Queen Without a Crown

by FIONA BUCKLEY

  ‘Even though her child was his grandchild?’ said Hugh, shocked.

  ‘So Judith said. Well, she seemed to like me – said I was a fine hard-working man; smiled at me. And I more than liked her. While Easton was alive, I’d never have said so, but when she lost him, I let her . . .’ Again I heard that note of pain, saw that flash of memory in his eyes. ‘Let her put her woman’s spell on me. Didn’t realize that she didn’t know she was doing it. My first wife was dead, a good few years since. I was free. I waited till the new year; then I went courting her. I offered her my hand and heart and my name.’

  ‘And she accepted you,’ said Hugh.

  He shrugged. ‘Yes. I thought she’d come to feel what I did. But she was only looking for security, like most women. I was older than she was; reckon that made her feel I’d be a safe haven.’ Here, and somewhat impertinently, he looked from me to Hugh, taking in the fact that I, too, had married an older man. As you did, was his wordless comment when his eyes met mine.

  I stared at him steadily, and he withdrew his gaze.

  ‘Even when I understood, I thought I’d get her to love me, given a bit of time. Only, I never did. Always Gervase, that’s how it bloody was. Always Gervase. And him a killer!’ said Bowman with a snort.

  Worsted, Hugh and I exchanged glances and prepared to take our leave. As we were doing so, Bowman finally awoke to the fact that he hadn’t shown us much in the way of hospitality and apologized for it.

  ‘’Fraid I don’t have the habits of a good host. Ought to look after the place better than I do. Can’t trouble myself with dusting and polishing and most of my food’s just something boiled, or thrown in a pan with a lump of lard. I used to have maidservants when I could afford them, but . . . bah! I had three altogether and nicknames for all them – Lazy, Saucy, Lightfingers, that’s what I called them. Maybe you’d like a glass of wine?’ He pointed to one of the casks. ‘I make my own these days, from dandelions. It’s cheaper, and that’s one thing I do bother to do.’

  The wine was very palatable. He took down the silver salt, which was elaborate for its size, with four spice trays, and offered us nutmeg or cinnamon to flavour our drinks, though we both preferred them without.

  ‘That’s a very charming salt,’ I said.

  ‘It was part of my first wife’s dowry,’ said Bowman, helping himself to wine and adding cinnamon. ‘Judith had no dowry to speak of, poor lass, except for her beauty. You’re a pretty woman yourself, mistress.’ The wine was quite strong, and I rather thought he had been drinking it earlier. It had probably influenced him. ‘You’ve a handsome wife, Master Stannard. Wish I were twenty years younger.’

  ‘Indeed?’ said Hugh coldly, and as soon as we had finished our drinks, he made our farewells and fairly dragged me out of the place.

  ‘Sheer impudence!’ he said crossly as we made our way back up the lane. ‘If Hoxton is supposed to have been a womanizer, I wonder what Bowman was like when he was young? And we’ve learned nothing. There’s no chink, anywhere. Can you see one?’

  ‘No, I can’t. It’s a wall across the road, every time. We’d do better to stop,’ I said miserably. Suddenly, I was near to tears. ‘I can’t bear to keep on thinking that Hawkswood could be saved if we could find a way through when there is no way through!’

  ‘I’m sorry for Mark,’ Hugh said. ‘This girl he wants to marry – Jane Mason. What’s she like? You knew her once, didn’t you?’

  ‘She was only about nine, then,’ I said. ‘A sturdy little thing with pretty brown hair and big grey eyes and the clumsiest hand with an embroidery needle that I ever saw. I was supposed to be teaching stitch-work to the Mason girls, and I swear that Jane stuck her needle into her fingers more often than into her work. Anything Jane tried to embroider usually ended up smeared with blood.’

  ‘However, Mark is in love with her. Couldn’t we try to talk the Masons round? Have you thought of writing to them?’

  ‘I could try,’ I said. The uphill lane grew steeper, and beside me, Hugh was growing short of breath. I gave him my arm.

  Slowly, we continued uphill, helping each other on the way. Once we were indoors, I at once got out my writing things.

  We were wasting our time on this hopeless quest. There was nothing new to be learned about the death of Peter Hoxton, and for the sake of Hawkswood – and for these two young lovers, Mark and Jane – I must write to my friend Ann Mason, Jane’s mother, and to George, the eldest son, and try to convince them that whatever had happened in 1547, here in 1569, Mark and Jane should not be kept apart.

  Whether Mark would regard that as equivalent to clearing his father’s name, and clear our debt for us as well, we didn’t know, but we could hope.

  EIGHT

  Unexpected Harvest

  Elizabeth had ordered me and my family to remain in Windsor, but our servants could come and go at will. Brockley took my letter to Jane’s mother and brother. Their Berkshire home, Lockhill, was only a day’s ride away. He left early one morning and was back by the evening of the following day, tired and muddy from riding in the rain, having slept just one night at Lockhill. Ann Mason and George had asked for time to consider. We must await their messenger.

  ‘I don’t hold out much hope, madam,’ Brockley said to me with regret. ‘They were all good manners and good cheer, but mother and son alike have something unyielding in their natures, and that’s the truth.’

  The next thing that happened was that Mark himself returned from the north with another budget of news; hopeful for the most part. The insurgent earls of Westmorland and Northumberland had marched south from Durham in the far north-east and arrived at the town of Ripon, where they had had mass said in a church. They had issued wordy proclamations, describing themselves as the principal favourers of God’s Word and eulogizing the Duke of Norfolk, who had been arrested when the trouble first broke out, as a martyr and a high and mighty prince. There, however, matters seemed to have halted.

  Sussex had mobilized his own men and sent word to the midland sheriffs, who had raised forces from their respective counties to fight for the queen. The resultant army was now a formidable barrier between the insurgent earls and both Mary Stuart and Windsor.

  Indeed, it was more than a barrier, for it was moving north towards the insurgent earls. In addition, snow was falling, a hindrance to movement on both sides, but as long as the earls were among the hindered, the south would remain safe.

  Another of the northern nobles, the Earl of Cumberland, had declared for the queen, and the rebels would find no sanctuary in his lands, let alone reinforcements. Three powerful cities in the far north of England, Berwick, Carlisle and Newcastle, had also announced that their citizens would support Elizabeth. The wives of Westmorland and Northumberland were said to be beside themselves with fury and urging their husbands to greater efforts, but Sussex’s report said that, in his opinion, neither of the earls had half the stomach for war that their womenfolk had, and that the whole lot of them would either be prisoners or would flee into exile before Christmas.

  Mark came to see us as soon as he had delivered his message to the queen and Cecil. He repeated his news to us in person and on the whole with optimism. ‘My Lord Sussex says all these marchings and proclamations are no more than heat and nothingness, like the hot air above a chimney,’ he declared cheerfully. ‘I must set forth again soon to fetch whatever is the next news. I shall wear the road between here and York six inches deeper if I go to and fro much oftener.’ After that, however, his mien became downcast. He sat in our chamber with his hands dangling between his knees and his good padded doublet hanging on him, as though all the toing and froing had made him lose weight.

  ‘I tried to see Jane,’ he said. ‘I begged two days’ leave and rode across Yorkshire to Tyesdale, where she’s living.’

  ‘Is it in good order now?’ I asked. ‘It was very run down when we were there, before Penelope married Clem Moss. But Clem struck me as a hard-working and competent young fellow.’

&
nbsp; ‘He is. Tyesdale is prosperous. I could almost wish it were not,’ said Mark glumly. ‘When it comes to finding a husband for Jane, her family have too much choice. They wouldn’t let me see Jane. They were polite to me, gave me some excellent French wine and told me, quite kindly, all about the well-off people, good supporters of the queen and with no criminals in their ancestry, who have made approaches on behalf of their sons. The Mosses particularly favour one candidate, I understand.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I said inadequately.

  ‘Just now,’ said Mark, ‘most of my rivals are in Lord Sussex’s militia. Nothing will happen about their marriages until they’re home again. Personally, I almost hope that the earls fight back and that the war in the north drags on and on – given that it stays away from Tyesdale.’

  Hugh cleared his throat and said: ‘We’ve written to Jane’s mother and brother in Lockhill. We’ve asked them to relent. Then, even if we can’t clear your father’s name, you would at least be able to marry. But I also have to say that they haven’t yet replied and we aren’t hopeful.’

  ‘If they do agree,’ Mark said, ‘I will honour our contract. That is, if you would not be offended by that.’

  With an inward sigh of relief, I said: ‘We will discuss that when the reply comes – if it’s the right answer.’

  ‘If only it is!’ I said to Hugh when Mark had gone. ‘I’m sorry for him,’ I added. ‘I think he’s one of the type that fall in love once and for all. Steadfastness is a virtue, but it can be a burden too.’

  ‘Yes. Bowman had a point,’ Hugh said. ‘Many girls are beautiful, and they don’t all have families as particular as Jane’s. Time can mend broken hearts, if the owners of the hearts will let it.’

  ‘Hugh, you’re a cynic.’

  ‘I’m a realist. You’ve just called falling in love once and for all a burden. It can even be dangerous. It’s possible that Mark’s father also fell in love once and for all and so desperately that it drove him to murder. Let us talk of something else. Isn’t it time that one of us went to see how Meg’s portrait is progressing?’

  ‘I’ve already said to Sybil that I must go with Meg to the studio one day soon. Sybil says that the whole scene is on canvas now.’

  According to Sybil, Arbuckle had created several different arrangements, by which various sections of the whole were lit up and visible through the aperture in the screen, to be caught by the lens and reflected on to the paper.

  ‘He makes a detailed study on the paper, using the reflected images, and then copies them on to the canvas,’ Sybil had told me. ‘The work on the canvas has begun, but he still needs Meg herself to look at, to help him with further details. And to study her character as deeply as he can, I think,’ she had added, perceptively. ‘There’s no harm in that. Meg’s character is all it should be.’

  Talking about the portrait did make me feel better. I think it cheered Hugh, as well. We got out our chess set and played three games before supper. I won two of them, and Hugh said: ‘You are improving.’

  I wasn’t so sure. It seemed to me that, these days, Hugh was not as sharp at the game as he used to be, but I didn’t say so. ‘Just good luck,’ I told him. ‘And I think you’re tired. Let’s go to supper and then settle for the night.’

  We were coming back from supper when John Sterry accosted us, just at the foot of the stairs. Madge Goodman, he said, wished to talk to me again. She had remembered something that might be of use to me. I could see her at any time in the morning.

  I glanced at Hugh and saw the hope in his eyes. I felt it spring up anew in me. Perhaps, after all . . .

  ‘I’ll see her as early as I can, tomorrow,’ I said.

  I worried a little about getting away from the queen the next day, but after chapel she went, as so often these days, to talk with her council, and I made my way unhindered through the labyrinth of the castle and down to the Spicery where I found Sterry checking new supplies in.

  ‘I see that the castle is still being stocked up,’ I said, nodding at the pile of small boxes he was counting.

  ‘A little madly, in my view,’ Sterry said. He no longer sounded anxious; the news that the danger was receding had no doubt reached him. ‘These are all peppercorns. It’s an absurd quantity, unless we’re expecting to be besieged for a year – or we’re planning to grind them up and throw them in the enemy’s eyes.’

  I laughed, remembering what Brockley had said about his friend Carew Trelawny, who had been good at inventing new uses for pea-stick twine and other people’s washing. ‘Where is Madge?’

  Sterry ticked off a line on the list he was holding and said: ‘This way.’

  Madge was once more making comfits. Pieces of ginger root were piled on a chopping board beside her, along with a steaming jug of some brown liquid from which arose the smell of hot syrup. In her swinging charcoal-heated pan, she was stirring ginger pieces into pools of syrup. Presumably, comfit-making was her main task. I wondered what it was like, toiling at the same dull job, day after day, with scorched fingers the only break in the monotony. Sterry had said that Madge apparently preferred it to her married life, which was a sorry reflection on her husband.

  Madge, however, rosy and neat, deftly working her ingredients, greeted us with a smile, looking as though hers were the only job in the world she wanted to do.

  ‘I’ve brought Mistress Stannard to see you,’ said Sterry. ‘Finish that panful and then show her what you showed me this morning.’

  ‘I’m sorry I had to ask you to come all the way down here to see me,’ Madge said to me. ‘But it’s that hard for me to get away, with all this to do, and besides, like before, it’s best if I show you what I mean.’

  ‘I’ll leave you to it,’ said Sterry drily. ‘I’d better make sure that ninety boxes of peppercorns aren’t accidentally listed as ninety-five. A real disaster that would be. We might find ourselves a few boxes short in ten years’ time!’

  He went away. Madge removed her pan from its hook, wiped her hands on her apron and then took me through the kitchens, back to the little room from which, over twenty years ago, Hoxton’s manservant Edwards had collected his master’s fatal dinner.

  ‘See, mistress, it was just here that the table stood where the tray for Master Hoxton was put ready.’

  She moved into the little room and with spread arms indicated the size and position of the table. ‘It’s the queerest thing,’ she said to me. ‘Even at the time, I made nothing of it. I never thought to mention it. I had a picture in my mind of the man I saw come in here and put something on that tray, but everyone kept asking me what did he look like, so I only thought about that. I only talked about that. I never thought—’

  ‘Never thought what?’ I asked. She was rambling, and it made me impatient, but I used a gentle voice because I could see that she was nervous of my position with the queen and she didn’t have Sterry to support her this time. ‘Come, tell me.’

  She came back to stand beside me. ‘I was coming from the kitchens when I saw him. I’d got to about here, where we are now, when I saw this man standing by the table. He was facing this way. I couldn’t see his face very well, but like I told you before, he took a bundle from his satchel, unwrapped a cloth from it and there was the pie in its dish. He put it down on the tray.’

  I was at a loss, but still carefully patient as I said: ‘But what exactly is it you’ve remembered?’

  ‘Well, it’s funny, but after you came to see me the other day, I kept thinking back and seeing the picture in my mind, of what he was doing, and it came up so clear; it was as though I were living all through it again, and then I saw!’

  ‘Saw what?’ I said, crushing down quite a strong urge to seize Madge by the shoulders and shake her until she talked sense.

  ‘Well, mistress, that he did nigh on everything with his left hand. I can see it in my head. He had the satchel on his right hip. He pulled out the bundle and put it down with his left hand and unwrapped it with his left. It’s as clear as clea
r, what I remember, like a picture, only moving. Then he pulled the tray nearer and put the pie on it neatly, like, and all that with his left hand too. And then he folded the cloth up and put it into the satchel with his left hand as well. He was a left-handed man. As sure as I’m standing here or there’s a God in heaven, he was left-handed. So if you were trying to find out,’ said Madge, ‘whether it was one man or another that did it, well . . .’

  ‘Find out which was left-handed,’ I said. ‘Thank you, Madge!’

  I didn’t shake her. I gave her a sovereign and a kiss. It seemed that my first visit to the kitchens had planted a seed which had borne an unexpected harvest. At last, at last, a fact. A fact that might, just, help.

  NINE

  A Picture of the Past

  To use my new knowledge, I needed to talk to someone who had known Gervase Easton well. I told all the others what Madge had told me. Bowman might help, I thought, and I suggested that Hugh and I should call on him again.

  We could not go that day, for I was on duty with Elizabeth. I had to attend her at a series of audiences which broke off for dinner but resumed afterwards. When they finally finished, Elizabeth decided to study her books. She was in the habit of maintaining her Italian and her Latin by reading works in these languages. I hoped for release, but none came. Elizabeth sometimes studied on her own, but on other occasions she liked to have her ladies close by.

  However, there was to be another council meeting the following morning. Hugh and I could go to see Bowman then, I thought. When the next morning came, however, he woke feeling unwell.

  He looked ill, too, very grey of skin and very sunken-eyed. Gladys, on hearing his symptoms, at once said she would brew some medicine for him. Gladys was clever with medicines and always had a box of dried medicinal herbs with her. Her remedies were often effective.