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

by Buckley, Fiona

  Rob took another deep gulp of his wine. “Dear God, I’m exhausted. I was on edge throughout, afraid someone would say the wrong thing or ask the wrong questions and there were some bad moments. The coroner wanted to call some of the castle servants and settled on the Raghorns because they had served in the guest keep—served you and me, that is—and he was very persistent in some of his questions. He got rather too much out of them. Jack Raghorn said that the rumors had started because Rafe hadn’t bled enough, and Susanna Raghorn repeated the gossip about you having killed him.”

  “Oh, no!” I said.

  “It’s all right. Hugh Cooper himself got up at that point, and said roundly that all that was just silly talk and you’d hardly have come back to the castle and rescued Gladys if you were guilty. As for Rafe not bleeding, he’d no doubt been killed instantly and the dead don’t bleed. It was all daft servants’ chatter that meant nothing. I could have kissed him but I thought it might be overdoing things, so I just nodded to him in recognition of his good sense. The coroner seems to think it was good sense, as well, thank God.

  “Well, to get back to Mortimer. When he testified, he also told the court that his mother had been very fond of Rafe, looking on him as a grandson, and that she had been strange in her manner in recent months, as though there was something amiss with her mind. I did make one bad mistake,” said Rob, rather pathetically. “The maid Nan had to testify. I’d forgotten her completely until an hour before the inquest started! But mercifully, she’d been prostrate on her bed since Lady Thomasine died and hadn’t talked to anyone, and when Mortimer said, quite casually, that she might be called, and I rushed to find her, I found her as willing as anyone to protect her lady’s reputation. A verdict of suicide would be bad enough but—let the whole world know that Lady Thomasine was in love with a boy of twenty? Never! She was only too anxious to hide that! I told her what to say and she said it. In fact, she wept most persuasively as well. She told the jury that Thomasine had been muddled in her mind of late and apt to brood over even little things.

  “I think we’ve got away with it. William Haggard and the butler, Pugh, both testified and they backed up everything Mortimer had said. Rafe died because he was crossed in love and frightened of his guardian; Thomasine wasn’t in her right mind, as often happens with women in later life, poor things, and was overset by grief for her son’s ward, whom she looked on as a grandson. The verdict of an unbalanced mind means she can be buried in consecrated ground. You and I are court representatives and have nothing to do with any of these sad events. No one mentioned daggers in the back or forged letters. Those letters! The more I think about it, the more dangerous they seem! Lady Lennox would value them above rubies and so would Mary Stuart. I doubt if William Haggard will ever speak to Mortimer again. It seems that you made him understand how near he came to the gallows, and when I had him down in that cell, I made him understand still better!”

  “What is happening about Alice and Owen Lewis?” I asked. “Did you chance to find out?”

  “Oh yes.” Rob nodded. “Lady Thomasine has been buried now, and William Haggard is on his way home to St. Catherine’s for his daughter’s marriage. It’s going ahead at once. Lady Thomasine’s death won’t delay it. It seems that Alice has agreed and Lewis, it seems, really wants to marry her. He’s not asking for any dowry in money though he’s taking the land. Lewis, Bess and Alice, by the way, will know only the official version of what happened at Vetch: the one given out at the inquest. William Haggard made no trouble about that. He does not confide in his wife, it seems, let alone his daughter.”

  “No,” I said. “He doesn’t.”

  “I think all the leaks have been stopped,” Rob said. “And just as well. Mortimer and Haggard, pale and sweating, assured me over and over that they would never really have sent those letters to any interested party, and I know that you think that, Ursula, but I do wonder. Foolish men with foolish dreams often do very stupid things, and the Lennoxes would have paid them well. You’ve been in France, and there are things you may not know. Lady Lennox is dangerous. It’s not only likely that she has a list of Catholic exiles in the Low Countries who are ill-disposed to Elizabeth, but one of our agents in Edinburgh has actually found a list, in Mary Stuart’s possession, of Catholic families in England who have promised to back her up in any claim. Just imagine what they might do with a rumor that Elizabeth isn’t King Henry’s daughter at all!”

  “Hush!” said Mattie warningly.

  “I shall never mention it again,” Rob said reassuringly. He gave me a sharp look. “Your Matthew,” he said, “may well have had a hand in getting that list of English supporters compiled and sent to Lady Lennox.”

  I said nothing. It was very likely true and I didn’t want to think about it.

  “Yet you are a faithful servant of the queen. At Vetch, you have proved it,” Rob said. Tired or not, he looked into my eyes with his own full of challenge. “How do you reconcile the two sides of your life, Ursula?”

  “I would like to reconcile them,” I said with emphasis, “by going back to France and staying there, out of it all.”

  “With that man, you will never be out of it all,” Mattie said suddenly. I turned to her indignantly, but she shook her head at me.

  “It’s no use being angry, Ursula. I love you, as I love Meg, but I am speaking the truth and you know it.”

  “Well, you’ve spoken it,” I said. “But I would rather you didn’t do so again. Matthew and I are man and wife, and what is between us is our own business.”

  “Ah. I’m sorry. Fatigue has made me forgetful,” Rob said. “I have brought two things back from Vetch for you, Ursula. I’ve brought your saddlery, though not your horses, which I suppose are still wandering on the Malverns, and I’ve brought you a letter from your husband. It arrived at Vetch while I was there. Here.”

  He took it out of his doublet and handed it over. Seizing it eagerly, I took it to the window to open it. It was a single sheet, covered with Matthew’s dear, familiar writing. Once, in the past, I had been fooled by a forgery of Matthew’s hand but this I knew was honest, for it began: “My dearest Ursula, my Saltspoon …”

  No one but Matthew ever used that nickname; no one beyond us two knew of its existence. It was a private code between us now, a means of proving that a letter was real.

  It went on: “… you have not been gone so very long, but I miss you very much and I was glad to receive a letter from you, to know that you had reached England safely and that Meg too is safe. I look forward to the day when you bring her here and we can become a family. God willing, we will add children of our own one day. You will be better in health when you have your daughter with you.

  “Saltspoon, I shall miss you all the time, and I shall worry in case over there in England, you begin to forget me. Please don’t let that happen.

  “Above all, don’t give your devotion too deeply to the queen you serve, whatever gifts she may give you. But don’t misunderstand me. You ask in your letter if you should accept Withysham. You need not have asked; do you think me so ungenerous? Life is never certain. I know you, my Saltspoon. If I should die, you will want to go home to England. You would need somewhere to live. You have my permission to accept the queen’s gift—yes, even Withysham. I admit that I do not wish to see the place again, but when I was in England, I bought it and I still regard it as mine. Your queen is, therefore, only restoring my rightful property. I bestow it on you. The revenues from it, you shall treat as your own.

  “But alas, my Saltspoon, you and Meg must not come back to Blanchepierre yet. Plague has broken out in the village here. It is early in the year for it; usually plague does not start until the summer is well under way. But there have been deaths already and I would not have you or your daughter in peril. For your own safety and hers, Saltspoon, stay in England until summer is past, and come home in the autumn. The plague always dies out when the weather cools. Have no fear for me. I am keeping at home and have forbidden any of th
e household to go to the village. Any servant who shows signs of infection will be isolated at once.

  “In the autumn, we will be together, you and I and Meg. I shall count every day until then. Your true and loving husband, Matthew.”

  I read the letter through twice, in a muddle of emotions: joy at the love which rose from every word on the page; dread in case Matthew caught the plague; gratitude because I could have Withysham; and dreadful grief because instead of going home to him within weeks, I must wait for months. Here in England, doing my strange and unwomanly work, I had been healed of the malaise which had attacked my mind after that disastrous childbed. It annoyed me to think Rob and Brockley had been right in supposing that my task at Vetch would do me good, but it was true. Only I had looked forward to returning to Matthew in health, and to taking Meg with me and now …

  Such a welter of conflicting thoughts was anguish. Tears came into my eyes. But what was between Matthew and me was private, as I had said. I brushed the tears fiercely away and turned to Mattie and Rob.

  “Well,” I said, as brightly as I could, “it seems that I can’t go back to France yet because there’s plague at home. And Matthew has agreed that I should take Withysham. I’ll have to pass the time by setting it in order.”

  It was hard to maintain the brightness and I was relieved when a knock at the door interrupted us. Mattie opened it, and in came Brockley. He looked worn, as well he might, after the time we had had with Dale, but his normally expressionless face was beaming. “Such news, madam!”

  “What is it, Brockley? I could do with some cheerful news, I must say,” I told him.

  “I’ve been out,” Brockley said. “I slept awhile this morning, but I couldn’t sleep long. I came to see Fran—you were fast asleep and never stirred—and Fran knew me and spoke to me. I believe she’ll be all right now, given time. Then I felt I needed the open air, so I exercised one of the ponies and rode toward Tewkesbury. The floods have completely gone and there are some animals out on the pastures again. Madam, I’ve found Bay Star and Speckle.”

  “What? Where?” I sat up straight, excited. With so many weighty matters on our minds, we had had no opportunity to pursue the matter of my horses any further, nor indeed the matter of any of the belongings we had left in the castle when we were taken away. Rob had retrieved our saddlery but that was all. I had made a cursory search for my personal things and found them gone, and assumed that they were at the bottom of the moat. As for the horses, out on the Malverns, they could have strayed for miles. I had meant to arrange a search but first there had been the ride to Richmond and then Dale’s illness. This was like a gift from heaven.

  “They were on the Severn pastures,” Brockley said. “They must have wandered down from the hills. They were grazing with a couple of donkeys. I found the donkeys’ owner. He said he’d been ill and he was slow going out to bring his animals to safety when the river came over its banks. He was only just in time. There were no other animals on the pastures by then except for his donkeys, and two strange horses grazing with them. No one seemed to be bothering with the horses, so he brought them in with the donkeys. When it was safe again, he turned them all out together. He supposed the horses’ owner would turn up eventually—and so she has, madam, with me as your representative.”

  “Have you brought them back?’ I asked eagerly.

  “I have indeed. I paid the donkeys’ owner for the fodder he gave them while they were in his stable and I fetched them back here. They’ve lost condition but not too badly.”

  Our personal items were probably gone for good, but what of it? Clothes and toilet things could be replaced and I could buy another copy of Sir Thomas Wyatt’s poems. The horses were dearer to me than any of them. “Thank you, Brockley,” I said. “It’s wonderful news. I’ll go to the stable and see them, at once.”

  25

  Unwise Questions

  I was interested by the news that Alice Haggard and Owen Lewis were to be married so quickly, despite the deaths of both Lady Thomasine, who was Alice’s grandmother, and Rafe, who had been her lover. Owen Lewis had been winning Alice over, but I had myself seen her wearing black for Rafe. But when Dale was strong enough, we left the Welsh Marches and over twenty years went by before I heard of Alice again.

  Then, a young man came to Elizabeth’s court, as a mixture of secretary and musician in the employ of the Earl of Leicester, who had once been Robin Dudley, the queen’s Master of Horse. I saw him at a party at the earl’s house and something about him seemed familiar. I asked his name and Leicester said: “Oh, that’s William Lewis. He’s recently come to court from South Wales. Just turned twenty and plays the lute like an angel. We’ll hear him later on.”

  I looked at William Lewis again and this time I knew what I had recognized. I had seen that combination of thick brown hair and long greenish-blue eyes with a slightly asymmetrical setting in someone else long ago. Of course. He must be a son of Alice and Owen. He was the image of Alice. There was nothing of his father in him.

  Then he turned to speak to someone and I saw his profile, the sharp nose and the chin just a little too long for beauty.

  I was wrong. He did have some of his father’s features, after all. I remembered Rafe, kneeling by Lady Thomasine’s chair at that first, pretentious dinner I had attended at Vetch Castle. I recalled Rafe’s profile very well.

  I spoke to young William casually later. I made believe to be an arch and somewhat foolish woman with an interest in astrology and hazarded the guess that he was born under the sign of Aquarius. He was impressed. He was indeed an Aquarian, he said. In fact, he was born on the seventh day of February 1565.

  He could well have been conceived on the night I found Alice and Rafe asleep in each other’s arms. Alice had been married—I cast my mind back—about three weeks later, perhaps a few days more than that. She couldn’t have been sure so soon that she was with child—though some women do guess very quickly—but she might have begun to fear it. Perhaps then she had been thankful to find Owen urging the wedding forward. I wondered if her parents, for the sake of propriety after Lady Thomasine’s death, had hesitated and if she had admitted to them that she had lain with Rafe, so that they would agree.

  How much, I wondered, had Owen known or guessed? Had he thought the child was his, perhaps born early? Carefully pumping William Lewis, I learned that Alice and Owen were still alive; that he had brothers and sisters and, apparently, a happy home. Whatever secrets lay hidden within the marriage, it had prospered.

  When we finally set off for Thamesbank, Gladys came too. Gladys was determined to remain in my service somehow. When I tried to persuade her to go home, she pleaded, cried, said it was because she was ugly and was that her fault? and then took to sulking and scowling and threatening to put a curse on me. But her misery at the idea of going back to the hermitage was obvious, and besides, but for her we might well have lost Dale.

  For these reasons, and not for fear of her curses, I finally did as she asked and sent word to her family in the Black Mountains to say that she was not returning. Since I was to become the mistress of Withysham, the problem of what I was to do with her was solved. I had already decided that when I went back to France, Brockley should stay at Withysham as my steward, with Dale to help him. Gladys could go there as well, to give general help in house and kitchen, as far as her age allowed. Brockley would look after her. That way she and the Brockleys could remain in my employ but need not come to France with me.

  I would spend the summer at Withysham. Meg could stay with me. My heart lifted, thinking of that. I would hire a tutor who would instruct us both, for here was my chance to begin the serious study of Latin and Greek. Whether or not I lived to be old was in God’s hands, not mine. But if I survived the business of producing a son for Matthew (I was afraid of childbirth now and ashamed of being afraid), I would build myself a life of the mind, so that in the years to come, I would not need to hide wrinkles and gray hairs; nor would I need to pretend to be a witc
h to gain some respect from my fellow creatures.

  A little more learning might even be useful while I was still young. Lack of authority had often been a nuisance to me. Lady Thomasine’s remarks on that subject had hit home. But my looks had never helped me to the kind of authority I needed. I would see what using my brains could do.

  Making these plans helped to keep me in good spirits as I contemplated the months ahead. I wrote affectionately to Matthew, and the act of writing to him seemed to bring him nearer.

  At Thamesbank I found a message that I was to attend court as soon as possible. Arriving at Richmond, I learned that I had been summoned to be officially presented with Withysham. I was called to the queen’s private apartments and the presentation was made in one of the smaller rooms there, with Sir William Cecil and his wife, Lady Mildred, and a few other ladies as witnesses. When it was over, and I had curtsied my thanks, and the deeds of Withysham had been placed in my hands, Elizabeth took my arm and led me aside into a deep bay window. The others stood back, recognizing that she wished for a few minutes of private conversation.

  “So, Ursula, you are a woman of property now, and I hear that you will not be leaving England until the summer ends. I take it you intend to visit Withysham?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Well, naturally.”

  “Naturally,” Elizabeth echoed. “But it is only June. You will perhaps be in England until October. You have some months still to spend here. Will you spend them all in Sussex? Or could we interest you in visiting another part of England?”

  “Another part of England?” Had she found me something further to investigate? I wouldn’t have been surprised at it. But she was smiling.