Contents
Cover
A Selection of Recent Titles by Fiona Buckley
Title Page
Copyright
Chapter One: Outlook Grey
Chapter Two: Applications by a Tutor and a Groom
Chapter Three: Out of Nowhere
Chapter Four: Into the Void
Chapter Five: The Stallion in the Parlour
Chapter Six: The Trap
Chapter Seven: The Dreadful Choice
Chapter Eight: The Queen’s Advice
Chapter Nine: Playing For Time
Chapter Ten: A House Without Dogs
Chapter Eleven: Dead End
Chapter Twelve: Sheffield Castle
Chapter Thirteen: Word From Home
Chapter Fourteen: Harry’s Tale
Chapter Fifteen: Old House With Ivy
Chapter Sixteen: All Unknowing
Chapter Seventeen: Glimpsed At A Window
Chapter Eighteen: Supper and Cards
Chapter Nineteen: Gathering Forces
Chapter Twenty: Three Times Is Too Many
Chapter Twenty-One: Manhunt
Chapter Twenty-Two: My Son, My Son
Chapter Twenty-Three: Face to Face
A Selection of Recent Titles by Fiona Buckley.
The Ursula Blanchard Mysteries
THE ROBSART MYSTERY
THE DOUBLET AFFAIR
QUEEN’S RANSOM
TO RUIN A QUEEN
QUEEN OF AMBITION
A PAWN FOR THE QUEEN
THE FUGITIVE QUEEN
THE SIREN QUEEN
QUEEN WITHOUT A CROWN *
QUEEN’S BOUNTY *
A RESCUE FOR A QUEEN *
A TRAITOR’S TEARS *
A PERILOUS ALLIANCE *
THE HERETIC’S CREED *
A DEADLY BETROTHAL *
THE RELUCTANT ASSASSIN *
* available from Severn House
THE RELUCTANT ASSASSIN
An Ursula Blanchard Mystery
Fiona Buckley
This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.
First published in Great Britain and the USA 2018 by
Crème de la Crime, an imprint of
SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of
Eardley House, 4 Uxbridge Street, London W8 7SY
This eBook edition first published in 2018 by Severn House Digital
an imprint of Severn House Publishers Limited
Trade paperback edition first published
in Great Britain and the USA 2018 by
SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD
Copyright © 2018 by Fiona Buckley.
The right of Fiona Buckley to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988.
British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data
A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.
ISBN-13: 978-1-78029-103-1 (cased)
ISBN-13: 978-1-78029-585-5 (trade paper)
ISBN-13: 978-1-78010-953-4 (e-book)
Except where actual historical events and characters are being described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to living persons is purely coincidental.
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ONE
Outlook Grey
‘No, Master Woodley, no, please … for pity’s sake, this is a public anteroom in Richmond Palace, there are people passing us every moment, and smiling at your antics … yes, I did say antics. I implore you …’
‘Dear Mistress Stannard, I am not making improper advances! I am most honourably offering you my hand and heart and my wedding ring. I would be a good husband, I promise. I am less wealthy than you but I am no beggar. My elder brother will inherit my father’s drapery business and my father’s modest estate, but Father decreed that the two farms that my dear mother brought with her into the marriage should come to me. I am healthy and capable; respectably employed as an assistant secretary in the household of Sir George Talbot, Earl of Shrewsbury. I can help you. You have two big houses, a stud of trotting horses to look after, and a young son to rear. It’s heavy burden for a lone widow …’
‘And it amounts to a very nice marriage portion,’ I said, resorting to sarcasm. He had accosted me in a long gallery. Along one side, it had deep bays, almost amounting to small rooms, with windows overlooking the gardens, and window seats. Master Woodley had pulled me into one of these bays and in trying to retreat from his octopus-like embrace I had backed into a window seat, which had an edge that was now grinding unpleasantly into my spine.
‘Listen,’ I said, turning my head so that he couldn’t kiss me. ‘In this world marriage for the sake of wealth and good connections is commonplace, and believe me, it’s no easy thing to be a well-off widow! One is regarded as a catch, which is all right for people who want to be caught, but I do not!’
‘Dear Mistress Stannard, has no one ever told you that you are beautiful? You are even young enough to have more children!’
‘In this year of Our Lord 1581, I will turn forty-seven years old, and any good looks I may still possess are likely soon to fade. So will my ability to have any more children and I don’t want any more anyway. I have a small son and a married daughter and that’s enough. But you’re right, of course, about my material advantages! Yes, I do have two good houses with land attached, and a lucrative stud of trotters. In addition, though not in wedlock, I am a half-sister to Queen Elizabeth. But there is one thing I am not, and that is prey.’
‘Pray? What has prayer to do with it? I don’t understand.’
No, of course he didn’t. He really did see himself as an ardent lover. He couldn’t conceive of himself as a pack of hounds on the trail of a tired and exasperated quarry.
‘I don’t mean praying to God. I mean prey in the sense of something hunted, chased, to be captured,’ I said. ‘And I am not that – though I often find it difficult to make anyone believe it. You are not the only suitor I have refused. Over the Christmas lately passed, two Surrey gentlemen honoured me with offers of marriage. They were both well-off widowers, both with much to offer, neither exactly unattractive, but I did not want them and was glad to get away to Richmond Palace. Only,’ I said bitterly, ‘to find myself pursued again, by you!’
‘Mistress Stannard … Ursula darling …’
‘I am not your darling and please don’t call me Ursula. I don’t wish to be rude but almost since the day I came to do my regular attendance on the queen, you have dogged my steps. It must stop! You must stop!’
‘Am I repulsive to you?’
‘You’re not repulsive at all, of course not.’ He was actually quite a handsome fellow, about my own age, with a head of thick red-brown hair, and bright blue eyes in a shapely face. I still didn’t want him. ‘It isn’t that,’ I said. ‘It is simply that I don’t wish to remarry. I have already had three husbands!’
‘But I don’t wish to marry you for material gain,’ said Woodley pleadingly. ‘Why won’t you understand? I have fallen in love with you.’
‘I said, I have had three husbands. I know all about love and its compli
cations. I have had enough of it. I …’
‘Madam,’ said the welcome voice of my excellent manservant, Roger Brockley. ‘Is this man annoying you?’
‘Brockley!’ I said thankfully. But no lady should be too insulting towards a gentleman who has offered her marriage, whether she wants him or not. ‘Master Woodley has been proposing to me. But … well, I was just explaining that a new marriage was not among my plans for the future.’
‘A proposal shouldn’t be too forceful,’ said Brockley, eyeing Master Woodley in no very friendly fashion. He added smoothly: ‘I was looking for you, madam. The queen desires your presence.’
Woodley had stepped back. I eased myself away from the window seat. ‘It seems that I must let you go, dear Mistress Stannard,’ Woodley said reluctantly. ‘But I shall not give up hope.’
‘I wish you would!’ I said, and lost no time in hurrying away with Brockley.
I had been glad to escape from my suitors in Surrey in order to make my regular obligatory visit to my royal half-sister. But because of Woodley, I wasn’t enjoying myself as much as I had hoped, which was a pity for I really had looked forward to it. Richmond Palace was so beautiful.
Richmond in fact was one of Queen Elizabeth’s favourite residences. She had once said to me that she called it her Faery Palace. Admittedly, on that day in mid-March, it wasn’t looking its best, for its slender towers were lost in low, misty cloud and the air was so still that its musical wind chimes were silent. The Thames too was flowing past in silence, its surface leaden. No birds sang and the air was cold.
For this reason, when I rose that morning, I had asked my maid, Fran Dale, to fetch out a mustard-coloured gown, with a fashionable open ruff, edged in gold silk. ‘It’s a cheerful colour,’ I said. ‘And it isn’t a cheerful day.’
‘The style suits you, ma’am, and it shows off your topaz pendant very well. You’ll brighten the day in that dress!’ Dale looked at me with understanding. ‘You are wearied, ma’am. I know the signs.’
‘I’m wearied,’ I said, ‘because even in middle age I can’t get free of nuisances wanting to relieve me of my widowed state. Two unwanted proposals over Christmas, and when I get here, instead of a respite, I find myself faced with Master Woodley. He keeps on turning up. I find him beside me when I go to watch a game of bowls, when I am out hawking, any chance he can find! I am very tired of him indeed!’
All the same, I hadn’t expected him to corner me in such a blatant fashion, and babble proposals in public. That was going too far! Perhaps, I thought glumly, my attempt to brighten the world with mustard-coloured silk and a fashionable ruff had been a mistake. It had done nothing but draw Woodley’s undesirable attention.
‘What does the queen want, Brockley?’ I asked him as we hastened through the palace. ‘Is it dancing practice? I was caught by Master Woodley as soon as I had breakfasted.’
‘No, I think her majesty simply wishes to speak with you.’
‘You came to my rescue at just the right moment.’
‘Fran followed you from the dining hall and saw what was happening. She wanted to intervene but didn’t know how, so she made haste to find me – and learned that I was already seeking you. She told me where you were.’
‘Dear Dale,’ I said.
I called Dale by her maiden name out of habit but she was in fact married to Roger Brockley. Roger was middle-aged, a calm man with steady blue-grey eyes, and a high forehead with a scattering of pale gold freckles on it. He had been my trusted companion, my most valuable aide, through many troubled times. Dale, poor soul, was devoted but sometimes gave the impression that I was wilfully dragging her through hedge and ditch. Dale had slightly protuberant blue eyes and a few pockmarks, left from a childhood attack of smallpox. When she was upset, they became more noticeable. I sometimes felt contrite, thinking of all the times when I had brought them into prominence.
I was one of Elizabeth’s ladies, but not all the time. During the last few years, she and I had agreed that I should attend court twice a year, for a month or six weeks at a time. I had other commitments, after all. Woodley had been right about that. My principal house, Hawkswood, was in Surrey, but in Sussex I had a second home, Withysham. It was also true that I had a stud to watch over and a son to rear.
Elizabeth knew all that but she liked me to be near her sometimes, partly because we were sisters, but also because I was at times one of her secret agents, often entrusted with tasks concerning the safety of the state. These assignments had frequently endangered my own safety (not to mention Dale’s and Brockley’s) and now that I was well into my forties, I had asked not to be given any more. For nearly two years, I had been free of them. The last one had involved an alarming number of deaths. I had felt, then, as though death were dogging my footsteps, and with all my heart, I now wished to remain at home, in peace, and leave the safety of the realm and its painful demands, to others.
All the same, notwithstanding the promises that had been made to me, I was never sure that I wouldn’t be called back to duty. There was a ruthlessness in Elizabeth, and an answering ruthlessness in her main counsellors, her Treasurer, Lord Burghley, Sir William Cecil, and her Secretary of State, Sir Francis Walsingham. If people were useful to any of them, then used they would be. And if I were summoned again, I knew I wouldn’t refuse. How could I? Elizabeth was at once my sister and my queen. Her royal father, King Henry the Eighth, had not been faithful to his unhappy wife Anne Boleyn. My relationship to the queen was not widely known, but nor was it exactly a secret. Walsingham and Cecil knew very well that between Elizabeth and me there was a bond of blood and understanding. When asked, I served her as best I might.
I was wondering now if, once more, I was to be called into service.
Elizabeth’s private rooms were a series. They opened from an anteroom where people wishing to see or speak to her could gather, and send in their names by way of an attendant. Thereafter, beyond the big double doors guarded by armed gentlemen pensioners in red tunics, there was a small private audience chamber, and then a room which could also be used for audiences, but had in addition a spinet and a well-swept floor; this was where dancing practices were usually held.
At this point, we found a page hovering and Brockley handed me over to him. He took me through two private rooms, with no door between them but only a wide archway. These were her parlour and her bedchamber. There was another spinet in the parlour section; Elizabeth played very well but did so only when alone or with a few chosen ladies.
Beyond these again was the little room she called her study, where her collection of books was kept, and where she pursued such interests as reading in Latin and Greek and other, more modern tongues, and sometimes amused herself by doing a little translation. It was to this room that the page led me. He withdrew, closing the door behind him, and as I moved forward I saw that Elizabeth was not alone. Two of her ladies were in attendance and standing by the window was a still-faced man in a well-tailored but quiet suit of dark blue, with a modest ruff. Elizabeth nodded to the ladies, who at once followed the page out of the room.
‘Good morning, Ursula,’ Elizabeth said as I sank into my curtsey. ‘Here is Jean de Simier. You have met before, of course.’
Yes, we had. Some time before, there had been diplomatic moves to arrange a marriage between Elizabeth and a French prince, Francis, Duke of Alençon and Anjou. Jean de Simier, the duke’s servant and closest friend, had visited England to prepare the way for a visit from his master. He had been a messenger between the duke and Elizabeth ever since. Elizabeth had been at once nervous of marriage (for which she had good reasons) and attracted by the duke. She usually called him Alençon, having got into the habit when the marriage negotiations were first suggested, before he acquired the title of Anjou.
He had made a short visit to England so that he and Elizabeth could meet, but then he had gone home again and after that, the negotiations had faltered. But Elizabeth often declared that she missed him and longed for his return
. So, here was his emissary once more. Bringing news of him, presumably. I waited to hear what it was.
I rose from my curtsey. ‘You asked to see me, majesty?’ Elizabeth indicated that we should all be seated. There was a couch in the study, and two damask-covered chairs. De Simier and I took the chairs. Elizabeth stayed where she was, on the ornately carved oak chair that went with her desk. She was informally clad, in a loose peach-coloured gown with no farthingale, though she was wearing a ruff, open at the throat like my own. She turned the seat round so that she could face us.
‘Next month,’ she said to me, ‘I expect a formal embassy from France to discuss, once more, the possibility that I might marry Duke Francis of Alençon and Anjou. Jean de Simier, however, is here in advance of the embassy and privately, on behalf of his master. Duke Francis, my dear Alençon as I like to call him, it seems has certain doubts. Well, I have people in my pay whose business it is to report on events and currents of feeling out in the world, but I have a particular trust in you. You are very much in touch with what goes on in my realm, among the folk who till the fields and drink in the alehouses and buy and sell and keep shops. Jean de Simier and I would like to ask your opinion on something. If you will be kind enough to give it.’
‘Of course,’ I said. ‘If I can.’
Elizabeth looked at de Simier. He said: ‘Mistress Stannard, if my master, Duke Francis, were to come to England and marry the queen, would he be in danger? Even in France, we are aware that it is being said that many of the English don’t like the idea of a Catholic marriage for their sovereign. Also, there is Mary Stuart, the dispossessed Queen of Scotland, who suffers from the delusion that the throne is rightly hers. Mary would certainly not welcome the kind of treaty which marriage with my master would bring. It is an alliance that would make it much harder for her to bring supporters from, say, Spain, to install her on the throne. Is she likely to be a threat? What is your opinion?’
Mary Stuart. Formerly Queen of Scotland. A Catholic who did not believe that Elizabeth was legitimate and as Elizabeth’s cousin claimed that she had a better right to the throne of England. She had haunted the queen for close on twenty years, in fact ever since she had been cast out by the Scots after her first husband, Lord Darnley, had been murdered and she had unwisely married the chief suspect. She had been accused of being a party to the murder and had never cleared herself.
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