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

  I put down my work. “Dale, I think I’ve a migraine coming on. I had better lie down. Will you make me a draft? You did bring the ingredients with you?”

  “Yes, ma’am, of course. I always have them by me.” Dale laid down her own work and looked at me with concern. “You do look pale. I’ll help you to bed and then get the draft ready.”

  “I’ve got to be all right for this evening,” I said.

  “I hope you will be, indeed I do. What brought this on? I wonder.”

  I didn’t answer, but presently, as I lay in the soothing shadow of shuttered windows and closed bed curtains, sipping the drink that Dale had made to the recipe invented by my ancient hanger-on, Gladys, I searched my mind to see what the answer should be, for I knew that this malady only came on me in times of doubt and conflict. When I wanted to do one thing but knew I must do the opposite; when I wished to take such and such a path but was faced with obstacles I did not know how to surmount; when living in a way that made me unhappy and unable to see a road out; those were the times when migraine struck.

  Now, grimly, I contemplated the fact that Rob had frightened me and that I did not want to go to this accursed supper party. I faced the truth that Dormbois to some extent intrigued and drew me and that this was a reason for staying as far away from him as possible. Above all, I faced, and shrank from, the fact that to pursue any inquiry whatsoever into Edward’s death could bring me near to the unknown assassin whose shadowy shape had loomed over me in last night’s horrid fantasy.

  “You’re being a fool, Ursula,” I castigated myself. “If Dormbois does decide to tell you anything, let him whisper it in your ear in the supper room. You have already said you will do without his information unless he gives it freely. He can’t force you to slip away alone with him. If he asks, say no. He can’t misbehave with you in a room full of people including the Queen of Scotland! And if Rob Henderson hands you a piece of paper, no one will think anything of it. He isn’t likely to shout, Oh, Ursula, here’s Queen Mary’s secret list of English supporters, the one Edward Faldene was going to update at the top of his voice! He’ll pass it to you quietly, saying it’s a letter from home or something harmless like that. It won’t bring you into danger. And you want to give him your own letters. You must go to the supper! Collapsing with a headache! What a feeble thing to do; what a pathetic excuse! Hiding behind migraine because you’ve lost your nerve, that’s all it is! You’ve let Rob make you timid. Shame on you!”

  I lectured myself harshly, trying to drive the headache away.

  It got worse.

  I lay there, longing to be at home again, thinking of the hundreds of miles between me and Withysham. Dale came to see if the medicine had worked and saw with concern that it had not and that I hadn’t been able to finish it.

  “I couldn’t swallow the rest,” I said faintly. “It wouldn’t go down.”

  “Ma’am,” she said, “I’m going to fetch Roger. If there’s something on your mind, well, maybe he can clear it. He has before.”

  It was generous of her and I knew it. Also, it might be a good idea. Brockley understood my migraines. It was quite true that at least once in the past his advice had helped me out of a deep uncertainty and brought about a cure. Perhaps he could work the miracle again.

  He didn’t, for the very good reason that when I saw him standing anxiously by my side, I wasn’t able to explain my dilemma to him properly. I couldn’t bring myself to say: “Brockley, I need to go to the queen’s supper party this evening, because if I do, I may learn something useful about Edward, and I can hand my letters to Rob Henderson in person. However, poking into Edward’s death may well be dangerous and I’m too frightened.”

  So I stared up at him and said all the wrong things, such as: “Dale was kind to fetch you, Brockley, but you can’t help. I’ve got to get to this supper party somehow or other this evening and that’s the end of it. I must just get up and make myself go. I might as well get up now. Ask Dale to come here and get me dressed.”

  “But, madam, you can rest for at least two hours yet, surely.”

  “Just do as I say!”

  He went. Dale came back, and at my insistence, helped me out of bed. The pain, which was just barely endurable when I lay still, at once broke over me like a giant wave, crashing into my skull and knocking me off balance so that I reeled, clutching at my head, and collapsed back onto the edge of the mattress. “Oh God. I can’t. I can’t! If only I could be sick . . .”

  Dale tilted me backward and swung my legs back onto the bed and then produced a basin. I gazed at it wistfully, but although I could feel nausea twisting in my guts, nothing happened. I retched vainly, and the agony crashed in on me once more, so that I flopped back onto the pillow, grabbing at my temples again, trying to squeeze out the pain like juice from a cider apple. I heard myself whimpering in anguish.

  “Roger!” Dale’s voice was really alarmed. “Come here—the mistress is that ill!”

  She pulled the covers over me and stood there biting her lips until Brockley reappeared. He stood looking down on me and then said: “This is just migraine, madam? You’re not feverish?”

  “No.” I tried to shake my head but stopped immediately. “No. It’s migraine pure and simple.”

  Brockley stood there, frowning a little, and through the haze of pain I saw the frown slowly intensify, until he looked as though he were trying to calculate a difficult sum in his head—such as ninety-two yards of brocade at twenty-three shillings a yard plus forty-seven yards of Sicilian silk at seventeen shillings a yard with a 5 percent discount for cash. The mere thought of arithmetic, however, made my head hammer more furiously than ever and I stopped thinking about it. Brockley spoke.

  “Been sick yet, madam?” he inquired.

  He used his most casual and countrified voice, which usually meant he was concentrating on something else and had forgotten to keep up the manner of the perfect manservant. “No,” I said, or groaned. “I wish I could, but I can’t. It won’t come. If it did, I might feel better. As it is, I can’t move. I hardly dare lift my head. Oh, God, it’s torment!”

  “I don’t like to see you in such pain,” Brockley said. “And if you really must get well enough to go to the supper this evening . . .”

  “Don’t talk about supper,” I said, unreasonably. “Food would kill me.”

  “It might bring on the crisis,” said Brockley seriously. “Or you could try salted water.”

  He might well be right, and to reject the experiment was completely illogical, but the thought of trying to swallow anything at all was so intolerable that all I could do was gasp: “No!”

  “But it might work, madam.”

  “Some cures are worse than the illness. No!”

  There was another silence. Then, in his most expressionless voice, Brockley said: “I have heard that a mouse, dipped in honey to make it palatable and swallowed whole, is a certain cure.”

  “What?” If I could have sat up and shouted with outrage, I would have done. This was physically impossible, but from where I lay, I demanded feebly: “What did you say?”

  “A mouse, madam, dipped in honey. I think you’d have to hold it by the tail and . . .”

  “Brockley, have you gone mad?”

  “They have mousetraps in the kitchen and plenty of honey. I expect I could get one for you. Or maybe if you just imagined it . . .”

  “Stop it, Brockley, stop it!”

  “Another cure that I’ve heard of, madam, is a mixture of bull’s blood and mashed spiders . . .”

  “Roger, what on earth are you talking about?” cried Dale, appalled, and she turned away, with her hands to her mouth.

  “. . . or some authorities say crushed maggots . . .”

  “Brockley, be quiet!” I put my hands over my ears.

  “Think of it, madam,” said Brockley, raising his voice slightly so that my hands were no protection, “think what it would look like, and smell like and taste like . . .”

  �
��When I’m well enough,” I said, “I’ll kill you, personally . . .”

  “. . . and what it would feel like, slipping down your gullet. Or there’s a third nostrum I’ve heard about. You take the guts of a cat . . .”

  “I’ll have your guts for lute strings! I’ll . . . Dale, Dale, quick, the basin . . . !”

  What followed completely eclipsed Darnley’s performance in the anteroom on the evening of the Sempill wedding. It went on a long time, and before it was over Brockley was apologizing anxiously for his drastic treatment and praying aloud that it would do me no harm. When at last the paroxysms ceased, I sank back once again, stomach muscles aching and limbs as weak as if the bones had dissolved. But the huge breakers of pain had ceased. Like an ebbing tide, in a series of small and steadily weakening waves, the agony was receding.

  “Close the curtains and leave me,” I said, with my eyes shut. “I’ll sleep awhile. An hour before the supper begins, come and wake me, Dale. I shall be all right.”

  When the moment came, although my fears were still with me, the physical enemy had been defeated. I was shaky but free of pain, and I hoped it would not come back. Brockley was waiting to see how I was when with Dale in attendance I emerged from my bedchamber; he eyed me questioningly, and I smiled at him.

  “I think I have to thank you. But I hope you’ll never do that again.”

  “I had the feeling, madam, that to be there this evening was important to you. I did what seemed necessary, but I’m sorry it came so hard to you.”

  “You’re forgiven. You won’t have to provide me with new lute strings this time.”

  Dale, out of kindness for me, had fetched him to help me. As I said, it was generous of her. Now, once again, she sensed the secret understanding between Brockley and myself, the exchange of private laughter, the intimacy of our minds. Once again, I saw it in her face before she looked away.

  Quickly, I changed the subject to something businesslike. I had not gone into detail about that unpleasant confrontation in the anteroom, but I had told Brockley and Dale that according to Dormbois, someone had laid information about Edward’s quarrel in Master Furness’s tavern.

  Now I said: “Brockley, there is one person we haven’t so far thought of talking to and that’s Master Furness, the landlord of the tavern where Edward and Ericks had their disagreement. Do you think you could find the place and see if you can learn any more? You could go while I’m at the supper.”

  “Do you think there could be more to learn, madam?”

  “I don’t know, Brockley. I’m casting a line at a river where I can’t see any fish—and hoping something will take the bait. Will you go?”

  Brockley’s rare smile showed. “I shall enjoy it, I expect.”

  “Don’t get drunk, will you?”

  “Now when did I ever?” said Brockley in mock horror.

  Once more, Dale looked away. We had just done it again.

  15

  Blind Faith

  I would feel weak for some time, I knew, and I also knew that to make sure that the pain didn’t return, I shouldn’t hurry too much or eat anything highly spiced for the time being, either. I let Dale take her time over fastening laces and buttons and allowed her to brush my hair rhythmically for a long time. It would soothe me, she said.

  Finally, I sat with closed eyes while she piled my hair intricately at the back of my head and bound it in a silver net. When she had finished, my mirror told me that although I was pale, I was well groomed, but all these leisurely preparations meant that I was the last arrival at the supper party, which was being held in Queen Mary’s private apartments.

  The supper room was aromatic with scented candles, warmed by a good fire, and adorned with red and green wall hangings. In shape, it was narrow and intimate. The eight people already in it made it seem crowded.

  It became notorious later, that room, for not much more than a year later, nobles jealous of David Riccio’s friendship with Queen Mary burst into another of her supper parties there, at which Riccio was present, dragged him out, and stabbed him to death. Far away in England, I heard the news and heard where the killing had happened and shuddered. It must have been a kind of rape, as the gentle innocence of music and polite conversation were torn apart by coarse violence and Riccio’s terrified screams. On that dreadful night, before the murderers burst in, the scene was probably similar to the one that met me when I made my late and apologetic entrance, and nothing could have been more delightful.

  Indeed, it was positively domestic. Gatherings very like it were no doubt going on, at that moment, all over the land, in manor houses and town houses, and on a smaller scale in cottages where neighbors were making a little music and encouraging a courtship or two, and the visiting housewives had brought pies or dishes of stew to help the hostess out.

  There was Queen Mary, in a dark gown as usual, seated at a card table and playing a hand with Bothwell, John Stewart (whom I identified from his resemblance to the queen’s other half brothers), and his betrothed, Lady Janet Hepburn, her dark, vigorous handsomeness wonderfully set off by a gown of crimson damask. A tall triple candlestick on the table lit up their game, and by the hearth on the other side of the room, for all the world as though Holyrood didn’t contain manservants enough to form an army and maidservants enough to do the chores for one, Rob Henderson was on his knees with a pair of bellows, encouraging the fire.

  To complete this civilized picture, Sir Brian Dormbois was standing by a spinet, turning the music while Darnley played a gentle melody, and David Riccio, seated on a stool close to the queen, accompanied him on a lute.

  A page announced me. I came forward, murmuring an apology for my lateness, but Queen Mary, looking up from her cards and giving me her lovely smile, said: “No need for apologies, Madame de la Roche, or can I just say Ursula? There is no formality this evening; this is just a party of friends. The supper will not be served yet, though there is wine on the little table near the fire, if you wish for some.”

  An echo of nausea clenched at my stomach and I said: “I think not at present, ma’am.”

  “As you will. Do you play any musical instrument, Ursula? The spinet or perhaps the lute?”

  I told her that I could play both and she called to Rob, “Master Henderson, there is a spare lute there on the settle by the hearth. Let Ursula have it. Would you play it for us presently, chérie? And then perhaps you would enjoy a hand of cards.”

  I said yes to all this, and as Henderson rose and went to the settle, I joined him. Casually, and not in the tones of one who cared whether or not we were overheard, I said: “Rob, I have some letters to give you for Barker. Is he still leaving tomorrow?”

  “Yes.” He held out his hand and I gave him the packet, which I had tied with a length of twine. “I’ve something for you, too,” he said, also casually, and in turn passed a package to me. It seemed to consist of several sheets of paper folded together to make a small, thick pad, sealed at one side with wax. Moving so that my back was to the rest of the room and my wide farthingale could mask what I did, I took it and slipped it into my hidden pouch. “The list?” I asked, and this time I did not speak aloud but mouthed the words instead.

  Rob picked up the lute and pointed to a scratch mark on the edge. “Yes. Mine and a copy of the one the queen now possesses. Rokeby says there was no sign of any other, either older or newer. He has copied the one filed among her papers as the present working list.” He spoke softly. Then, stepping back, he added more loudly: “It won’t affect the music, and I think you’ll find it’s tuned.”

  It was as easy as that.

  • • •

  The evening went pleasantly on. The music smoothed away the unease left by the migraine. I played the lute, once by myself and once along with Darnley. We chose English tunes that were not familiar either to Mary, with her French upbringing, or to the Scottish guests, and I was pleased to see that the melodies were well received.

  Then Bothwell gave up his place to me and I p
layed cards with Mary, John Stewart, and Janet Hepburn, and saw the gentle, playful fashion in which Mary encouraged the two of them to admire each other’s skill in the game. They were a dignified couple and no doubt behind their forthcoming marriage lay any amount of careful calculation about the value of their respective possessions and prospects and the advantages to be gained by their two families in the intricate pattern of feud and alliance that formed Scottish society. But they did seem to like each other, and Mary, clearly, wished to cast a gloss of romance over them.

  She was kind to me, too, making light of my mistakes—this particular game was unfamiliar to me—and asking after Dale, whose illness had been reported to her. To be in her presence was to be warmed and comforted by a feeling that one mattered.

  When supper was served, I ventured a little food and drink. I knew I must choose plain items but I was beginning to feel hungry, which was a sign that my illness had truly passed. Mary had meant it when she said the evening was informal, for the servants who had brought it in left us to help ourselves. As I stood by the table, selecting hot chicken drumsticks, I found Dormbois at my side.

  “And have you changed your mind in any way, my charming Madame de la Roche?” he whispered.

  “I have not, I thank you, Sir Brian. Will you tell me who led the authorities to Adam Ericks?”

  “Would it win your sweet love if I did?”

  I sighed. “No, Sir Brian. It wouldn’t.”

  “Alack. Alas,” said Dormbois, aping the air of a strolling player, and glancing at him, I saw that the ice-green eyes were dancing. “How can ye be sae hard of heart?” he inquired, exaggerating his accent. “Will ye no’ tak pity on a poor, rough Scots laddie?”

  Here in the crowded supper room, I felt safe enough to exchange banter. “It isn’t difficult,” I told him. “My heart may be hard by nature. Have you thought of that?”