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

  When I went down to join the company, I found the Bycroft family in the parlor. Mistress Bycroft was in a window seat, away from the fire, her coifed head bent over a book, but her grave, bearded husband was sitting in the inglenook, with a daughter on either side of him, talking quietly to a younger, plainly dressed man opposite. The fifteen-year-old Bycroft son was at a small table, playing chess with an elderly man in a dark blue gown. They all turned as I came in.

  “Madame de la Roche!” Mistress Bycroft exclaimed, and laying her book aside, came to meet me with outstretched hands. “Euphemia told us you had come. A welcome addition to our company. I well remember the edifying conversation we had with you when you stayed at our house. You know my family, of course.” Both the male Bycrofts rose and bowed and the daughters, slipping off the seat, respectfully curtsied. “And this is Father Ninian, who will say mass for us all tomorrow.”

  The plainly clad younger man to whom Master Bycroft had been talking also rose and bowed. The elderly man, with the air of one who likes to finish one task before beginning on another, put his opponent in check before rising stiffly to do the same.

  “The mass won’t be said for quite all of us,” he observed. “I have great affection for my niece Euphemia but I follow the Reformed religion and do not attend Catholic rites. But that is by the way. I too am happy to make your acquaintance, Madame de la Roche. I always enjoy seeing a new face. I am Hugh Stannard, brother of Mistress Thursby’s mother.”

  From a lined face, a pair of bright blue eyes looked into mine and in them I saw keen intelligence and also a frank appreciation, but of a pleasanter sort than that of Dormbois. “When I have finished my game with Dickon here, madam,” said Hugh Stannard, “will you come and talk to me?”

  • • •

  I spent much of the evening doing what I had told Brockley and Dale I meant to do—trailing lures, as a falconer does when training a hawk to fly from its perch to his fist. The falconer fastens a morsel of meat on the end of a cord and whirls it in the air or drags it invitingly across the ground, hoping that the bird will rouse, fluff its feathers with interest, fix its gaze on the bait, and fly. In similar fashion, I offered topics of conversation. My hawks, as it were, sat solidly on their perches, with plumage sleeked, and refused to take wing.

  I did not of course waste time on trailing lures for Hugh Stannard. I talked to him for a while, as he had asked, but we discussed such harmless subjects as chess (at home he had an ivory chess set from China) and gardens (at home, he had a knot garden where he grew phlox and gillyflowers and roses chosen for their scent, and a herb garden bordered by lavender).

  He also, rather embarrassingly, asked me about my family and who my father had been, which obliged me to explain that I didn’t know; that my mother had been at court as lady-in-waiting to Queen Anne Boleyn, had had a lover whom she would not name because he was married, but who had fathered me.

  “My mother was sent home to her family,” I said simply. “And that’s where we lived, until she died, and later on, I married Gerald Blanchard.” There was no need to go into detail about my runaway match with Gerald, I decided.

  Stannard was interested and sympathetic, guessing more than I told him, I think, about the grudging shelter that the Faldenes had given my mother and myself. However, when supper was served, and we were gathered around the table, I praised anew the beauties of St. Margaret’s, and described Withysham in detail and said I wondered if I should admit it but I would do almost anything to protect my ownership of my home. That was my first lure.

  Mistress Thursby sighed and agreed that the love of one’s home was a powerful force. But no such repossessions had taken place in the time of Queen Mary Tudor and she hoped that if ever we came under the rule of Queen Mary Stuart, things would be the same.

  Father Ninian rather obtusely observed that Mary Tudor’s reign had been short. During a lengthier reign, many matters might be dealt with that had gone unheeded before. Mistress Thursby looked depressed, but neither she nor her husband displayed anything that resembled embarrassment or anxiety. They didn’t exchange any conspiratorial glances. Mistress Bycroft, whose Christian name I now learned was Catherine, said predictably that it was best to do what was right and let God look after the outcome. Master Henry Bycroft gravely agreed.

  Since I was the widow of Matthew de la Roche, I might reasonably claim some knowledge of his messengers, and so I spoke openly of the arrest of the peddler and the tooth-drawer. I drew a wary breath and then, offering my second lure, asked in what I hoped were not overcasual tones, if the Thursbys had ever met the tooth-drawer.

  “He was a most competent man,” I said, crossing my fingers in a fold of my skirt, and trusting to luck that the fellow hadn’t been a complete butcher. “Aunt Tabitha was upset over losing him. When he failed to arrive, that last time, she was suffering from recurring toothache, and was most anxious to see him. In the end she had to go to a local man who was less experienced and caused her a great deal of pain.”

  Aunt Tabitha, whose small, even teeth were in very good condition for her age, would have been interested to hear it, and the local tooth-drawer, who was justly proud of his skill, would have been heartily insulted. I hoped that neither of them would ever learn of my slanders.

  Unexpectedly, Catherine Bycroft said that she thought she knew the man, that he had once spent a night with them and had tended one of their maidservants.

  “Though I can’t be sure that it was the same one,” she said. “All manner of travelers stay at Bycroft and at St. Margaret’s too. As you know, madam, inns grow scanty the farther north one goes.”

  “Indeed,” Euphemia agreed. “So many people pause here for a night, we might almost be innkeepers ourselves!”

  “We can’t remember all who stay,” John Thursby agreed placidly.

  After supper, we returned to the parlor and from a lidded settle, Euphemia produced a couple of guitars, on which the Bycroft daughters, who proved to be quite accomplished players, entertained us. When they had finished, I started a new topic, this time on the question of loyalty to one’s sovereign.

  “I didn’t always agree with my husband on this matter.” It was a moment, I decided, for a little more openness about myself. “I don’t know how much Edward ever told you about me, but before I married Matthew I was for a time one of Elizabeth’s Ladies of the Presence Chamber. Indeed, we met at Elizabeth’s court. He came there once as a guest of one of her lords. I always felt that having taken her pay, I owed her some kind of loyalty, and indeed, it seems to me that all Elizabeth’s subjects owe her that. I told Matthew, more than once, that I didn’t like the notion of encouraging them to intrigue on behalf of another ruler.”

  “But, my dear madam, naturally one owes loyalty to one’s true king or queen. The point is that Queen Mary Stuart is the true Queen of England,” Mistress Bycroft said. “It is as I said before. One must do what is right and leave the rest to God.”

  “We did know that you once served at Elizabeth’s court,” said John Thursby, “though not from Edward. He really said very little about you. But our steward, Hamish, was at the inquiry into Edward’s death and you declared your connection with Elizabeth then, did you not?”

  “Yes, I did.” So Hamish had been interested enough in Edward to turn up at the inquiry. But it had been a much-publicized occasion. This was hardly significant news.

  Father Ninian remarked that he was tired and must be up betimes in the morning, and Uncle Hugh, yawning, said that he too wanted his bed. Candlesticks with fresh candles in them were standing ready on a shelf, and Euphemia, bidding priest and uncle good night, lit one for each of them and handed them over. The priest left the room briskly and Hugh Stannard, whose feet were clad in loose, soft slippers, shuffled after him. As I watched them go, I remarked that I too was weary from my journey.

  “My woman will be sitting up for me, too, and she is even more tired than I am. I should retire,” I said. “What time is tomorrow’s mass?”

/>   “At six of the clock,” said Euphemia.

  “I will be there,” I said.

  I thanked the Bycroft daughters for their music and Euphemia, wishing me sound sleep and pleasant dreams, gave me my own bedtime light. “Good night, all,” I said, and withdrew.

  Outside the parlor, there was a wide stone-flagged passage with windows looking into the cloisters. The leaded panes reflected the flame of my candle, mingled in ghostly fashion with the outlines of the cloister pillars beyond. I walked away along the passage, letting my shoes ring on the floor, went around a corner and stopped. Removing my shoes, I tiptoed back. It was a risk, for someone might have been about to leave the parlor just as I got back to the door, but as I halted outside it, I could hear the sound of conversation from within and no one was speaking in the tone of imminent departure.

  I set my candle down on the sill of a passage window and pressed my ear to the parlor door, in time to hear Master Thursby observe that it was a pity that Sorrel Jennet wasn’t in foal this year, but it was always useful to have such a fast mare under the saddle, and if the Bycrofts were agreeable, he would try her this summer with their stallion instead of his own. Master Bycroft replied that Norseman did indeed have a good breeding record and a fine turn of speed as well. “If there’s a foal, it could prove excellently fleet of foot.”

  Euphemia said something I couldn’t hear though I doubted if it would be anything relevant. Then I drew quickly back from the door. Along the passage to my left, just at the corner, there had been, surely, a rustle of movement.

  No, I was mistaken. No one came on along the passage. I shrugged. The conversation inside the parlor was useless anyway. I retrieved my candle and, still carrying my shoes, made my way softly back to the corner, intending to go up the staircase that lay beyond it.

  But as I did so, a shape moved into my path and Uncle Hugh said shortly: “In here, if you please.”

  He opened a door behind him and in the same instant shot out a hand and gripped my elbow, drawing me toward it. I resisted. “Master Stannard? I don’t quite understand . . .”

  “Don’t be a fool, woman,” said Stannard, in a low and irritable voice. “I’m fifty-two years old, I’ve had four mistresses and two wives and in the end one simply gets tired of it all, especially when it doesn’t even result in children! You are a most charming lady and a pleasure to look at but this is not an attempt at seduction. I had only been in my room for a moment before I heard your feet approaching and then stop. So I looked out and I saw you taking your shoes off. You crept back the way you had come and I was curious enough to take my own slippers off and follow you, damning these cold flagstones every step of the way, I may tell you. When I looked round the corner, you were listening at the parlor door. Now will you come into my room? I want to put something on my feet again and I want to talk to you in private!”

  He pulled at my elbow once more, quite roughly, and I gave way. His room was lit by only a single candle and the glow of a fire, which was now burning low. Closing the door, Stannard took my candle and used it to light several more before motioning me to a settle.

  He found his slippers and put them on. Then he sat down on the edge of his bed, facing me, and said abruptly: “You’ve been making conversational gambits all evening, like a chess player tempting an opponent with a sacrificial pawn. And I know who you are. My home is in Surrey, near the Sussex border. I know all the principal families in both Surrey and Sussex, including the Blanchards. I know Luke Blanchard well. Your first husband was his son Gerald and it was after Gerald’s death that you joined Elizabeth’s court. I also know, though the Thursbys don’t, that you have worked, most unusually for a woman, as an agent for Elizabeth and for Sir William Cecil. Luke Blanchard told me that too.”

  “He isn’t supposed to know it.”

  “Well, he does know it, as do a good many other people. Did you marry De la Roche for love or was that another task you undertook to infiltrate Mary Stuart’s network of—shall we say—well-wishers?”

  “No. It was love.”

  “How sweetly romantic,” said the elderly, chess-playing cynic in front of me. “Now, why were you pushing out pawns all through supper and why were you listening at that door?”

  “Why do you want to know?”

  “Because I don’t want any harm to come to my niece, Euphemia. I have no daughters of my own but I have always looked on her in that light. I care very little for matters of religion or politics but I do care for her. If you are looking for evidence that she or her husband are traitors . . .”

  Choosing my words, I said: “You could say that I was looking for evidence that they are not.”

  “What do you mean? Why should you come here seeking such a thing? What were you about this evening?”

  “I came north for the reason that I gave on my first visit here. My cousin’s family feared that he was running into danger. They wouldn’t tell me much about its nature but they sent me to bring him back if I could. The danger got to him first. Now I am on my way home. But . . .”

  “Wait. You say that your family sent you north. Not Cecil?”

  “No, not Cecil. Master Stannard, I cannot discuss this with you. Please understand that.”

  “And I can’t compel you because you’re Cecil’s employee and anyone who touched you would regret it. Say no more!”

  There was a silence. The candles flickered in a chilly draft and the fading fire had left the room cold. Stannard noticed. He rubbed his hands together and then got up to feed the fire. Having done so, he came back to his place and sat staring at me as though trying to read my mind.

  For my part, I was thinking rapidly. To Brockley and Dale I had used the metaphor of a falconer but Hugh Stannard thought in terms of chess. So did I now, as I took a conscious decision to push forward another, significant pawn.

  “Unless, of course,” I said, “you were to murder me and both my servants. Perhaps by intercepting us on the road home, so as not to foul your own doorstep.”

  “What on earth are you babbling about?” Again, Stannard sounded irritable. “Murder, indeed! If you won’t talk to me, then I’ll talk to you. From your choice of gambits over supper and after, I had the impression that you were wondering whether John and Euphemia had informed on those unlucky messengers your husband sent through England—the tooth-drawer and the peddler. At least, you brought them and the fact that they had been arrested into the conversation and you talked very earnestly about being willing to do almost anything to protect your ownership of your own home, as though you wondered whether my niece and her husband might feel the same about theirs.”

  “It had crossed my mind,” I said. “But if so, then they are on Elizabeth’s side, and as you seem to realize, so am I.”

  “But why do you want to know?”

  Why indeed? Because I wondered if here was a motive for the murder of my cousin. Decidedly not something to be suggested to Euphemia Thursby’s loving uncle. I checked for a few seconds while my mind scurried around possible answers like a mouse that has smelled a cat, and then said, as steadily as I could: “I can’t give you a clear-cut answer. Habit, I think. Once an agent, always an agent. It is necessary for Cecil to know as much as he can about who he can and can’t trust and how far. That’s all.”

  “Ah. Habit. Always a weak point. I’ve been a soldier in my day and it’s useful to learn the enemy’s habits. If the man you wish to capture always takes that route on a certain journey; if the enemy commander relies on a certain tactic . . . so agents form habits as well, do they? Well, well.”

  “I think we understand each other now,” I said. “And I would like to return to my own room. My woman is waiting up for me.”

  He rose and opened the door for me. “I love Euphemia,” he said as I went out. “She is a dear, sweet, innocent woman. She has never harmed a soul. I will not tell the Thursbys who you are—or that you are not a Catholic—if I can help it. But if necessary, I will fight for Euphemia. Remember that.”


  “I don’t want the innocent harmed, either,” I said. I looked into those steady blue eyes. “Believe me, Master Stannard.”

  18

  The Clandestine Departure

  I had spoken to Stannard with as much cool authority as I could muster but I went to my room in a chastened mood. I had not been as clever as I thought and it looked as though too many people knew too much about me. The Thursbys and Bycrofts had perhaps been deceived, but I had underestimated Hugh Stannard completely. He had seen straight through my casual conversation to the purpose behind it and I could only hope that he would keep his knowledge to himself.

  I would have felt better about it if my efforts had met with more success, but what had I learned, after all? The peddler might have stayed at St. Margaret’s; the tooth-drawer had probably stayed with the Bycrofts. The Thursbys might have known about it if he had, but I had watched their faces and I had seen nothing to suggest that talk of peddlers and tooth-drawers had any guilty significance for them. I was no further on.

  I slept poorly, and in the morning I found that I had underestimated someone else besides Uncle Hugh, and that was the priest, Father Ninian. Before breakfast, I attended the mass (I met Uncle Hugh as I was going along the passage on my way there and ignored his knowing smile with difficulty) but afterward, as we were about to leave the chapel, the priest came up to me and asked if he could have a word. Surprised, I agreed.

  The chapel, though small, was well appointed. There were painted and gilded statues in niches, some beautiful medieval stained glass, a richly embroidered altar cloth on which devout ladies had once expended much time and silken thread, and some benches, too, for the comfort of worshipers. We sat down on one of them, and the priest came straight to the point.