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

by Buckley, Fiona

  “I’m here,” I said to Lewis, “on a matter very private and serious. But you could help, if you would answer one question. Mistress Haggard, will you excuse me for one moment while I speak to Master Lewis aside?”

  “What a lot of mysteries. But of course, if you wish,” said Bess, looking bemused. She walked away, calling to a groom to saddle my pony. With an air of puzzled courtesy, Lewis removed his hat and bowed to me.

  “I am at your service, naturally, mistress. But I can hardly imagine how I can assist in any private business of yours.”

  “It isn’t mine,” I said. But I smiled at him because I couldn’t help it. He was one of the most attractive men I had ever seen in my life and if Alice refused him out of devotion to Rafe’s memory, then Alice must have a soft brain and a stone for a heart. “If it were,” I said, “I could be more candid. As it is, I have to keep my counsel and hope to heaven that you will be more talkative than I can be.”

  “Try me,” said Owen Lewis, and made it sound like an invitation.

  I asked my question. As a way of abolishing flirtatiousness, it could hardly have been bettered. It produced a frown so intense that his strong black eyebrows nearly met above his nose.

  “That is a most impertinent thing to ask.”

  “I am not being frivolous. My reason is far from frivolous, believe me.”

  “Nevertheless, I cannot answer you, and I bid you good day, mistress. I …”

  I moved into his path as he was about to step past me. “Then I must answer the question for you,” I said, and did so.

  “Most unfair that is, mistress,” he said, searching my eyes. “If you knew, why did you ask me?”

  “I didn’t know the details,” I said. “Only the broad fact. Do you know the whole story?”

  “Does it matter?”

  I supposed not. I had guessed at the broad fact, and gambled on it, and won. Unintentionally, he had confirmed it. I smiled at him again, with most genuine gratitude. “Thank you, Master Lewis. Please don’t think hardly of me. I am in the service of the queen. It is her counsel that I keep.”

  “How did you learn of it?” demanded Lewis, and then, realizing from my lack of response that I wasn’t going to answer, he said: “Sir Philip left court after killing a man in a duel. Queen Mary did not care for such things. Many people know that much but few know more. Mortimer let it be supposed that what lay behind it was rivalry in love. Even his mother believes that. But … you say you are in the service of Queen Elizabeth? Is that really so?”

  “Yes.”

  “I see. Or rather, I don’t see. I would prefer to say no more, whatever. I have kept Philip’s counsel all this time, after all.”

  I hesitated. I thought I had gleaned enough for my purposes, but the more I could learn, the better, and he obviously knew more, if he could be persuaded to part with it. I had gambled successfully when I pretended that I knew that crucial broad fact for sure when I did not. An extension of this stratagem now occurred to me.

  “Master Lewis,” I said earnestly, “I wish you would tell me the rest. The matter is still talked of sometimes at court. When I was last there, I heard it said that the reason behind the duel was not a rivalry in love. That much seems to be quite widely known. I also heard it said that …”

  I produced the most scandalous suggestion I could think of, and as I had hoped, Lewis was appalled. “What? But that’s outrageous!”

  “I know,” I said. “But it’s been said.” Well, so it had. Just now, by me. “Master Lewis, what really happened? I will not spread anything about, but if I should hear the same thing whispered again, I can at least say that I know that the story is not true.”

  He studied me intently. I bore the scrutiny, looking back at him, not smiling now. “He is my friend,” he said at last. “Which does not mean I am blind or stupid concerning his failings. If we all chose only virtuous friends, many folk would be lonely. He is proud, and needed money to keep up appearances at court, and was foolish in pursuing it. I knew, and did not judge. Nor did I talk about his business. But since you already know some of it, and since it appears that other and worse slanders have been spoken—is that truly so?”

  “I fear so,” I said sadly.

  He shrugged, looking at me now with dislike. “Well, then, Mistress Blanchard in the service of the queen, if I tell you the little you don’t know, you can with a clear conscience deny this other slander whensoever you hear it—though I trust you will still keep the truth to yourself.”

  “I will not gossip,” I said gravely.

  He stared at me, as if suspecting that this was a qualified reply. Since I might well have to repeat what he told me to Cecil and the queen, his suspicions were justified. But I waited silently and at last, briefly, he told me what I wanted to know. This had to be the answer. Had to be. For a moment, the sheer strength of the relief turned me giddy. Earnestly thanking him, I moved aside. “I wish you all good fortune with Alice Haggard,” I said. “I hope, most sincerely, that your courtship will prosper.”

  “I suppose I should be glad of your good wishes. But at the moment, frankly, Mistress Blanchard, I could do without them, and you.”

  “I did say I served the queen,” I said. “Sometimes, I have to choose between her good opinion—and that of others.”

  That gave him pause. I left him frowning and doubtful. My pony was ready by this time, and after saying a final farewell to Bess, I mounted and rode out to join Brockley and Barker, in a daze of thankfulness.

  Everything in the world seemed more cheerful now, but the weather really was improving. Warm sunshine attended our journey back to Dale and the Feathers, and when we got there, we learned that the floods were subsiding. Dale, too, was better, although she was still in bed. But her cold had broken, and although she was nasal and blowing her nose every few minutes amid resounding sneezes, she was in good spirits and said that she would soon be herself again.

  It turned out that the messenger we had sent off had made remarkably good time, despite the distance he had had to travel. He reappeared that same evening, and not alone, for with him came Rob Henderson and the rest of Rob’s men.

  “The water’s down enough to let people on horseback get across the pastures in one or two places, and the Severn ferries are plying again,” Rob said. “So here we are. Now, my dear Ursula, what is this urgent matter? What have you discovered?”

  The inn had no private parlor to offer and was also rather full, but Rob and his companions had wedged themselves into Barker’s chamber. Since Rob’s men were seeing to the horses in the stable and Barker had joined them for an exchange of news, Rob and I could have the room to ourselves. We sat down on its window seat, and I told him everything that had happened since he left me at Vetch Castle, up to the point where I had at last got access to Mortimer’s documents. Then I took out the letters.

  “These I found in the strongbox,” I said, handing him the first two. “These others I got from William Haggard, Mortimer’s brother-in-law. He took his family back to St. Catherine’s Well after Rafe’s death, but I was at St. Catherine’s today. I saw Haggard there.”

  “But what has he to do with all this?”

  I pointed to the bloodstain. “When he came to Vetch Castle, he brought his hawk with him. The bird injured his thumb and made a zigzag tear. I had a good look at it because he showed it to me, asking for advice on healing ointments. I knew the moment I saw the mark on this letter that it must be from his thumb. There was a separate talon puncture at one end—see, there. That meant he’d seen the letters. That’s what sent me to St. Catherine’s. I’ll explain all that in a moment, but I think you’d better read these first. Please notice the dates.”

  I watched Rob’s face as he read. He looked at the dates first and then again when he had finished with the text. I saw him stiffen, understanding what I meant.

  “These are dangerous,” he said. “If their mere existence were ever bruited abroad … and if the damned things got into the hands of Mar
y of Scotland, or even into the hands of some families here in England … have you ever come across the Countess of Lennox?”

  “Yes, once or twice, when I was at court. There was some talk about her at Vetch once, at dinner. She’s cousin to both Elizabeth and Mary Stuart. Isn’t she supposed to be interested in marrying her son to Mary?”

  “She is, and the queen doesn’t care for the idea. Margaret Lennox—and therefore her children too—are descended from the Tudor line.” Rob’s face was grave. “Do you know the details? King Henry’s sister Margaret—Elizabeth’s aunt, that is—married James IV of Scotland, and Mary Stuart is their granddaughter. However, Margaret Tudor married twice. After James had tried to invade England and got himself killed on the battlefield of Flodden, Margaret married again, a Scottish lord, the Earl of Angus, and had a daughter—our Lady Lennox, whose husband is the Earl of Lennox, another Scotsman. Their son Henry Darnley is a personable young man and Lady Lennox has never made any secret of her ambitions for him. It would be a marriage between two Tudor descendants. A powerful alliance.”

  I nodded. “I knew most of it, yes. The queen has never trusted Lady Lennox. All the queen’s ladies know that.”

  “Did you also know that, two years ago, Lady Lennox got the Spanish ambassador to make covert inquiries among Catholic exiles in the Low Countries, to see how many of them would come home and take up arms if necessary to back a bid for the throne by Mary Stuart with Henry Darnley as her husband?”

  “Did she? No, I didn’t know that.”

  “It’s true, I’m afraid. The Lennoxes are in love with power; it’s their nature. If they—or Mary Stuart—as much as knew these … these horrors existed …”

  “I can tell you one thing,” I said. “The horrors aren’t genuine.”

  Rob looked at me sharply. “I take that for granted. But you sound as though you have evidence. May I know what it is?”

  “This is where I tell you all about my visit to St. Catherine’s. I saw Owen Lewis there as well as William Haggard. Listen.”

  When I was through, his shoulders sagged with relief but grew tense again almost at once. “But when did truth ever overtake a good scandal? This has got to be stopped, Ursula, stopped forthwith.”

  “I think I’ve stopped it as far as Haggard is concerned,” I said. “I think he was telling the truth when he told me he never meant to let anyone else see them. But what do we do about Sir Philip?”

  “We ride for Vetch,” said Rob grimly. “And we put the fear of God into that demented would-be mighty Mortimer. And while we’re about it, we will ask him a question or two concerning the murder of young Rafe Northcote.”

  I sometimes felt as though I had spent my whole life trying to get things done without having the authority to do them. At Blanchepierre, I hadn’t even had the authority to tell the physician to save my life; Matthew had done it for me. As for my work, it was in the nature of my peculiar career that I generally had to stay in the shadows, pretending to be a harmless guest or bystander, devoid of power and largely without protection. If I had companions, I usually felt responsible for their safety rather than the other way about.

  Just once before, I had ridden into the fray with Rob Henderson and his men at my side, but that time, I was dazed with exhaustion after two wakeful and dangerous nights, and sick, too, with dread for people whom I loved. I hadn’t appreciated the sheer pleasure of carrying the war into the enemy’s camp, with all the advantage on my side for a change.

  Now, I discovered that pleasure. The morning after my discussion with Rob, when we set out together for Vetch Castle, with Brockley and myself on good horses hired from the inn, I rode in triumph, an angel of vengeance, with swordsmen at my side, and my mood was one of pure enjoyment.

  With me this time I had Rob, five of his men, including Barker, and Roger Brockley as well. Dale was not yet well enough to leave the inn, though she would not let Brockley stay there with her. I offered and he would have agreed but Dale almost shooed him away.

  “Your place is with the mistress, Roger. I know you want to see the end of this. I wouldn’t keep him from his duty for a silly cold in the head, ma’am; how could you think it? I’ll be up and about and ready to welcome you back. Only, I haven’t been able to brush your gown again. If only you find the rest of your things safe at Vetch.”

  I doubted if I would, but the message that fetched Rob from Tewkesbury had included a request to Mattie to send me a change of clothes. A fresh gown and sleeves had arrived in Rob’s saddlebag. I was fit to be seen. I was more anxious about Dale herself, but the innkeeper’s wife, broad of face and hearty of temperament, promised to take care of her and to make sure she did, Rob handed her a sweetener of gold sovereigns— “for yourself, goodwife; put them in your own store.” Brockley kissed his wife good-bye, and off we went.

  On the way, I said to Rob: “We have to keep Mortimer’s scheme quiet, I know, even if it means that he gets off with a warning and is never actually arrested for it. Rafe, though, is a very different matter.”

  “Yes, he is,” Rob said. “You say that he is supposed to have thrown himself off a tower but was actually stabbed. It would seem, though, that quite a number of people know what really happened. You, Brockley, Dale, Mortimer, and Lady Thomasine and some of their servants.”

  “Yes, Harold Pugh and Simon Evans. Questioning them could produce results,” I said.

  “I shall start by questioning Mortimer and Lady Thomasine,” Rob said. “I prefer to begin with the principal actors. From what you tell me, Rafe very likely was killed by his guardian, but we can hardly arrest him for it before we’re sure. The servants may not know who did it—only that it was done.”

  “Mortimer needs money and Rafe’s inheritance comes to him now,” I said.

  “In other words, he had a reason for killing his ward. But to have a reason for committing murder is one thing; actually doing so, is another. If everyone who had a reason for killing someone else just went and did it, the earth would soon be short of humankind,” said Rob, who for all his insouciant airs was very levelheaded. “We must be careful. We have a busy day before us.”

  When we arrived at Vetch Castle, the porter looked at us with obvious surprise but he didn’t seem to have orders to exclude us, although this was perhaps natural. If you tell your doorkeeper to deny entry to somebody, it is usually because you think the somebody in question is likely to call. Brockley and I were supposed to be dead or dying of starvation in the Black Mountains and Rob was supposed to be in London. The Mortimers certainly weren’t expecting any of us.

  The porter had a lad with him who fetched someone to take our horses. When we went through to the courtyard we found that the boy must also have passed word to Pugh that visitors had arrived, because the butler was just coming to meet us. I doubt if the lad had told him our names, though. When his eyes lit on me and Brockley, I saw his whole body go rigid.

  Rob had dressed for this encounter with considerable care, halfway between the soldier and the dandy. His hat had a kite’s rufous tail feather in it, his practical russet wool doublet was slashed to show a lining of gold satin, and the turndown collar he wore instead of a ruff was of a gleaming damasked silk. His boots could easily have been used as mirrors. I was arrayed in Mattie’s contribution to my wardrobe, sunny yellow for my overskirt and sleeves, pale green for kirtle and bodice, all of it amply embroidered. The clothes were a trifle loose on me, but the general effect was striking. I walked confidently as we advanced upon Pugh.

  “Mistress Blanchard! I thought you’d … gone back home.”

  “You mean,” I said pleasantly, “that you thought Brockley and I were still shut in that shepherd’s hut up in the Welsh hills.”

  “I haven’t the least idea what you’re talking about, Mistress Blanchard.” He was keeping his head, but from the way Pugh looked at Rob’s five soldierly men with their helmets and swords, we had inspired his soul with a satisfying amount of terror.

  “We are here to see Si
r Philip Mortimer,” Rob declared. “Where is he?”

  “He … he is occupied at the moment,” Pugh stammered slightly. “He is in the hall, presiding over an inquiry. As a justice of the peace …”

  “I really don’t care what he’s presiding over,” said Rob bluntly, “and peace is the last thing I intend to let him enjoy. We are going straight into the hall to interrupt him. Is Lady Thomasine there?”

  “No, sir, but …”

  “Fetch her,” said Rob brusquely. “She is to come to the hall at once. We have business which won’t wait.”

  Pugh did his best to hold on to his dignity. “Master Henderson, I really can’t allow …”

  “You’ve no choice,” said Rob shortly, and strode on toward the porch.

  It was a thankless task, being butler at Vetch Castle. Pugh was forever being brushed aside as unnecessary. He did his best now, and actually broke into a run, black formal gown flapping and gold chain of office bouncing, in order to plunge through the porch ahead of us and gasp out our names just as we marched in on his heels. Silence fell as we did so.

  The hall was set out for an official hearing. Mortimer was seated in his thronelike chair, up on the dais. People from both the castle and the village stood on either side of the long room. Two armed retainers were positioned near the foot of the dais, and in front of it stood a small woman with a gray shawl over her head and shoulders. She turned as we entered, and at once the silence broke as she let out a cry of recognition and came toward us at a hobbling run. She seized my arms in a clutch like an eagle’s talons.

  “Oh, mistress! Oh, Mistress Blanchard! Help me! Help me!”

  It was Gladys.