He could not signal openly. He was in disguise and Harry had probably not recognized him – given that it really was Harry at that window.
Well, if this was the right house then it was likely enough! He compromised by smiling vaguely in the direction of the window. Then, at the gate, he mounted, repeated his thanks for the directions and Jaunty’s drink, and rode away.
EIGHTEEN
Supper and Cards
While Brockley was searching for Harry’s place of captivity, I remained in Sheffield, learning things about myself.
When Brockley had ridden away, I was once more forced into silent waiting, haunted by fears I could not discuss, did not want to discuss, even with Dale, who would be sympathetic, would be upset on my behalf, but couldn’t help. In fact, she needed me to remain calm to make sure that she in turn remained calm and didn’t talk carelessly.
It amazed me to discover just how desperate one could feel, without showing it. After championing Timmy, I found myself on quite amiable terms with Mary and now went through the unexciting days, smiling, pleasant, doing embroidery, sometimes playing cards with Bess or Mary, practising the lute and the spinet so that I could help to entertain them or take a turn at playing when we had dancing practice, consulting with Dale over which gown to put on each day, going out for rides on Jewel, usually as one of Mary’s companions.
Yet all the time, inside myself, I wanted to scream, to throw myself onto the floor and pound it with my fists and cry out Harry’s name. During that time, the only person to notice that anything was amiss with me was Russell Woodley, and his intervention was, as ever, embarrassing. He accosted me one morning as I was making my way to breakfast, and once again pressed me to tell him what was wrong.
‘I know there is something on your mind, Mistress Stannard,’ he said earnestly. ‘I can see it. Please tell me. Perhaps I can help in some way.’
His eyes were kind and admiring as usual and should have been a comfort but were not. Instead, he was as ever an unwanted complication.
‘There is nothing serious on my mind,’ I said mendaciously. ‘I am a little worried over things at my home. I am waiting for news. I have a stud of trotting horses, you know, and when I left, there were some problems to do with that.’ Inspired, I added: ‘I had just appointed a new stud groom but I am not sure about him yet.’
‘You are much alone,’ he said. I wanted to continue on to breakfast but the passage was narrow and he was standing in my way. ‘Mistress Stannard,’ he said, ‘you are widowed and have the responsibility of two houses, with land attached, and you also have a stud to look after as well. All that is a heavy burden. Mistress Stannard …’
‘No, please, Master Woodley, I wish you would not …’
‘Please hear me out,’ said this romantic nuisance, continuing to block my path. ‘Please. I am not a fortune-hunter, I assure you …’
‘Master Woodley, I have never supposed that you were and …’
‘My father is in the drapery trade …’
‘You told me that when we met at court and …’
‘But did you really listen to me? Please let me explain myself again. It’s true that I am a younger son but I shall still have a fair inheritance one day. As you know, my elder brother will have the business but I shall not go unprovided, for I have the inheritance in land through my mother, as I once told you. Meanwhile, I have a good post here. I am well paid and have been for some years. In fact, I have lately bought a smallholding which I rent out and from which I now receive a fair income. When I marry, I shall be well able to support a wife. You are a remarkable woman and I have admired you from the first moment I saw you and …’
‘Master Woodley!’ Three other people, also bound for breakfast, appeared from behind me and thrust their way past the two of us, one of them muttering crossly about the thoughtlessness of those who held council meetings in the middle of other people’s rights of way. Even if I were in the least interested in Russell’s proposal, a passage full of passers-by was hardly the place for it.
‘I have no intention of marrying again,’ I said firmly. ‘I am well served and provided with advice, should I need it. I thank you for your compliment, but the answer is and always will be, that I don’t wish for a new husband. Please, now, let me pass.’
‘Mistress Stannard …’
‘Please!’ I said, and since others had already managed to get past him, I decided that I could do so too, and with determination, I thrust him aside. I made almost headlong haste to the dining chamber, afraid that he might pursue me. Fortunately, he did not.
After that, I avoided him, and on the whole, succeeded.
And then, I found that I had become a mystery to Mary.
‘You are really a puzzle to me,’ Mary Stuart, in her attractive voice with its French accent, said to me one morning, when I was with her and the two Maries. It was one of the times when I had been asked to play the spinet. They wanted to try out some new dance steps. But suddenly, Mary had stopped the dance, told Mary Seton and Mary Livingstone to take up the embroidery we were all sharing, the blue pattern on the silvery kirtle and the matching sleeves, and called me to sit by her in a window seat.
‘A puzzle?’ I said carefully.
‘Yes. You are here as a guest of Lady Shrewsbury but she has made it clear that she wishes you to be in my company, and although I was much against that at first, I have come to see that the reason why you once failed me is also a reason to value you. You acted as you did because Elizabeth is your queen and your sister. I understand that. I wish I too could have your loyalty – such excellent loyalty! – instead. I find I do like to have you near me. But something about you puzzles me, as I said. Why does Bess want you, her guest, to behave as though you were mine? Why am I allowed to have a guest at all? Few people from outside are ever allowed to visit me. What are you doing here, Mistress Stannard?’
I opened my mouth and then shut it again. To say the least of it, this was a difficult question to answer.
I am here to convince a gang – yes, gang is the right word – of earnest patriots who want to rid England of the danger that you represent, that I am preparing to assassinate you! And if I don’t make a move soon, they will begin to be suspicious.
That is, if they have a means of knowing what goes on inside this castle. I cannot know whether they have or not, but I fear it and so does Walsingham.
I could hardly say any of that to Mary. Instead, I said: ‘I am myself little more than a tool in the hands of my betters. I was sent for by Lady Shrewsbury. Perhaps she had instructions from elsewhere. When I leave, I may perhaps be asked to report on what I have seen and heard here. But I have had no orders of any kind. I am as much in the dark as you are, Your Grace.’
‘I wonder,’ said Mary, ‘if you are telling the truth.’
To this, I returned no answer.
Mary sighed. And then gave the subject up. ‘This evening,’ she said, ‘I am proposing to have a little dissipation, with a supper and card party, here in my parlour. The Talbots have given permission. Bess will be with her lord, entertaining guests of their own, but I, my two Maries, and you, could share a repast. My lord of Shrewsbury has kindly provided some good wine – and we can have cold chicken and a veal quiche with hot soup and saffron bread, and a pudding of honey and raisins with rice flour, and with four of us, there will be two pairs of card players, so we can play piquet.
‘I thought of inviting Lady Alice Hammond,’ she added. ‘She sometimes attends Bess when Bess visits me – well, you have seen her here. She is one of the few allowed to visit me, other than my Maries, my hosts and my servants, and she amuses me. But this time Bess has said no, because Alice is in disgrace again. She is sadly careless. I gather that poor Alice has hopelessly spoiled a piece of embroidery by using a completely wrong shade. It has all had to be unpicked. I am sorry for the wench but Bess must run her own household as she wishes. I am sorry that she can’t be present. But you will come?’
Of course I s
aid yes. It did in fact sound like a very agreeable way to spend an evening. The sameness of Mary’s days made them monotonous.
It was also, as I was keenly aware, an opportunity.
Back in my own rooms, and alone, I went to the drawer where I had hidden the phial of hemlock. I had emptied a small jewel box which had a lock, put the phial inside and put the key on my keyring. Then I had concealed the box in the drawer, under a layer of shifts.
I got it out, took its lid off, pulled out its stopper and smelt it, making a face. It was strong, and there was plenty there. It might well be quite easy, I thought, to put just a drop or two into Mary’s glass of very good wine, just enough to make her somewhat ill.
If there should be someone in the castle watching for something to happen to Mary, they might well conclude that I had set to work, had perhaps misjudged the dose, or was planning a gradual process, so that her death would look like the result of a recurring illness. It would be a way to allay doubts and suspicions, to gain time, while – I hoped and prayed – Brockley found Harry’s place of imprisonment.
That evening, when I changed my dress for one formal enough for an invitation to cards and supper with a queen (even one who no longer had a throne), I chose a gleaming green and pink damask one which as well as having a ridiculously wide farthingale and being designed for an open ruff which allowed for a fine display of a pearl and peridot necklace, also had a hidden pouch inside its open skirt. I slipped the phial inside.
As I was making my way to Mary’s staircase, I encountered Russell, who had to press himself against the passage wall to make room for my spectacular farthingale, but nevertheless looked admiringly at my ensemble. ‘Mistress Stannard, you are a joy to the eye. Bound for Her Grace’s little party, I take it?’
‘Yes. How did you know?’
‘Oh, the kitchens have been bustling. Her Grace’s chief cook is so particular. Well, away you go, and have a happy evening.’
When I reached it, I found the supper room most welcoming. The evenings were becoming long but candles had been lit nevertheless, shining from two branched candelabra and filling the room with the scent of sandalwood. It was the kind of thing that Mary liked. Elizabeth, by contrast, would have hated it. Elizabeth’s nose was highly sensitive and the only perfumes she used for herself were light, flowery ones, and fugitive at that.
Two piquet tables were set out, with one of the Maries at each, and the cold chicken, a dish of salad and two flagons of wine had already been placed on a buffet table at one side. Mary, smiling and resplendent in a blue gown which, like mine, had an open ruff, came to meet me, hands outstretched.
‘Here you are, Ursula! Well, you are welcome, and in your own right, not just as a replacement for Alice Hammond. Is that not so, my Maries?’
She shot a smiling glance over her shoulder to Mary Seton and Mary Livingstone. Mary Seton, who always looked a little stern, said: ‘Indeed. Lady Alice is a sweet girl but a little talkative sometimes, though always very innocently.’
‘From the way she chatters about the other women in Bess’s household,’ said Mary Livingstone, ‘I’d say she is not only sweet and innocent but also mighty inquisitive! She notices things and I think she listens acutely as well as talking.’
‘Now, Marie. She is just a young girl,’ Mary said reprovingly. ‘Don’t imagine things. I cannot suppose that a lass like Alice is being employed to spy on me. I could believe it of Mistress Stannard here …’
‘I hope you don’t!’ I said.
‘But it doesn’t matter,’ said Mary cheerfully. ‘For I have nothing to hide. How could I have? I am as enclosed in this castle as a Benedictine nun within her convent walls.’
Mary Livingstone said: ‘I do sometimes wonder how much gossip Alice carries back to Bess’s other women. But of course you are right, Your Grace. We are hardly a fruitful source of gossip.’
‘I try never to gossip,’ I said mildly, and suddenly wondered if Lady Alice was, after all, quite the simple young thing that she appeared to be. Could it be that the Lady Alice who listened acutely and noticed things was the real Alice, using naive chatter and inefficiency with embroidery and ruffs, as a disguise?
In fact, was it possible that Alice was the one who was here to keep watch on me? That Alice was the cat’s paw of Harry’s captors?
But for the moment, I had other things to think about. I was directed to sit down opposite to Mary Seton, while Mary partnered Lady Livingstone, and our card games began. ‘The hot dishes will be brought in about an hour,’ Mary said. ‘We shall be ready for them by then, I dare say.’
I shifted in my seat and the hidden phial knocked against my left knee. I knew that it was securely stoppered, with its cap in place on top. It could stay like that if I chose. I didn’t have to use it. Even if the opportunity arose, I need not take it.
If Alice Hammond were the spy, she would soon, no doubt, find out everything that happened at this party, even though she herself was not present. She would talk to the Maries and to me, and I would have to answer her artless questions. I certainly mustn’t appear secretive. But if Mary were to be ill, Alice would hear of it. Bess would provide comforts, might even, since Mary liked Alice, tell Alice to deliver some of them. Oh yes, Alice would know all about Mary’s sickness. She would be able to report back …
If she were the one, she would be able to tell her masters that Mistress Stannard was probably doing something. Was being careful, but had very likely made a start. Yes, it would gain time, time for Harry, time for Brockley. I gave a furtive glance towards the buffet table, trying to work out exactly how I might go about doctoring a wineglass and then direct it to Mary.
Mary had seen my glance. ‘You are thirsty, Ursula? Well, we need not wait for the soup and the quiche. The flagons are full. Would you fetch us all a glass? Don’t bring the flagons over – they’ll be in the way, on these small card tables.’
I got up. My legs felt oddly stiff. I made my way over to the buffet table, took up the nearest flagon and began to fill glasses. Behind me, I could hear that Her Grace and the Maries had started an animated conversation about the progress of the blue and silver work we had all been doing. I did not turn my head. From the three at the card tables, my spreading farthingale completely hid any movement I might make in front of me. I could bring the phial out quite unseen.
It would be easy. Just a drop or two, a quarter of a thimble full. And then make sure that I handed that glass and no other, to Mary.
And then I knew.
I couldn’t do it. I could not, literally could not, physically, reach into my split skirt and bring out the phial. My hands wouldn’t do it. My head couldn’t give them such a command. Still less could I make my fingers remove the phial’s cap and stopper and use the cap to measure the dose, and drop it into a glass of wine.
Not even for Harry, even for my own dear son, could I do such a thing.
I wondered if he would blame me. If I were in his position, would I blame someone who could have saved me from slavery – and perhaps mutilation – by putting a drop or two of hemlock into a glass, without intending any serious harm, and yet couldn’t bring themselves to it?
I didn’t know. I only knew that I could not, could not, fetch out that phial and use its contents. I filled four glasses, all with harmless unadulterated wine, and brought them back to the tables. I handed them round and sat down again, smiling pleasantly. Mary Seton made a small, innocent joke (her jokes were never risqué), and I laughed and made a similar jest myself. I sipped my wine. So did she. At the other table, Mary Stuart and Mary Livingstone did the same thing. We went on playing.
Presently the soup and the quiche arrived, accompanied by saffron bread, still warm. When we had eaten the first course, the promised pudding of honey and raisins and rice flour was brought in and the maids topped up our glasses. It was a most enjoyable card and supper party, and afterwards, there were no ill effects for anyone.
Brockley. Where are you? What progress are you making? A
nd Harry, my beloved boy! Where are you? Have I betrayed you? Have I done you terrible harm just by doing nothing? But I couldn’t do what has been asked of me. Dear God, I couldn’t! WHERE ARE YOU?
NINETEEN
Gathering Forces
The next day I rode out with Mary and the armed guard that always accompanied her when she rode, took dinner with the Shrewsburys, had supper and a game of backgammon with Bess and then went to my room to talk to Dale about my choice of gown and jewellery for the next day. I was tired. That moment of revelation on the previous evening, when I knew that not even for Harry could I deliberately doctor Mary’s wine, had left me shaken and exhausted and I was exhausted too by the constant effort of pretending, of appearing normal when inside myself I was roughly as normal as a blizzard in July. When someone tapped on the door, it was irritating.
‘See who it is,’ I said to Dale, and went on standing by my bed, looking at the three dresses spread out there for my inspection, and deciding that because I had been wearing pale green that day, I had better not pick a green gown for tomorrow, but neither the weather, which had turned wet, nor my unhappy mood suited the peach pink. It would have to be the dark blue velvet, not a favourite of mine and usually used for serious occasions. I could have a closed ruff for a change and wear a rope of pearls …
‘Walter Meredith is here, ma’am,’ said Dale, reappearing at my elbow, accompanied by the freckled page.
‘Yes, Meredith. What is it?’
‘Madam, there’s a man asking admittance, to see you. He says he’s Roger Brockley, but he doesn’t look like him.’
I was instantly alert. ‘Bring him! I can soon order him away if it isn’t Brockley.’
Five minutes later, I was saying: ‘How that beard changes you, Brockley. But Meredith really is a foolish lad. He saw you when you were stubbly and you don’t look so very different from the way you did then.’
‘I may look more dishevelled,’ said Brockley ruefully. In fact, he didn’t look like his usual self for reasons other than his scruffy beard. He was pale and rather grubby and his cloak and boots were mud-splashed.
The Reluctant Assassin Page 18
