It was really most aggravating of Rob, at this point, to add: “I’m sure you’ll enjoy yourself when you get there.”
4
The Castle on the Hill
Cecil, in a final briefing before I set out, told me that according to Lady Mortimer, Sir Philip intended to approach the queen later in the year. “He’s heard that Her Majesty is to make a Progress to Cambridge toward the end of the summer. He studied at Cambridge University and has friends in the town with whom he proposes to stay. Then he will try to find a way of presenting himself to the queen.”
“Does he really think … ?”
“I doubt very much,” said Cecil, “if one could call it thinking. Whatever it is, it’s a delusion. But Lady Thomasine thinks he is hanging his crazy ambition on some kind of solid peg.” He considered me thoughtfully and made an ominous joke. “He could hang himself instead of his ambitions if he isn’t careful. That’s what she fears, and I use the word fear very deliberately. She’s very frightened—brittle with it, if you understand what I mean. She will be glad to see you at Vetch, and I am glad you’re going.”
I left for Vetch the next morning.
It was difficult to travel swiftly. For one thing, I had baggage and for another, Dale had never really got over that dreadful experience in a French dungeon, two years before. She was in her midforties now, and feeling her years. The rough sea voyage and the fast ride from Southampton had tired her out. I had few secrets from either her or Brockley and they understood our errand and my wish for haste. But nevertheless, for Dale’s sake alone, we would have to journey at a moderate pace.
At least this enabled us to take our own mounts all the way. When I went to France, I had left two horses in Rob Henderson’s stables, telling him to use them until I returned. He still had them. I was glad to be back in my own familiar saddle and riding my pretty mare, Bay Star, once again. Brockley was equally glad to be again riding Speckle, the flea-bitten gray cob I kept for him. Dale traveled on his pillion, happy just to perch behind her husband on the long road to Herefordshire.
Rob provided us with packhorses and an escort, including himself. “I’m coming along to join my wife; it will seem quite normal,” he said. “Besides, I think I should be at hand, just in case.”
The journey in the end took five slow days, mostly in wet weather. We spent the final night of it in the cathedral town of Tewkesbury, beside the rich river meadows of the Severn, where sheep grow fat. The Hendersons had friends in Tewkesbury, a prosperous wool merchant and his wife, who lived in one of the smart new timbered houses which were being built in the town. The Woodwards would gladly accommodate us, Rob said. However, we had some trouble in actually reaching them for we had to wait half an hour on the outskirts of the town, in heavy rain, until a bleating, woolly river of sheep had finished pouring through the main street.
“What in the world is going on?” Dale asked wearily, from the depths of her soaked hood, as we crowded into such shelter as a wide oak tree could give us. “Where are they taking all those sheep to? There are thousands of them.”
When, dripping and cross, we eventually reached the Woodwards’ house, our host explained. “The pastures to the west of the town often flood in wet weather. The Severn runs beside them and it can overflow. The sheep are being moved as a precaution. You can see from the upstairs windows how lowlying the meadows are.”
When we were shown up to our chambers, we all looked out of the windows at the flat green river meadows and understood what he meant. Already there were many silvered pools of rainwater on the grass. Beyond the pastures I could see a line of hills, which Rob, looking over my shoulder, said were the Malvern Hills. “They’re maybe ten or twelve miles away and Vetch Castle is seventeen miles or so beyond, lying to the south of Hereford. We could be there by tomorrow, though, if we start early.”
I looked worriedly at the pastures and wished for wings, so that I could fly across them, floods or no floods, and be with Meg. She was there, beyond the misty blue line of the Malverns. I could feel her. “If we get this far and then we’re held back by a few falls of rain …” I said.
“They move the sheep in good time,” Rob said reassuringly. “The local folk are used to the way the Severn behaves. You’ll be with Meg tomorrow. And then,” he added slyly, “you can begin on your real task in Vetch Castle.”
“Fetching Meg is my real task.”
“Of course,” said Rob Henderson annoyingly, sweet and smooth as cream custard.
The following day, it stopped raining and there was wind enough to dry the tracks. The Severn was certainly flowing high; when we crossed it on a bridge, we could see its waters swirling only just below the level of its banks. However, nothing actually hindered us. By midday, we had passed through the hills at the southern end of the Malverns and reached a market town called Ledbury, where we paused at an inn for a brief meal. Then we rode on and at last, as the sun was dropping westward, we emerged from a belt of woodland that had cut off the view for some time, and there in front of us, on a solitary hill, was Vetch Castle.
It was Norman, of course, one of the string of fortresses that the Norman kings had founded all along the borders of Wales, to keep the Welsh from making incursions into England. The eastern walls, facing us across a valley, were built above a steep, rocky drop and looked as though they were growing up from it. But the evening sun lay kindly on the pale gray stone of the castle, and all around it were rolling hills, rich with woodlands and sloping pastures, where flocks of sheep were grazing. In fact, despite its solid round towers, its stout buttressed walls, and its battlements, Vetch looked at first sight quite hospitable.
Later, it occurred to me that one could say the same of the cheese in a mousetrap.
There was a moat below part of the castle, though not where the steep drop made it unnecessary. The approach road curved around to the south, however, and crossed the moat on a drawbridge, which looked as though it still worked. At the gatehouse, a porter came out to greet us, accompanied by a big red-complexioned man who remarked in a bass Welsh accent that he’d just been having a gossip with his friend the porter here, and would show us the way inside.
The porter was neatly dressed but his friend was scruffy. His old-fashioned green jacket and hose had seen much wear, his plain linen shirt collar was frayed at the neckline, and all his garments were marked by white streaks, which looked like bird droppings. He seemed to have authority, however. As he led us in, he shouted in a commanding fashion, and at once, a couple of young fellows appeared at a run, and said that if we would dismount, they would take the horses to the stable.
We did as requested, although Brockley, who never really trusted anyone else to see to our mounts properly or unload our luggage without pilfering it, determinedly went with the horses, and Rob instructed his men to do likewise. Dale, Rob, and I, however, followed the big man on foot through a wide outer bailey, part of which was arranged as a tiltyard, and through an arch into a cobbled inner courtyard.
The courtyard had a well in the middle, a rather charming affair with a high coping and a little sheltering roof, neatly thatched and supported on three stone pillars entwined with honeysuckle. It was clear, indeed, that since the harsh medieval days when the castle was first built, efforts had been made to soften its martial air. It had battlemented towers on the outer walls and also at each corner of the courtyard but only one of the courtyard towers was plainly visible, because the lower storeys of the others were obscured by a very fine hall, surely no more than a hundred years old, and a number of other buildings, some of which were more recent still.
One, a small house in itself, built of warm red brick in the style of King Henry’s times, stood to the right of the archway. Opposite this was a most extraordinary affair, which looked like the bottom level of a Norman keep, with a modern house, plastered in white and patterned with black timbers, perched on top and overhanging the stone walls beneath. I took all this in with one interested glance and then forgot it just as qu
ickly because suddenly a door opened in the base of the keep and out ran a leggy little girl perhaps eight or nine years old.
“Meg!” After one breathless moment of uncertainty, I knew my daughter, though she was inches taller than when I last saw her and her red woolen dress was too short for her. I ran to meet her, leaving the others behind. At the same moment, Mattie Henderson hurried from the keep with Meg’s nurse, Bridget Lemmon, following. Mattie was exclaiming: “Meg, mind your manners! Make your curtsy.” Meg stopped and tried to do as she was bid, but I had reached her already and caught her up in my arms.
“Meg, oh, Meg! Oh, how you’ve grown. And how well you look. It’s been too long. I’m so sorry!” I clutched her, kissed her, and then, because over the top of her head I could see Mattie smiling but also shaking her head, and Bridget looking quite put out, I set her back from me and said: “Now let me see how beautifully you curtsy.”
“My lady mother.” She did a most exquisite curtsy for me. I saw that she had changed a little; her face had lengthened, becoming more triangular than square, more like my face than Gerald’s. But her brown eyes would always be his. She had not inherited my hazel ones, or my particular kind of dark hair, either. Mine had brown gleams in it but Meg’s, now escaping from its little embroidered linen cap, was the true raven black of the Blanchards.
“We saw you approaching,” Mattie said. “Meg has had her nose to the window this past half hour and when you came through the archway, there was no holding her. Meg, you are so impatient.”
“Oh, it’s no matter. I’ve been longing to see her.” I held out a hand to Bridget as she came puffing up to us. Bridget had never been slim and was now decidedly fat. “How are you, Bridget? Well, you’ve seen a bit of England since we last met. How did you manage the journey from Thamesbank?”
“On a pillion, ma’am, and I was that jolted, I thought my spine would go through the top of my head. I’m glad to see you, and you looking so well. We’ve all kept pretty stout …”
“Especially you, Bridgie,” said Meg, giggling.
“That will do, Meg. Don’t be impertinent. You’re overexcited,” said Mattie. Mattie had always been a very merry soul who often found it quite hard to maintain the dignity proper to a well-bred lady, but now she seemed unwontedly serious. “Bridget, take her indoors. They’re serving supper in the hall very soon, Ursula, and I’ll bring her to you there, when she’s washed her hands and face. And combed her hair and put her cap on straight. Off you go, Bridget. Oh, Rob. I am so glad to see you.”
Meg reluctantly let herself be led away and Rob, who had held back while I embraced Meg, came up to greet his wife. Then our guide, who had gone on toward the hall, came hurrying back accompanied by a tall, gray-haired man wearing a formal black gown and a butler’s chain of office. Mattie drew herself out of Rob’s arms. “Here is Pugh, all ready to announce you. Mistress Ursula Blanchard is here, Pugh, and this is my husband, Master Robert Henderson.”
“If you will accompany me to the hall,” said Pugh, “Sir Philip and Lady Mortimer are waiting to receive you.”
I was gazing wistfully after Meg, but guests cannot refuse to be introduced to their hosts and besides, I was here on a mission. I was about to meet the man I had come to investigate. As my daughter disappeared into the curious keep-cum-timbered-house, I obediently accompanied Rob and Pugh toward the hall. Our red-faced escort came too, bird droppings and all.
There was a gabled porch and then a massive, studded door which led straight into the hall, the heart of the castle. First impressions were of great size, gloomy grandeur, and domestic confusion, all at once. The place was forty feet long at least, hung with tapestries, most of which looked old and faded. There were numerous cushioned settles and a wide hearth with an intricately carved stone surround. A fire burned there, and for some reason, an untidy heap of fur rugs lay in front of it. Beside it, a man in russet doublet and hose, slashed with yellow, was reading.
Opposite him, a lady in blue was working at embroidery and a pale, quietly dressed woman was spinning. Servants were hurrying about, setting out trestle tables, presumably for supper, and at some distance from the hearth, an unprepossessing crone, with hanks of gray hair trailing from beneath a grubby shawl, sat on a stool with a pail of milk beside her and a small lamb on her lap. She was dipping a cloth in the milk and squeezing it into the lamb’s mouth.
As we came in, the draft from the porch door set the hearth fire smoking, and the heap of furs suddenly moved and dissolved into two shaggy sheepdogs, two greyhounds, and a huge mastiff, which got onto their score of feet and began barking and baying. The lamb on the crone’s lap bleated. Pugh had to raise his voice to make himself heard.
“Mistress Ursula Blanchard and Master Robert Henderson!”
Some of the servants had stopped work to look at us and someone recalled them to their task with a sharp order in a language I had already heard a few people speak in the Ledbury inn, and now recognized as Welsh. The man in russet stood up, shouting at the dogs to be quiet. The woman in blue laid down her stitchery, came gracefully to her feet, and swept toward us, hands outstretched and azure skirts rustling over the rushes, though the gracious air was slightly damaged as she shot out a daintily slippered foot in order to kick a barking greyhound out of her way.
“For the love of heaven, what a din! These are friends, you silly animals. Did you bring our guests over from the gatehouse, Evans? My thanks. I am so sorry for the noise, Pugh. We so often keep you from doing your office with proper dignity.”
The bespattered Evans and the dignified Pugh both denied being inconvenienced in any way, and looked at her as though they adored her. They withdrew, bowing. The lady patted the affronted greyhound, which subsided onto the mat, presumably not much hurt, and the man in russet, who had by now quieted the other dogs, came forward to meet us. The lady, turning a smile of great charm onto us all, offered me her right hand while drawing the man to her side with the other.
“Welcome. I am Lady Thomasine and this is my son, Sir Philip Mortimer. I apologize for first speaking to Pugh and Evans but they are the most devoted of servants and I care for them as they care for me. They were born to my father’s service here at Vetch.”
“We are delighted to see you,” said Sir Philip. “We had a courier from Sir William Cecil, who told us that you might arrive today but, in fact, we had given you up—or we would have made sure you had a quieter welcome. You must be tired. Please be seated.”
We let ourselves be led to a long settle, and the pale woman, who was evidently Lady Thomasine’s maid, fetched some extra cushions. “I believe,” Lady Thomasine said to me, “that your present married name is really de la Roche but that in England you still use the name of Blanchard. I am rather glad. It makes you seem more of a relation, and it is always such a pleasure to meet new relatives. Your daughter, Meg, has already enchanted us all.”
I made a suitable reply. The crone had now put the lamb on the floor and got it sucking from the cloth while the cloth was actually in the pail, the first step in teaching it to drink instead of suckle. She murmured to it as though reciting a spell and Lady Thomasine’s lovely smile faded for a moment as she noticed what I was looking at.
“That is Gladys,” she said to us. “She used to work in the castle but I sent her back to her home in the village last year. Frankly, I don’t like to have such unlovely beings about the place. Gladys looks like a witch and the villagers say she is one.” Gladys, overhearing, gave us all a grin, or perhaps the word leer describes it better, revealing that she had very few teeth and that the ones which were left were horridly like fangs.
“But she is good with orphaned lambs,” Sir Philip explained, “and our shepherd always brings them first to the hall. I take a personal interest in my flock. Sheep are the gold of the Marches. That is a late-born lamb whose dam won’t suckle it. I sent for Gladys to take charge of it and she thought it should have a feed at once, as it is very weak. She’ll take it back to the village soon, Mother
.”
Lady Thomasine resumed her smile, and I smiled back and began covertly to study the woman who had brought me here very nearly by force, and her son Philip Mortimer, who thought he knew a way to extract wealth from the queen, and had left court after a brief sojourn ten years ago because of some unspecified scandal.
Lady Thomasine of the enchanting smile must be in her fifties, but she was still straight-backed, tall, and slender—almost thin—with beautiful cheekbones. Her fine dry skin had few lines and her hair was still brown. Her voice, as she continued to talk about Meg and our family relationship, sounded younger than her years.
“Meg’s father, of course,” said Lady Thomasine, “was my son Philip’s second cousin. How sad that you and Gerald Blanchard never met, Philip. You might have been good friends.”
“Indeed, yes,” Sir Philip agreed. To me, he said: “But at least we now have the pleasure of entertaining Gerald Blanchard’s wife and child. My mother has looked forward so much to your coming, Mistress Blanchard.”
He could scarcely know quite how much she had been looking forward to it, let alone why. He must suppose I was simply a hitherto unknown kinswoman, discovered and invited by Lady Thomasine. He took after his mother, I thought. His hair was lighter than hers, but he was tall and long-boned, as she was, with the same fine dry skin; his eyes were like hers, greenish-blue and almond-shaped, with the right and left sockets set at slightly different angles.
The conversation broke off then, as maids arrived with cans of hot water. We were invited to wash our hands and faces in a room off the hall, since supper, Lady Thomasine said, was just about to be served. Our baggage had already been taken to the guest rooms and she would show us the way there after we had eaten. Rob’s men had been looked after, added Sir Philip, and they and Brockley would take their meal with the castle guard, in a separate dining hall.
To Ruin A Queen: An Ursula Blanchard Mystery at Queen Elizabeth I's Court Page 5
