The Reluctant Assassin

by FIONA BUCKLEY

  ‘Welcome, Mistress Stannard,’ he said. ‘I was expecting you. And this is …?’ He looked vaguely at Dale. He had seen her before, of course, but obviously hadn’t paid much heed to my attendant.’

  ‘Frances Brockley,’ I said. ‘My personal maid and also my friend, Sir George.’

  ‘Who else is with you?’

  ‘Only my groom, Eddie Summers. He is tending our horses.’

  ‘Just the three of you. That’s a mercy. What with Her Grace’s retinue and my own people, this castle is bursting at every point.’ He sat down again. ‘Mistress Stannard, I don’t know very much of what this is all about. I have received – well, orders – from Sir Francis Walsingham. My wife, the Countess of Shrewsbury, has also received orders. Bess is to declare that you are here at her invitation, and to bring you into contact with Her Grace, Mary Stuart. In fact, I understand, you are here to act as a spy on behalf of the queen. There is some new suspicion surrounding Mary Stuart, apparently. Sir Francis has given me no details.’

  I nodded, impressed by Walsingham’s ingenuity. I was to be brought into contact with Mary, apparently at the request of the Countess. All sociable, normal and open, whatever Mary might think of it.

  ‘I would have preferred,’ said Sir George huffily, ‘to be given more details of this new suspicion, but if Sir Francis Walsingham doesn’t see fit to supply them, I know there is little I can do.’

  Carefully, I said: ‘Walsingham gives his orders and that’s that. I know little more than you.’ I was sure that he had given orders to Sir Edward Heron as well, as indeed, he had said he would. I had heard nothing from Heron, which suggested that he had taken no action. He might not like me, but the disappearance of a young boy was serious and if no ransom demand was forthcoming then he would surely have taken steps of some kind eventually. If he hadn’t, Walsingham was almost certainly the reason.

  Talbot was nodding. ‘My wife and I will do our best to carry out his orders. Though I can’t speak for Her Grace. As I understand it, you and she have met before but did not part on friendly terms. She may not welcome you and there is little that either the Countess or I can do about that. My wife is here at the moment, again on Walsingham’s orders. Bess …’ he smiled as he used the informality of her first name ‘… usually prefers to be at her own house, Chatsworth. It’s much more comfortable than this castle, but when Walsingham commands, even Bess must comply. But though we may be able to insist that Her Grace accepts your presence at times, we can’t compel Her Grace to speak to you. I really don’t see what you expect to achieve. Or what Sir Francis expects you to achieve, either!’

  ‘That has been thought of, Sir George. I could present myself as a penitent, begging her forgiveness, assuring her that I have now seen the truth of the Catholic Church and realize that I should offer my allegiance to her, and not, any longer, to Queen Elizabeth. Or I can plead that last time we met, I was obeying the orders of my queen, just as Her Grace would have had her own subjects do. Sir Francis suggested that.’

  ‘So, you think you may be able to make yourself acceptable?’

  ‘I might,’ I said. ‘At least, I can try.’

  ‘Yes. You can try.’ Again, he smiled. He had an unexpectedly sweet and understanding smile. ‘Her Grace is still full of charm,’ he remarked, ‘though not, these days, of so much beauty. Her health is not good. And nor, I think, is her judgement. Well, she never did have good judgement. To marry that spoilt young peacock Darnley, allow herself to become one of the suspects when he was murdered, and then to marry the principal suspect … essentially,’ said George Talbot, and now he became authoritative, ‘she is a foolish woman. Emotion sways her. It doesn’t sway Elizabeth! That is why Queen Elizabeth really is great, and Her Grace Mary Stuart is not. One of your ploys may succeed. Anyway, I must leave it to you to cope with her. Have you been offered any refreshments, by the way?’

  ‘Er … no, not yet …’

  ‘Tch!’ He rose, went round his desk, put his head out of the door and shouted, a manoeuvre that produced a scurry of feet on the stairs outside, and the reappearance of the page.

  ‘Wine and pastries!’ snapped Talbot, and then shut the door again.

  He was mercurial, I thought, swinging from absent-minded, to comprehending, to barking orders, all in the space of a few minutes. Which was the real Talbot? Or perhaps they all were. He had a formidable wife, for Bess Hardwick, whom I knew slightly, was a lady with a commanding presence and a powerful intellect. Perhaps her partner needed to be a man of many facets. A simple bucolic soul wouldn’t suit her at all.

  Because I was thinking about Bess Hardwick just then, it startled me when Talbot suddenly said: ‘You will be wondering why my wife, who is supposed to have invited you, has not been informed that you are here, and come to welcome you. She will soon do so, but at the moment she is with Her Grace. I can’t exactly say that they have made friends; they are not kindred spirits by any means. We were ordered to accommodate Her Grace; it was not a matter of choice. But they do share a great interest in embroidery – designing patterns as well as making them. Are you interested in such things, Mistress Stannard?’

  ‘Yes, Sir George, though I am not so very gifted in designing.’ Sybil was, and for a moment I wished that I had brought her. I had left her in charge at Hawkswood, however, and in view of Talbot’s remarks about the castle being full to bursting, perhaps it was as well.

  ‘I look forward to meeting the Countess,’ I said neutrally and at the same moment, Talbot cocked his head.

  ‘I think I can hear … yes, here she is. Bess, my dear, Mistress Stannard has arrived. But this is not a particularly comfortable place for the two of you to get to know each other in. Do take your guest to your parlour, Bess. I have accounts to finish.’

  ‘Of course. You are welcome, Mistress Stannard. We have met at court, have we not? Do come this way,’ said Bess Hardwick, Countess of Shrewsbury, my hostess.

  In the pleasant parlour which was the natural setting for the castle’s chatelaine, seated over the refreshments which had been sent after us, we took stock of each other.

  Bess, as a girl, had surely been winsomely pretty. She had delicate features, with high cheekbones and a nice pink colour in her cheeks. Her dark eyes were beautiful, and though she was surely in her fifties, there was no trace of grey in the glossy waves of hair, richly brown with just a tinge of red, that showed in front of her hood.

  There was nothing winsome about her now, though. This was a woman accustomed to wealth and power. I knew quite a lot about her. She was very wealthy indeed, especially as a result of her third marriage (Talbot was number four). She had been widowed three times. The first marriage, I had heard, had been a childish affair, arranged by the parents of the two parties. The bridegroom had been a boy of thirteen, Bess herself only sixteen or so, and the groom had died shortly afterwards. It was generally assumed that they were never really man and wife. Later, though, by her second and third husbands, she had had several children. I wondered, as we exchanged conventional greetings, how much she had actually loved her various partners. She didn’t, just now, look as if she had ever been vulnerable to the softer emotions.

  But whether she had loved them or not, she had no doubt been a good wife. She had known her duties and performed them, with dignity and no doubt with intelligence. Every line in her face spoke of a strong and well-informed mind.

  ‘I am to introduce you to Mary Stuart,’ she was saying, ‘as a friend I have asked for a long visit. That is what Sir Francis Walsingham requires. But I have to say that I can’t understand why, or what you are expected to do. Can you enlighten me?’

  ‘I am to watch Mary. I am to form an extra guard on her. Since she has unhappy memories of me, well, I hope to get round that. One way would be to pretend to be a newly converted Catholic. I know the – er – rules,’ I said. ‘I was brought up by a Catholic uncle and aunt.’

  ‘Not by your parents?’

  ‘My mother was with me when I was a child
but she died when I was sixteen. My father …’

  ‘Is the rumour correct? That he was King Henry?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said shortly.

  ‘So rumour speaks truth.’ She was appraising me, with interest, I thought. I hoped it wasn’t with dislike. Bess was the sort of woman whose dislike might well have teeth. ‘I had better take you to her as soon as possible,’ she said. ‘The sooner this rather difficult introductory meeting is over and done with, the better, I feel! I wish you luck. Frankly, I doubt if you will have any!’

  In fact, I wasn’t taken to Mary’s rooms at once. Bess took it upon herself to show me my room, so that I could change my riding dress for something more suited to a queen’s guest. The baggage from the coach had been brought up and Dale was able to unpack without delay. Bess left me for a while to change in private, and Dale said: ‘Have you really decided to pretend to be a Catholic, ma’am?’

  ‘I’m not sure, Dale. There is an alternative approach. I shan’t know for sure until I meet her. Pretending to be a convert could be a good way of getting close to her. She’s all too likely to be difficult, for she has no pleasant memories of me. But I know her religion means a great deal to her, and I may succeed by exploiting that.’

  ‘Would I have to pretend as well?’ asked Dale miserably.

  I looked at her with sympathy. I knew how Dale felt about this particular form of dissembling. It went back to a dreadful experience she had had, long ago, when she had been with me in France, and nearly been executed as a heretic.

  ‘No, Dale,’ I said gently. ‘No one will question you on the matter if I can help it, and if they do, you can tell the truth. Say that you remain true to your own faith but don’t question that of your mistress.’

  ‘All right, ma’am,’ said Dale, still miserably.

  ‘Come,’ I said. ‘Help me with my hair. I must look fit to be seen.’

  Bess, when she reappeared, considered my tawny over-dress and cream satin kirtle with approval, unaware of the hidden pouch and its curious contents. The amber jewellery that I wore with the outfit was not costly but very handsome.

  ‘Her Grace does not yet know you are here,’ she said. ‘I gave her no chance to say that she wouldn’t admit you to her presence. We will take her by surprise. Your woman had better remain here, or she can go down to the hall and make herself useful to Mistress Seton and Lady Livingstone. They are there, choosing dress lengths.’

  I nodded to Dale, who left the room. Then I followed Bess, down many stairs, and then up the narrow staircase I had noticed before, and into the presence of Mary Stuart.

  She was sitting in a window seat, working at an embroidery frame, with an open workbox at her side. She was alone. In the old days, she had had four close attendants, all called Marie, and usually had some if not all of them with her. She looked up when the sentry at her outer door announced the Countess of Shrewsbury, with a guest, and then, seeing me, tensed sharply. I felt myself cringe.

  As we rose from our curtsies, Bess said: ‘Good afternoon, Your Grace. See who has come to pay me a visit! An old acquaintance from my days at Queen Elizabeth’s court. I believe you have met her before, have you not? Here is Mistress Ursula Stannard.’

  ‘You!’ said Mary venomously.

  She had changed greatly. She had been so beautiful, once, but her face now was lined. Her skin was dry and her dark red hair, I realized instantly, was a wig. The hands grasping the embroidery frame were beginning to be wrinkled and I saw liver spots on them. Only the golden-brown eyes, much the same colour as Elizabeth’s, were unchanged, except that they now met mine with anger, a more powerful anger than I had ever seen in her before.

  She was a complex being; I knew that. She had a brave, adventurous side. She had been on a battlefield, she had made wild rides in times of emergency, been hounded and hated and involved in elaborate escape plans, made frankly insane marriages. But she also had a very female desire to be protected, taken care of by a trustworthy and loving man. Twice, she thought she had found one, and twice she had been disappointed. She was a poor judge of men, but that was a misfortune, not a sin.

  All at once, I abandoned any thought of pretending to be a Catholic convert. Suddenly, I was embarrassed by the reason for my presence here, and sorry for her, and it seemed to me that she was entitled to some sort of honesty. The other alternative was the right one. I stepped forward and fell on my knees in front of her.

  ‘Madam, I know what you think of me. After our last meeting, you felt I had betrayed you, and in a way, I did. But I did so because it was then my duty as a subject of Queen Elizabeth. Who is also, as you no doubt know, my half-sister. I had no choice. I am not here now with the intention of doing anything against your comfort, only as a guest of your hostess, the Countess of Shrewsbury. You too are a queen. You must many times have expected loyalty from those who are your sworn adherents or your servants. I also know that you were often disappointed, in ways that caused you great distress. Please don’t condemn me for giving loyalty where it was my duty to give it.’

  Mary stared down into my uplifted face. I kept my eyes steadily on hers. The fury died slowly out of her. ‘Yes. I see,’ she said. There was a pause and then she held out a hand to me. I saw, close up, that despite the wrinkles and the liver spots, it was still a shapely hand, and would have been even more wrinkled than it was, except that it had been well tended with creams. A faint perfume rose from it. I kissed it, as she clearly wished me to do.

  ‘You may rise,’ she said. ‘I can recognize honesty, I hope.’ She glanced past me, to Bess. ‘Well, my friend, you have brought me a surprise companion, it seems.’ She turned back to me. ‘Lady Livingstone and my dear Marie Seton will be here presently. Marie Seton has always stayed with me, and Lady Livingstone was once another of my Maries. She and her husband have become part of my household here. So I have two of my Maries here in Sheffield. Bess, I have begun on the embroidery pattern we worked out yesterday. I have chosen to do the version with the pale green leaves. I leave the autumn tints to you. Do sit down, both of you.’

  Bess and I seated ourselves. I found myself listening to a discussion about embroidery patterns and the choice of silks. It was a smooth, ladylike conversation, with Mary and Bess deferring graciously to each other’s opinions. But I noticed that neither smiled or made even the smallest kind of quip, and I sensed that I was in the presence of two noblewomen who did not greatly like each other though they knew how to behave as great ladies should.

  Presently, the door opened again and in came Lady Livingstone, whom I realized was one of the women I had glimpsed in the hall, and Mary Seton, who had been the other, though it was only now, at close quarters, that I recognized them. I had of course met them both in the past. Both had aged, like Mary herself. Lady Livingstone was elegantly dressed in silvery grey with a peridot necklace and earrings but Mary Seton was austere in a nun-like black gown and her face was stern, though when she spoke her voice was low and musical, just as I remembered it. Both she and Lady Livingstone eyed me with suspicion, but Mary disarmed it by repeating to them what I had just said to her.

  ‘Who am I to disdain honest loyalty, even when it is given to a queen other than myself?’ she said. ‘Nor may I be discourteous to the friend of my hostess. Let us all be comfortable together.’

  I asked if they had seen Dale, and learned that she had offered her services to them, and had accordingly been set to work with Lady Livingstone’s maid, to begin cutting out sleeves from some of the fabrics the ladies had been looking at in the hall.

  I was offered an embroidery frame and a carefully drawn pattern of leaves and flowers on a piece of fine white wool fabric. I accepted, and we all settled down to what should have been several innocent hours of needlework and cool, well-mannered chit-chat.

  It wasn’t quite like that, however, for after a while, Mary remarked: ‘This pattern reminds me of something. You said, madam, that these embroideries were to be joined together to make a wall-hanging for your great ha
ll. Surely, there is a tapestry in the hall that has the same pattern, on a larger scale. I remember seeing it when I dined with you last week.’

  ‘Yes, Your Grace. It’s new,’ Bess said, holding a needle up to the light to thread it. ‘It arrived from Flanders only last week.’

  ‘You have a generous husband.’

  ‘Oh, I used some of the money my third husband left me. Sir William St Loe. He left me a great deal of wealth and Sir George has allowed me to retain sole use of it. A tapestry here or there is nothing. I have been fortunate in my marriages.’

  The one before Sir William had actually left her in debt but clearly Bess didn’t intend to mention him. Nor did Mary. Instead, she said: ‘Were you – are you – in love with any of them?’

  ‘Marriage is a business partnership as much as anything,’ said Bess calmly, setting a stitch with a steady hand. ‘It is also a form of friendship that brings children into the world. I have always, since I became free to choose for myself, tried to bear these things in mind when approaching matrimony, rather than be guided too much by emotion – or fleshly desire – and I feel that I did right.’

  For one mad moment I almost opened my mouth to ask if there was a cat in the room. I could have sworn that somewhere close at hand, I had heard a faint, soft meow.

  ‘You may have missed something, all the same,’ Mary said gently. She sighed a little. ‘The summer lightning; the glory of passion. Whatever else has befallen me, I have had that.’

  Mary’s smile was as sweet as a dish of honey.

  With a wasp in it.

  Looking up, I caught Mary Seton’s eye and knew that she had heard and seen what I had. It was Mary Seton who said: ‘I don’t think our green silks are an exact match for the tapestry in the hall, but they’re near enough. After all, the new hanging is to go on the opposite wall, is it not?’

  ‘Yes. It won’t be right beside the tapestry,’ said Bess smoothly.

  ‘That is true,’ said Lady Livingstone. ‘And the light will fall differently. Things that are the same colour will look different if they are seen in different lights.’