Queen Without a Crown

by FIONA BUCKLEY

  We were lucky in our choice of hostelry, for in it we discovered a man who made his living partly by serving drinks but also by guiding travellers who did not know the locality. Rab Fuller was a stolid, pink-faced fellow with a nearly incomprehensible northern accent, but he knew where Ramsfold was. I had made a rough copy of Mistress Tracy’s map, but he had no need of it. He could lead us straight there in the morning, he said. He had his own mule and could go as fast as we could, in these snowy conditions. We could be there before sunset.

  Carlisle was in Cumberland, whose earl had declared for the queen, but Ramsfold lay a few miles over the Northumbrian border, in what had been enemy territory. Our guide steered us competently, in a north-easterly direction. We passed through a hamlet, where we crossed a river on a bridge and rode on through land which grew progressively wilder and weather which had turned bitter again. There had been a fresh snowfall the previous night.

  It was a lonely district. The few small villages were isolated signs of human life amid hills and moorlands. To the north the land was lower, and we saw dense forest in the distance. Rab told us that we were now in Northumberland, and a few miles further on he said that we had reached Ramsfold land. The country became less forbidding. We passed through a village where a number of people came to their cottage doors to stare. The path led on through a fir wood to emerge at the foot of a knoll, and the track, heavily trodden and covered with slush and broken ice, climbed towards a building at the top. ‘That’s Ramsfold,’ said Rab.

  I looked at the place with interest. Like many manor houses near the border, it was fortified. There was no moat, but the gradient to the gatehouse was steep, a defence in itself. Our horses were already tired. They were drooping wearily before we got to the gatehouse.

  The porter, when we finally reached him, greeted us with restrained politeness. I explained that I had come from Mistress Blanche Winthorpe’s mother, Mistress Bess Tracy. He said grumblingly that he would announce us and that we could come through the gatehouse but must remain mounted and wait in the outer courtyard. Obeying him, we found ourselves arousing interest from some cross-bred hounds in a fenced run to our left. As if they had mistaken us for a dinner which was being unkindly withheld from them, they threw themselves, baying, against their fence. Our horses stamped uneasily. ‘I hope they can’t get out,’ said Trelawny, eyeing the hounds with dislike.

  I patted Roundel to calm her and studied the main house, which faced us across the courtyard. Built of yellowish-grey stone, it had a crenellated watchtower at one end and arrow-slit windows. In front of us, at the top of a short flight of steps, was a massive door, shut fast and studded with iron. Even within its surrounding walls, the face which Ramsfold presented to visitors was hardly friendly.

  ‘My, my,’ said Trelawny. ‘What a merry place this is. Always ready for a siege or a funeral, I’d say.’

  ‘I think the idea is to avoid funerals,’ Brockley told him. ‘Whoever lives here is determined to defend themselves.’

  Trelawny laughed, and the rest of us chuckled with him. Then the gatekeeper, who had disappeared not through the front door but round the right-hand end of the house, came back, accompanied by a groom and a stable boy. ‘You can dismount. We’ll see to your animals,’ he said.

  We had gained entrance, at least. We dismounted and handed our horses over. Brockley, who had been fretted by my recent insistence that he should masquerade as my relative, because it prevented him from going with the horses to see them properly cared for, now showed signs of wanting to go to the stables anyway, but I put my hand on his arm. ‘No, Brockley. I want help from this Blanche Winthorpe, and I don’t know what she’s like. Her mother says she was soft as a girl, but she may have changed by now. She may be just like Bess!’

  ‘Did that female peregrine falcon scare you?’ Trelawny asked.

  ‘You saw her like that too?’ I said with interest. ‘I thought of her as a she-eagle. I hope her daughter is gentler!’

  Rab said in his broad accent that he would go with the grooms; he wanted to see to his own mule, anyway. He’d have to start back to Carlisle soon, he added, and looked at me questioningly.

  ‘I don’t know when we’ll leave or quite where we’ll go next,’ I said. ‘We’ll find a guide from here when we go. Pay him, Brockley.’

  As Rab went off with the grooms, the iron-studded door was opened, although the person who came through it was manifestly not Blanche Winthorpe. This was an upper manservant, very dignified in a black doublet adorned with a gold chain. He also had a face as stony as any outcrop on the northern moors.

  ‘Good day. I am Ulverdale, butler and steward of this house.’ He halted on the lowest step, and not at all in the attitude of one who bids welcome to a party of wayfarers. He looked as though he wished to bar our way and, if possible, send us on it.

  From the corner of his mouth, Trelawny muttered: ‘Dear God, he’s one of those butlers. Satan employs a demon blacksmith to forge them on an anvil in hell.’

  ‘Quiet, Trelawny,’ Brockley growled, also out of the corner of his mouth.

  ‘My name,’ I said to the butler, ‘is Ursula Stannard. I am from the court of Queen Elizabeth and have at times served as one of her ladies. If, as I believe, the lady of this house is Mistress Blanche Winthorpe, then I have business with her. I was directed here by her mother, Bess Tracy of Kendal. My companions are relatives of mine: Master Roger Brockley and Master Carew Trelawny. Is Mistress Winthorpe at home?’

  ‘The mistress has been unwell and may not wish to receive visitors.’ Ulverdale’s northern voice was as dignified as his mien. ‘However . . .’

  The day was passing, and the wind was sharp, and anyway, in the north of England, it is customary to make travellers welcome even if a wake is in progress. Ulverdale bowed to custom. ‘If you will come this way, I will arrange refreshments for you and enquire if my mistress can see you,’ he said, turning to lead the way up to the door.

  We climbed the steps behind him, following him into a short stone passageway through a thick protective wall. This in turn delivered us to an inner courtyard at a higher level. Here, the snow had mostly been swept out of the way, and chickens scattered before us. A girl shaking a cloth out of a kitchen door to our left, and another drawing water from a well in the middle of the court, paused interestedly to watch us.

  The house, which was bigger than it appeared from the outside, was built all round this inner court. From the style of the building, the place was a good century old or more, but some of its inner windows were not depressing slits like the outer ones, but modern mullions, though the ground-floor ones, I noticed, were smaller than those higher up and wouldn’t admit much light.

  The stables, where the grooms were now tending our mounts, were on our right, and our horses had evidently been brought in through a double-leaved gate on that side. Stabling, harness rooms and hay store occupied the ground floor of the right-hand wing, but the true main entrance to the house was on the left, flanked on either side by mullions, and this was where the butler led us.

  Entering on his heels, we found ourselves at once in a big panelled hall not unlike the one at Littlebeck House though much less gracious. It certainly wasn’t well lit, for although there were three big iron candle chandeliers hanging from the ceiling, none of them were in use. The shadowy minstrels’ balcony which overlooked one end had a forlorn and dusty air, as though it hadn’t seen a minstrel for a hundred years, and the slatted wooden stair that led down from it, into the hall, looked rickety.

  I also noticed with regret that the white cloth on the big table in the middle was stained and the elaborate silver salt, which stood on the table among other miscellaneous objects such as knives and tankards, was tarnished. A film of dust covered the oak sideboard which stood between two of the mullioned windows, and the pewter dishes and tankards on its shelves looked dull. This was a sadly uncared for place.

  It was not unoccupied, for three men in soldierly buff garments were playing cards at
a small table near the fire with the help of the only extra lighting in the entire hall, a triple-branched candlestick in the middle of their table. They paused in their play to eye us sharply. As we waited for Ulverdale to show us where to go next, a door opened at the far end, and a woman came in. She entered diffidently, but when she saw us, she hurried towards us, though she detoured slightly as if she didn’t want to pass too close to the card players.

  ‘I saw from my parlour window that we had guests. How delightful – in January, too. I am Blanche Winthorpe. May I know . . .?’

  I had a strong impression that Ulverdale would much rather she didn’t know, but after all, we had been brought in to be presented to the mistress of the house. He introduced us, remembering to say that I was a lady-in-waiting to Queen Elizabeth.

  I stepped forward, my hand extended. ‘I am happy to meet you, Mistress Winthorpe,’ I said, smiling, ‘Madam, I am here with the knowledge and approval of your mother, Bess Tracy. I hope I find you in good health?’

  ‘Tolerably, tolerably. The winter is always a wearing time. And my mother? Is she well?’

  ‘You should not have left the warmth of your parlour, madam,’ said Ulverdale. He was trying to sound solicitous, but to me he seemed irritated. ‘This hall is draughty. Might I suggest that you and your guests withdraw? Joan is with you, I trust?’

  ‘My maid,’ said Blanche to me. ‘Yes, indeed . . .’

  Ulverdale had said she was ill, but I didn’t think she was, though I felt that something was amiss with her in some other sense. Blanche Winthorpe was a plump lady with a pile of thick light-brown hair in front of her starched white cap. Her green, quilted satin sleeves were thick with fine embroidery, and her ruff was trimmed with costly lace, which spoke of means and position.

  But that swerve as she crossed the hall and the nervous expression in her big grey eyes told another story. Also, when Ulverdale mentioned my connection with Elizabeth’s court, I thought I had seen a flash in those eyes, though whether it was of hope or fear I couldn’t tell. My companions had seen it, too.

  ‘Something’s going on here,’ muttered Trelawny, just clearly enough for me and for Brockley to hear him.

  ‘Your mother is well,’ I said to our hostess, ‘and sends her love. Madam, could we speak to you privately? These gentlemen are family connections, who have accompanied me to guard me along the way and are fully aware of the business in hand.’

  ‘Of course, of course. Come through to the parlour. Ulverdale!’ As though our presence had given her confidence, she adopted a more commanding tone. ‘Take my guests’ cloaks and bespeak some hot food and drink. They must be chilled, riding in this weather.’

  Ulverdale bowed politely, and I felt sure that he was gritting his teeth. He took our cloaks as instructed, and we followed Blanche across the hall. Once more she swerved to keep a distance between herself and the card players, although this time she had the three of us close to her. I thought that she didn’t realize she was doing it.

  She led us through the further door, where we found ourselves in a parlour which was neat and pretty, if somewhat small for the mistress of the house. A young woman, who was sewing by the fire, rose as we came in and bobbed to us.

  ‘My maid, Joan,’ said Blanche. ‘You may be seated again, Joan. Please, everyone, be comfortable.’

  The parlour seemed to form part of a suite, because a spiral stone staircase came down into one corner of the room; very likely, there was a bedchamber above. The room was certainly a pleasing contrast to the bleakness of the hall. There was a bright fire, many lit candles, embroidered cushions and a smell of polish. And, hanging on the panelled wall opposite to the door, there was a portrait.

  It was quite big, a good two feet by two. It showed a man seated at a desk, and the fashion of his ruff and doublet suggested that it had been painted at least twenty years earlier, perhaps more. I went straight across to it and looked at the artist’s signature in the lower right-hand corner.

  Jocelyn Arbuckle.

  ‘Mistress Winthorpe,’ I said, ‘may I know the name of the man this excellent portrait shows? I have a good reason for asking – it has to do with my purpose in coming here. Your mother knows all about it.’

  ‘That’s my cousin Gervase,’ said Mistress Winthorpe, sounding surprised. ‘I always liked the picture, and my mother gave it to me as a wedding gift. He was her nephew. I believe there was some estrangement between him and his father, who therefore refused to keep the picture in his own home. Ah. Here is Ulverdale with some wine. Now, Mistress Stannard, you can explain this mysterious errand of yours to me.’

  I stared at the portrait. So that was Gervase. Mark wasn’t much like his father, except for one thing. They both had the same dramatic, sweeping eyebrows, marked enough to remove one question from my mind. I had wondered if Gervase’s hatred of Hoxton had been because Mark was not, in fact, Gervase’s son at all.

  After all, if Hoxton had fathered him instead, then no one could say he was a poisoner’s son, though whether the Masons would regard an irregular pedigree more kindly than a criminal one, I did not know. Now, looking at the portrait, I felt that, judging from those eyebrows, the man in the painting had to be Mark’s true father.

  Otherwise, Mark took after Judith. Gervase was dark, like his wife and son, but his eyes were blue and he had Bess Tracy’s eagle profile, which Mark had certainly not inherited. The painted Gervase was looking straight ahead, but on the table before him lay an inkstand and a sheet of paper with writing on it, and he held a quill, as though he had been interrupted while working and had just glanced up.

  The hand in which he held the pen was his left.

  FIFTEEN

  The Scent of Treason

  ‘Did you say,’ asked Blanche, ‘that my cousin’s portrait is connected to your purpose here?’

  Silently, I cursed. I had made a bad mistake, the kind which no agent of experience should ever make. I had admitted that to find Gervase’s picture was why I had come to Ramsfold, thus spoiling an excuse to ask to be shown round the house to look at all its pictures. Ramsfold was a suspect house, and for a moment I had let myself forget it.

  It was too late now to retract. I sipped mulled wine, smiled as pleasantly as I could and told Blanche of the errand on which Mark had sent us. I could least make sure that I sounded candid and innocent.

  ‘Having seen the painting, I now know which hand Master Easton senior used for writing,’ I said. ‘Alas, it comes near to confirming his guilt. Your cousin’s guilt, I should say. I am sorry.’

  ‘Oh, it means nothing to me,’ Blanche said. ‘I never met Gervase. He never came north, and I have never been anywhere else. I’ve never cared for travelling. Joan – Master Brockley’s goblet is empty, I think.’

  Joan, who was sharing the wine and had been put in charge of the tray, rose gracefully and went the rounds with the jug. ‘My mistress is happy, living quietly in her home,’ she said in a gentle voice.

  I drank, wondering what, after so foolishly ruining my most obvious approach, I could do about my second errand. Was Blanche friend or foe? I had an instinctive feeling that conspiracies would frighten her. I ventured what I hoped was a natural and commonplace question.

  ‘Have the recent troubles in the north affected you?’ I asked Blanche. ‘You are in Northumberland here, are you not?’

  It went home. I saw it in her eyes; saw the quiver of her lip. And also saw the quick glance she gave towards Joan who, busy refilling Brockley’s goblet, did not notice.

  ‘It has not quite passed us by.’ Her tone was flurried. ‘Some men went from here to join my lord of Northumberland. I fear they won’t come back. They have fled with him into Scotland. I may be fined, though they didn’t go at my orders. I am loyal to the queen.’

  ‘Is your home held from the Earl of Northumberland?’ I asked. ‘If you are his tenant, he could demand that your men join him and you would have no say. You might then avoid blame.’

  ‘It’s held from him now
,’ Blanche said sadly. ‘It used to be freehold, but my husband ran into debt. He gambled, you know, and then there was an unwise purchase of a new breed of sheep. The north was too harsh for them, and we lost the whole flock and a whole year’s wool. To keep Ramsfold, we had to sell it to the earl!’

  ‘Oh dear,’ I said sympathetically. I understood, all too well.

  ‘It sounds funny, doesn’t it? To keep it we had to sell it!’ Under her forced brightness, I heard something close to hysteria. ‘So now I am a tenant, and when the earl demanded that I provide two dozen men, I had to do as I was bid. And more than enough men were willing.’

  Joan, who had finished topping up the goblets and resumed her seat, raised her head proudly. ‘But, madam, why should they not be, when they were called to help reclaim England for the true faith?’

  ‘Joan is Catholic,’ said Blanche. ‘I am not. Though she is much attached to me; indeed, she scarcely ever leaves my side.’ A flicker of a glance from Brockley told me that he, too, had heard the curious nuance in Blanche’s voice. And now, in her eyes, I saw a signal. It was a plea.

  Darkness was falling. There was no question about whether or not we would spend the night at Ramsfold. We had no alternative. We were shown to two rooms on the other side of the courtyard, one for myself and one for the men. They were above the stables, but were nevertheless perfectly good, well-furnished guest rooms. Rab, apparently, had already taken himself and his mule off on the road back to Carlisle.

  I longed to speak to Blanche in private, but it was all too true that Joan scarcely ever left her side. The maid was apparently bound to her mistress by an invisible fetter. I also wanted to confer with my own companions and found that even this had suddenly become difficult. It was as though we were being kept under surveillance. The house seemed short of servants, but nevertheless, a diminutive lass called Annet was found to act as my maid and Ulverdale himself hovered round Brockley and Trelawny, offering to unpack their saddlebags. As I finished washing and changing, I heard them shooing him out and then Brockley called me, but when, taking a candle, I left my room, tiresome little Annet tried to tag after me.