an excuse and finish your visit early!”

  “I daresay, but you’re not the only one who has been ill. Dale has, as well. We can’t leave until she’s stronger. That will take a further week in any case. That being so, I may as well use the time. I would like, if I can, at least to find out whether that list reached Mary or not. If Rokeby managed to get hold of the first version, could he also get hold of the present one? So that we can compare it with the copy you have with you and see if they’re the same or if the list is now different? If it is, then it’s probably the version Edward was carrying. It could be that by finding that out, we shall also find a clue to Edward’s murderer.”

  “I can’t think how,” said Rob huffily.

  “Nor can I, yet, but one never knows. Can Rokeby do it, though?”

  “Oh yes,” said Rob in weary tones. “I expect so.”

  “Well, will you ask him?”

  He gazed at me in an exasperated fashion. “Is there a remote chance that if I obtain a copy of Mary’s present list for you, and you see that it won’t lead any further you may agree to go home and leave the proper authorities to deal with Edward’s death?”

  “Possibly. It depends on what emerges. Rob, I may be here without the consent of Queen Elizabeth or Cecil, but I still feel I am working on their behalf.”

  “Very well. I’ll see what I can do. See here, Ursula, have you even informed his family yet that Edward is dead?”

  “No. First of all I thought it would be best if I carried the news myself, and then, when I saw that that would mean delay, I wasn’t sure how to find a messenger. I don’t want to lose Brockley’s company. Have you been corresponding with Mattie while you’re here? Could I send a letter with your courier? I’d like to write to Mattie, too. She’s looking after Meg for me—oh, I suppose you know that. You don’t mind that Meg is at Thamesbank, do you? I had to leave her somewhere, and it couldn’t be with Aunt Tabitha.”

  “No, I understand that. I feel,” said Rob, “that in view of last year, it was bold of you to take her to Thamesbank, but I don’t quarrel with little girls. Meg is welcome in my house as always, naturally. You may certainly use my courier—it will be Barker—for any letters to the south, if you can get them written within two days. He’s setting off the day after tomorrow. That is, if you really can’t or won’t leave for the south at once.”

  “Much depends on how quickly Dale recovers,” I said mildly.

  Rob had disturbed me. He had made me understand how much, at heart, I did want to go home. It was true that I was in danger here, of more than one kind. I had never wanted to set out in the first place, after all!

  But I also knew that I hoped very much that tracing the fortunes of Edward’s wretched list would, somehow, lead me farther on the road to tracing his murderer, and that until I had either followed that road to the end or knew the end to be unattainable, I could not go home. I didn’t say that to Henderson, however.

  For the moment, he was—just—willing to help me. I had, as it were, put a slender rope across the chasm between us.

  It was hardly the moment to lean out, knife in hand, and slash it.

  • • •

  I went back to the wedding feast. Darnley reappeared after a while, his fair hair looking damp and flat to his head, as though someone had dunked it in cold water, and his complexion somewhat pallid. Mary Stuart was all smiles to see him, though, and danced with him. Then came the bedding, and I helped to undress Mary Sempill, as she now was, and place her tenderly in the decorated bed, and I joined in the raucous jokes when her bridegroom was brought into the room and bundled in with her and the bed curtains were drawn around the pair.

  I hope they had a happy wedding night. My own night was frightful. Rob’s talk of danger had gone deep with me. As I lay in my bed, my recurrent nightmare came again. I dreamed that I was awake and watching as the bed curtains were drawn stealthily back to reveal a shadowy figure that stood menacingly over me, and that the faint starlight from the window was gleaming on a raised and naked blade. I woke with a scream to find myself safe and alone but soaked in sweat and shaking and wishing I had not let Dale and Brockley sleep together, for I needed Dale’s reassuring company and she wasn’t there to give it . . .

  It took me a long time to get back to sleep and I woke in the morning heavy-headed. However, I had letters to write, so I pulled myself together and got on with them. One was to Mattie, with a second one enclosed, for Meg. The third, however, was to one of the people I had met in East Anglia the previous year. Sybil Jester’s husband had been arrested for treachery and her daughter had been expecting a child out of wedlock. Sybil had been allowed to take over her husband’s business, but I had worried in case there was too much gossip to make it comfortable for her. I had liked Sybil very much and wanted news of her. It had occurred to me, once or twice, that she was the kind of woman, educated and gentle in her manners, who would make a good companion for me and for Meg at any time when I was away. Rob had jolted my conscience. I had been slow in making proper arrangements for Meg so that she could have an uninterrupted life at Withysham. It was time to amend that.

  My fourth letter was to Malton at Withysham, assuring him that I was well and asking if all was in order at home. The fifth, and the hardest, was to my family at Faldene to tell them that Edward Faldene would never return to his home; that Helene was a widow and her children fatherless; that my uncle and aunt had lost a son. I told them of the inquiry and its unsatisfactory outcome and said that I was staying on for a while in the hope of learning more. I gave them my condolences. There was nothing else to say.

  Then I sent Brockley to find Henderson and give him the letters, but it transpired that Henderson had gone hunting with Darnley and the queen and wouldn’t return until late afternoon. Darnley had clearly not had the violent hangover he deserved, I thought sourly.

  Brockley was followed, however, by a page bearing an invitation from Queen Mary. There was to be a small supper party that evening, with cards and music to follow, and she would welcome my presence.

  The page, a bright young lad who obviously enjoyed rolling great names off his tongue, was able to tell me who else would be there. Apparently, the guest list was headed by a half brother of the queen (whose father had clearly been much more prolific outside the marital bedchamber than in it) whom I had not yet met, one John Stewart, who was betrothed to the Earl of Bothwell’s sister, Lady Janet Hepburn.

  “Both she and the Earl of Bothwell will be there,” said the page. “So also will David Riccio, Sir Brian Dormbois, and of course, Henry Lord Darnley with Master Rob Henderson, a member of his suite. The queen wishes to honor those guests presently at her court.”

  That expla
ined my own invitation. I must certainly go. It would give me a chance to hand my letters to Rob and find out if he had been able to set Rokeby to work. And Dormbois would be there too and there was always the chance that he might after all decide to tell me what he knew and not expect to be—well, paid for it.

  Looking back, I can see now that even after my nightmare, and even after the fit of conscience that made me write to my friend Sybil Jester, I still did not understand how deeply my talk with Rob Henderson had crystallized my private fears and longings. The image of the midnight intruder with the drawn blade had terrified me but I still didn’t know how much, nor did I yet understand the fear and fascination with which Dormbois filled me, both at the same time. I didn’t even fully recognize how intensely I had not wanted to travel to Scotland or how badly I now wished to go home.

  I knew none of these things until, in the course of the afternoon before the supper party, I came down with the worst attack of migraine I had had for over a year.

  14

  Mouse Dipped in Honey

  It started during the afternoon. Our rooms included a small parlor, and Dale and I were sewing in company. I have a liking for embroidery and I was making an edging to go onto the neckline of my silver-gray dress. Dale was repairing the embroidery on the black dress that had become so battered-looking after its sojourn in my saddlebags.

  I noticed that I had a slight headache, and remarking that the afternoon was depressingly gray, and wouldn’t it be lovely when spring really came, I moved my seat to where the light from the window was better. Even that simple movement turned the throb over my left eye from mild to vicious, and before I had been in the better light for more than a minute, it had become too bright. My eyes narrowed, and suddenly the pain was like a band of iron around my head, with a blacksmith’s hammer crashing rhythmically on to it just above my left eyebrow.