To Ruin A Queen: An Ursula Blanchard Mystery at Queen Elizabeth I's Court

by Buckley, Fiona

  “Then take yourselves off, all of you!” Cooper retorted. He made more damping-down gestures, however, and those who were lifting stones ready to throw paused in the act. “Leave Gladys to us. Or else take her with you; we won’t object. We want her gone. Take her to the castle if you want, but don’t let her come back.”

  I moved to Gladys’s side and caught her arm. It was so thin that my fingers went right around it.

  “All right,” I said. “Come on.”

  “I got a lamb to rear,” said Gladys exasperatingly.

  “Master Cooper,” Brockley barked, “a lamb belonging to the castle was in Gladys’s care. See that someone attends to it.”

  “There you are, Gladys,” I said. “Now come along.”

  After all, it was as easy as that. Well, almost. There was an element in the crowd which still wanted to hunt Gladys into the wilderness on all fours in front of a hail of stones, but Cooper held them back, while we all edged past them in a tight group with Gladys in the middle and hurried her back past the outlying cottages, making for the zigzag path. It was steep for her and she complained that her knees hurt, but we pushed and pulled her up it somehow.

  In fact, the most difficult part of the rescue came when we arrived back in the stable yard, to be at once accosted by a crowd of Vetch servants and retainers, including the girl Olwen and led by the red-faced Evans, who announced that they’d heard what was afoot because Dale and Mattie had let it out when they rushed back to the castle and started asking where I was. “And we don’t want that Gladys here and Lady Thomasine won’t have her here either. She’s sent her away once already.”

  “Well, let’s ask her,” I said. To my relief, Lady Thomasine herself had just appeared from the door to the Mortimer Tower and was crossing the courtyard toward us. “Here she is.”

  “Now what’s all this to-do?” Lady Thomasine had exchanged her elegant slippers for clogs, but walked awkwardly in them. “You’ve brought Gladys in? But why?”

  “The villagers were about to stone her from the village for being a witch,” I said shortly. “But I don’t believe in witches. Nor does Brockley here.”

  “No, Lady Thomasine. I don’t. And I won’t stand to see an old soul stoned and mistreated.” Brockley spoke up strongly.

  “I intend to find somewhere for Gladys to go,” I said. “Perhaps she could go with Mattie—if you’ll take her with you when you leave, Mattie?”

  Mattie had supported me loyally so far and she shared my skepticism about witchcraft but she didn’t look overjoyed about this suggestion. At this point, however, Gladys joined in. “I got kinsfolk in the Black Mountains. They’ll take me in, once I get there. Came from there as a girl, I did; and don’t I wish now I’d stayed and not fallen for Morgan’s bright eyes, God rest his soul. There’s been nothing right with me since he went, and there were lads would have wedded me if I’d stayed in Wales where I belong.”

  “There you are,” said Mattie, with relief. “Rob will surely lend you a man to take you on his pillion, Gladys. Maybe Lady Thomasine will provide a guide.”

  I looked Lady Thomasine in the eyes. “While I am your guest, I would rather be a help to you than a hindrance. I mean to do my best in every way. But if you could help us over the matter of the guide, we would be so very grateful.”

  She took the point. “A guide into Wales I can certainly provide. Most of my men know the Black Mountains. I wish Gladys to leave by tomorrow, at latest.”

  “I’ll not trespass in your household for long, my lady; never fear,” said Gladys acidly. “Nor put a curse on you. Or your lamb. They’ll have handed it to my neighbor. Someone ’ud better go and make sure she’s treatin’ it right. And what about my things? Clothes I got, and an old ornament or two that Morgan gave me when I weren’t ugly and brats didn’t jeer at me.”

  “Gladys, be quiet,” I said, although I was beginning to admire her. Old, powerless, and hated, she still had the guts to stand up for herself.

  “We’ll look after her and send for her things,” Mattie said to Lady Thomasine, who shrugged gracefully and said that as long as she herself need have nothing to do with Gladys, we could see to her as we chose.

  Mattie took charge of our rescued witch. Once she was out of hearing, I had a few sharp words for Brockley, about involving himself in local affairs without proper knowledge of them, but he merely replied: “With respect, madam, in the same circumstances I’d do the same again, and what’s more, I think you’d be ashamed of me if I didn’t.” Which was true.

  He went off to the stable, saying that our horses needed attention, and I returned to the guest rooms with Dale. Mattie was there, supervising while her own maid, Joan, attended to Gladys’s cut forehead. I let them get on with it and asked Dale to make me a chamomile draft. My temples ached but I couldn’t possibly have a sick headache just now.

  A few moments ago, face-to-face with Lady Thomasine, I had, obliquely, hinted that if she would not cooperate over Gladys, I might not cooperate over Sir Philip. But she had agreed to help and now I must do my part. Rob and Mortimer had ridden back into the stable yard just as I was leaving it. They would be at dinner. It was my duty, and I knew it, to be there too; to be full of sprightliness and flowing conversation, and to get Sir Philip Mortimer drunk.

  7

  Overdoing the Canary

  Supper the previous evening had been quite ordinary but I now discovered that the Mortimers liked to dine in state, although their notions of state were somewhat odd. It was as though Sir Philip desired to live splendidly but had an imperfect grasp of how to go about it.

  I was no stranger to ritual, heaven knows. Mealtimes were ceremonious at Blanchepierre, and at Elizabeth’s court I had attended many an official banquet. But these occasions had never been other than dignified. At Vetch, alas …

  To begin with, the hall at Vetch was depressing; too shadowy and subject to stealthy drafts which made the aged tapestries stir disconcertingly, as though shaken by unseen hands. It was pervaded, too, by a doggy smell from the sheepdogs, greyhounds, and mastiff, which once again were dozing by the fire.

  Rob, Mattie, Meg, and myself were, however, ceremoniously led by the butler Pugh to our places at the top table, which was draped in white damask and set with silver. We were required to remain standing while Mortimer and his mother, both of them dressed as if to receive royalty, came in to seat themselves in high-backed chairs. Then the food was borne into the hall by a dozen servants in procession, singing in Welsh and preceded by an elderly and gray-bearded harper dressed in an archaic tabard of pale green, with a vetch plant, purple flowers, and darker green leaves, embroidered on it.

  Rafe, arriving late, after the food was on the table, apologized gracefully to his guardian and then hurried to kneel beside Lady Thomasine and apologize a second time, not so much gracefully, as abjectly. He might have turned up late for her coronation instead of merely for a meal.

  “Think nothing of it,” she said, but laid her hand on his head as forgivingly as though he really were being excused for a serious offense. For a moment they stayed motionless, Lady Thomasine gazing kindly down on Rafe, and his profile outlined against her plum-hued gown.

  In profile he was a little less handsome than he was full face, for his nose was too sharp and his chin just too long for perfection, but he and Lady Thomasine made a charming tableau and I wondered if the pose was deliberately meant to echo the figures in the threadbare tapestry just behind Lady Thomasine. It showed a woman resting her hand on the horn of a unicorn, as if bestowing a regal blessing. Except that the woman in the tapestry was much younger than Lady Thomasine, and the horn of a unicorn, I knew, was a symbol which was hardly appropriate in this case.

  When Gerald and I were in Antwerp and Gerald was employed by the financier Sir Thomas Gresham, we had often dined in Gresham’s splendid house and there I had seen some fine tapestries featuring unicorns. Gerald, gleefully, had explained the symbolism to me. I hoped that both Lady Thomasine and Rafe were unaware
of it.

  The mastiff chose that moment to get up from its place in front of the hearth, jump onto the dais, sit down on the other side of Lady Thomasine and gaze at her, dribbling hopefully in expectation of tidbits. Beside me, Mattie let out a little snort of amusement, and I repressed a chuckle. Meanwhile, Lady Thomasine, ignoring the dog, withdrew her hand from Rafe’s hair. He rose and took his own seat. Mortimer smiled at his mother, apparently finding nothing strange or laughable in the little playlet with Rafe, and began to recite a lengthy grace.

  At the end of it, as we sat down and the servants crowded around us, offering dishes and pouring wine, Evans strode into the hall. I had the impression that he had been waiting just out of sight until Mortimer had said amen. Once more, he was dressed in green, but this time it was clean. He had a hooded falcon on one arm, and from the other hand dangled a brace of hares. He came up the hall, onto the dais, and around the table to Lady Thomasine, where he went down on one knee and gravely presented the hares to her, as a gift from her loyal falconer.

  “Is that what he is?” I whispered to Mattie. “The falconer?” That explained the streaks of bird droppings.

  “Simon Evans? Yes, he’s the head falconer. Mortimer has three of them,” Mattie whispered back.

  “I have asked,” said Evans, in booming tones that could be heard all over the hall and were meant to be, “that these shall be served to my lady tomorrow, cooked in wine.”

  Thanking him, Lady Thomasine formed another tableau by resting her hand, this time, on the falconer’s rough dark head. Once more, Mattie emitted a small, disrespectful gurgle. After posing for a count of about three, Evans stood up, bowed, and withdrew, taking his hares with him. The mastiff leaped down from the dais and went with him and the other dogs also got up and followed him out. I heard him in the courtyard, shouting at someone to for God’s sake feed these animals, before they stole his catch. On the dais, the serving of food and wine resumed. Our goblets were filled and our silver platters loaded. Pugh made it his personal task to look after Lady Thomasine. In my ear, Mattie whispered: “I think she thinks she’s Eleanor of Aquitaine.”

  “Who?” I whispered back.

  “Eleanor of Aquitaine. You know. Henry II’s queen. She invented courtly love. Noble ladies had pretend lovers who swooned over them and sang songs and wrote poems to their beautiful eyes and their hard hearts and presented them with dead hares as well, I expect.”

  I dredged my memory for more recollections of the history lessons I had shared with my cousins. I could dimly recall hearing about Eleanor of Aquitaine, although not about courtly love. Our tutor had probably regarded that as either too frivolous for his pupils or else improper. But it was obvious enough what Mattie meant. In this castle, which was run like an imitation palace, Lady Thomasine was queen of an inner court and her son took it all as normal.

  Conversation had begun, and was promisingly political. Mortimer had started to talk about Mary Stuart of Scotland and the current speculation over her marriage plans. An English noblewoman called Lady Lennox, who was descended from a sister of Henry VIII and was, thus, a cousin to both Mary and Elizabeth (Elizabeth detested her), was reportedly interested in promoting her son, Henry Darnley, as a bridegroom for Mary. It would be a powerful alliance in the eyes of those who considered Elizabeth to be illegitimate and, therefore, not entitled to the throne.

  “The sooner our good queen is married and with a son, the better,” Sir Philip remarked. “A secure succession would steady people’s minds. She must herself be aware of that.” Rob observed that the future peace and happiness of England depended on Elizabeth’s choosing the right husband and over that, she would have to exercise care. Lady Thomasine said that everyone hoped the queen wouldn’t marry Robin Dudley, her Master of Horse, but that it looked less likely now, since the rumors had been circulating for years and nothing had come of it.

  “I believe it has even been said that last year she offered his hand to Mary Stuart of Scotland,” she added.

  I agreed that this rumor had reached me in France, but evidently nothing had come of that, either. I agreed too that it had probably never been seriously meant and was no doubt nothing but a political ploy, perhaps to distract Mary Stuart from thoughts of Henry Darnley. I sipped my wine but found it uncomfortably strong. There was water on the table as well and I would do best, I thought, to drink that instead. Such strong wine might well have the desired effect on Philip, though, if only I could get him to overindulge in it.

  I then discovered what I ought to have realized before, which is that a host at his own table is in control of it and drinks or doesn’t drink whatever he pleases. You can’t very well say such things as: “Do try this wine, Sir Philip. It’s a great favorite of ours. It comes from such and such a vineyard in such and such a province of France,” because it’s his wine in the first place and he presumably knows where it comes from and what it tastes like. You can admire the wine and hope that he will take extra to keep you company; you can perhaps push a flagon invitingly toward him; but that’s as far as you can go.

  I did my best but Mortimer drank very little. In fact, he remarked as the meal progressed that he would have estate business to deal with later on and needed a clear head.

  “Two of my tenants are behind with their rent and I’ve summoned them to explain why. They’d best be convincing,” he added with an ominous grin, “or I’ll have them hung in chains, in the middle of the courtyard.” He actually leaned forward to point through the window at the courtyard. “So no more wine, thank you, mistress.” He set aside the flagon of canary which I had edged encouragingly within his reach.

  Well, if I couldn’t get him fuddled, I could still carry out his mother’s suggestion about asking artless questions. “You sound,” I said, “as though you almost wish you really could hang them in chains for not paying the rent. A little drastic, surely? Do you really want such power?”

  The answer was illuminating. “There was a time,” said Sir Philip, “when the Mortimer family truly had power to that extent. I am a justice of the peace now, of course. It goes with the lordship of Vetch Castle. But the Mortimers once were much much more.” Twisting in his seat, he pointed to a coat of arms on the wall nearby. It showed the vetch plant, proper, as on the servers’ tabards, its reddish-purple flowers and rounded green leaves, on a field vert.

  “Those are the arms of the Vetch family. The Mortimers had a coat of arms too although my branch has never claimed it. But I intend to do so before long. One of my forebears—Roger Mortimer, his name was—was the lover of Edward II’s queen and for a while he was king in all but name.” He let out a nostalgic sigh. “In those times,” he said, “the Mortimers were mighty Marcher barons and had the power of life and death over their serfs. Those were our great days. I have read of the deeds and the eminence of my forebears and sometimes I think that as a Mortimer, it should be my duty and pleasure to rebuild the greatness of our family. I long so to do and I believe that one day I shall.”

  I saw my chance. “But how?”

  He gave me a challenging glance from those oddly set greenish-blue eyes. “Ah. Well, that remains to be seen.” He smiled knowingly. “But one day, you will see.”

  Here it was again, the theme that had come up at yesterday’s supper, although once more he had stopped short of detail. I felt extremely disturbed and I knew that Rob, Mattie, and Lady Thomasine all felt the same. I could feel their unease. I would have pressed on in the hope that even sober, he might be coaxed into indiscretion, but Rob and Mattie were so very disconcerted that they inadvertently spoiled my plans by beginning at once to talk of something else. Lady Thomasine then turned to Rafe, and asked if he would play his lute for us after dinner. The conversation dissolved into commonplaces and escaped from me.

  But I was quite certain now that Lady Thomasine’s worries were not misplaced. Beneath the surface of this pretentious household, beneath the outdated rituals and the absurdity, was a serious and alarming undercurrent. I wondered
if Philip Mortimer were quite normal. At the very least, I thought, he was living in a world of daydreams in which he had begun to believe.

  One way and another, that dinner was an odd, uncomfortable business. The culminating discomfort came at the end, when Rafe duly played and sang for us and managed to embarrass me yet again, more publicly than when he had shown me over to Lady Thomasine’s room.

  “Rafe must sing us something he has written himself,” Lady Thomasine said. “My son is no musician,” she added regretfully. “Are you, Philip? But Rafe has the gift, and we have had him well taught by Gareth, our musician.” The gray-bearded harper, who was now seated just below the dais, bowed at the sound of his name. “Gareth shall play for us tomorrow,” said Lady Thomasine. “But now, Rafe, if you please … ?”

  Rafe obliged without any modest disclaimers and proved to be skilled. He sang a ballad about a noble knight who ventured into a dark cave full of sharp rocks and patches of mud, and there found a splendid sword with a scabbard of gold and a jeweled hilt, which shone through the darkness and the dirt.

  The ruby shone amidst the mire

  With pure and undiminished fire;

  The gold all damascened remained

  Amid the murk, unharmed, unstained …

  Which was all quite harmless and charming, but that was before he reached the last verse, where, unfortunately, there was a risqué twist that likened the sword to a woman whose charms were improved after nightfall.

  “Whose shining eyes, whose pearly limbs,” sang Rafe, “are beauty darkness never dims, but all the more enchant, invite, when encircled by the night …” And as he sang, he smiled boldly at his audience, and winked naughtily at me. I turned pink and saw Sir Philip eyeing me thoughtfully. Silently, I cursed Rafe. This was a complication I could do without.