A Pawn for a Queen: An Ursula Blanchard Mystery at Queen Elizabeth I's (Ursula Blanchard Mystery at Queen Elizabeth I's Court) (32 page)

“Master Ericks,” said Brockley, “bade me to say, if this point were raised, that he is third cousin to George Lord Gordon—whose brother, though he was executed for treason, once aspired to the hand of Queen Mary herself. Master Ericks holds the rank of captain rather than that of a plain man-at-arms. His challenge is not beneath a Dormbois.”

“Having heard that,” said Dormbois, “I granted the point, but saw no reason why you, madam, should be involved. However, Master Brockley had more to say. Speak again, herald,” he added ironically.

“I was bidden to explain,” said Brockley calmly, “that if the challenge is rejected, Sir Brian should consider what Her Majesty Queen Mary will do when she learns that Madame de la Roche is a captive. Her Majesty may well order the release of Madame de la Roche herself, and back the order with force.

“Ericks also states that he means to have satisfaction and will make opportunity to waylay you and force you to fight him—perhaps when tired and unprepared. He reminds you that he has a reputation as a swordsman and that to refuse his challenge might suggest that you feared it.”

“That being so,” said Dormbois, “I have agreed, on one of two conditions. One is that the clause concerning the release of Madame de la Roche is omitted. The tirewoman may leave whenever she wishes. I can
replace her. The other alternative is that the clause may stand, but if I prevail, unless I am too sore wounded, the lady shall wed with me, then and there, with Father Bell to officiate; and if I am too much hurt to take the vows of marriage at once, then we wed as soon as I am healed.”

Brockley’s eyes met mine in anguish. “I would offer to fight for your freedom myself, madam, except that I am many years older than Sir Brian and am only a mediocre swordsman.”

“And I would not accept you as a champion, for your own safety,” I said.

“Master Ericks knows the swordsman’s trade, madam. He is the best hope I can bring you.”

“Aye. This is a strong place. Even Queen Mary’s forces might not find it easy to take.” Dormbois grinned. “And I might have the lady away to France before ever a siege was in place. Well, Ursula de la Roche? The decision is yours. Which of the conditions will you accept? If not one, then it has to be the other. I must fight. No man calls me craven.”

“I see,” I said.

I did see. I stood there, staring at the floor in order to hide the desperation in my eyes, and wondered: do I do this? Do I gamble on Adam Ericks and the righteousness of his cause and be prepared to say “I will” to Dormbois if after all Ericks loses?

There was no question of omitting the clause concerning my release. The chance of that had to be included. But if Ericks lost . . .

I even wondered for an insane moment whether the prospect of marriage to Dormbois was altogether
impossible. I remembered that conversation in the night, when he had told me the history of his brown earthenware goblets. Just for a moment there, I had glimpsed another Dormbois, the human being behind the posturings of the male animal, the possible friend hidden within the domineering nobleman.

But my mind, groping for solace, for hope, checked and stumbled on a name.
Edward.

The image of Edward’s dead face and the bloodstained walls came back to me yet again, drifting between me and the floor, a vision so horrid that I blinked to drive it away, concentrating on the floor itself. It was innocent of rugs, even of rushes, and certainly of any sweet, flea-dispelling rosemary or rue. It was clean, though, made of dark oak planks, which must have had to be brought from a distance. I hadn’t seen an oak tree for miles. The color of the planks was much the same as the color of those curious earthenware goblets . . .

And then I saw the answer. Its outlines were blurred, and even now, before I could see them plainly, I knew that this would be a difficult plan to carry out. It might easily fail. It would be difficult to make sure that . . . What if this happened? Or that? How could I make certain . . . ?

I couldn’t. I could only try. Even if I failed and Ericks failed, the future still existed, with opportunities of further ploys. I would not, not,
not,
remain with Dormbois, even if I were fifty times his wife. My heart began to pound.

I must pretend. I must allay all suspicion and pretend with all my might, like a mummer or a strolling
player. With my eyes still downcast, I said slowly: “If Adam Ericks loses, I will wed you, Sir Brian.”

• • •

“Oh, ma’am,” said Dale despairingly, when we were once more in the parlor, “how could you? How could you?”

“Sit down, Dale.”

“Ma’am, I can’t go on with altering these gowns; I’ve no heart for anything.”

“Just listen. This way, if Ericks wins, I go free. If he loses . . .”

“But, ma’am, if he
does
lose . . .”

“Then I take vows, which as far as I am concerned are null and void.”

“But they wouldn’t be, ma’am! Bell is a proper priest! All your property would belong to Dormbois, ma’am! Withysham would be his!”

“I daresay,” I said. “But married or not, I will still make every effort to escape. He will no doubt try to keep me mewed up in Roderix, but a chance will come eventually, or else I’ll create one as I did when we had to escape from Withysham, when I was first married to Matthew. If I have to, I’ll let him think I’ve given in, until he trusts me and relaxes his grip. I swear I’ll do it. I
will
escape, and I’ll get across the English border and get home, and once I’m back in Withysham, if he wants to claim either it or me, he’ll have to venture more than four hundred miles into a foreign land, and at the end of the journey, I’ll be waiting to charge him with the murder of my cousin Edward. I trust that with the help of Queen Elizabeth, I can get the marriage set aside,
anyway. I will never acknowledge it as valid, Dale. I will
not.
Look, you at least can go home if you wish. He said you were free to go.”

“And leave you, ma’am?”

“I said, I’ll escape somehow. Your place is with your husband. I’ll send you to him. You need have no conflict of loyalties.”

Dale looked at me gratefully and also miserably.

“In times gone by,” I said, “when trial by battle was commonplace, I daresay a guilty conscience weighed down many a sword arm, but of course, Dormbois has only a rudimentary conscience, if any at all. There’s only one thing to do, if I can.”

“And what’s that, ma’am?”

“Load the dice,” I said. “Now, listen . . .”

“But, ma’am,” said Dale, when I had finished, “for those men, it’ll be a matter of honor!”

I was exasperated. “Dormbois has no more sense of honor than one of the rats in his own granary! As for Ericks, well, it’s his misfortune. I need to escape from Dormbois’s clutches and that’s more important to me than the honor of Adam Ericks! And if your eyes pop out any farther, Dale, they’ll fall on the floor.”

“Oh, ma’am!” Poor Dale wrung her hands. “I can’t abide this place and these people; I’d sell my soul to get out of it and get you away, too. But this’ll never work! It’s that difficult . . .”

“You said yesterday that I had a hold over him. If that’s true—well, I doubt if it’s much of a hold,” I said. “But it might be just good enough—just barely good enough—to let me command him for those few moments. If I can be dignified enough, regal enough . . .”

• • •

One thing I had learned from Elizabeth, by observation, was that if you want to create an impression of power, you should start by dressing for it. For public appearances, for receiving ambassadors and presiding at state banquets, Elizabeth always made sure that she looked like a monarch. For these occasions, on went the stays that reduced her waist to a scarcely believable slenderness; on went the gleaming silks and brocades; on went the ruby and diamond pendants and earrings and the glistening ropes of pearls; onto her pale, slim fingers went a fortune in gemstones and gold.

“We’d better see what Marguerite’s wardrobe can do for me,” I said. “Black velvet for preference—I
am
in mourning and I shan’t let Dormbois forget it. But it must be as impressive as possible. There’s a jewel box at the bottom of that chest. It’s time to look at it.”

• • •

“But, ma’am, I just don’t see how . . .”

“Nor do I, quite. I have got to insist on this little ceremony and somehow I must control the way it’s carried out. It may all be snatched out of my hands. But by God, I
will
try!”

• • •

“You’re right, ma’am. No one would see it. But how do we make sure that . . . ?”

“That’s the tricky bit, Dale. I don’t know that I
can
make sure. One of the problems is making certain it isn’t a case of too much or not enough. I once saw a
man at a fair, walking along a rope, twenty feet above the ground, just balancing. This is nearly as bad!”

• • •

“Like this, Dale. The positioning must be just so or I shall get confused. I think we’d better run through it again. You’re Ericks, now. If necessary, I shall ask you to . . .”

• • •

“Ma’am, I can hear hammering, but I can’t see what they’re doing. I think it’s coming from the outer bailey.”

“Well, I don’t suppose they’re setting up a gallows. If my champion loses, Dormbois is going to marry me, not bury me.”

• • •

“I’ll use this black velvet gown and this long rope of pearls. And the ruff with the silver lace edging, and the black velvet cap with the pearl edging.”

“There’s a rope of amethysts too, ma’am.”

“Yes, I’ll wear that too,” I said, trying it on with the help of a small mirror that had been lying on the toilet table in the bedchamber. “Dormbois must be a man of means to afford such clothes and jewels for his wife. What a pity his morals don’t match his income. Why on earth does he go on living in this dreadful keep with a kitchen on the other side of the courtyard?”

“I think something in him prefers it, ma’am. This keep is in his blood, so to speak.”

“I hope,” I said grimly, “that before long, his blood will be spattered in the keep instead.”

“Ma’am, when you talk like that, you give me the shivers.”

“I know. I’m sorry, Dale.”

• • •

Ericks and Brockley had promised to arrive in the morning at ten of the clock. Dale and I would be summoned down to the hall when they arrived. I don’t think I would have slept that night, except that I took a small dose of Queen Mary’s sleeping draft, which soothed me into slumber quite quickly. I knew that in order to face the morrow, I must rest. I must not have what Elizabeth called a white night. We both suffered from them sometimes. I endured mine by lying awake, just waiting for the dawn. Elizabeth usually got through hers by waking up her ladies of the bedchamber and making them read to her or play chess with her, but I never troubled Dale in such a way.

The morning was sunlit. I rose, nervous but reasonably refreshed, washed as best I could in the usual tepid water, and sat in a loose gown, once Marguerite’s, while Dale carefully brushed and pinned my hair. When breakfast came, I forced down the porridge and a piece of bread and drank some buttermilk, knowing that I needed the strength it would give me. When the serving boy brought it, I said to him: “When you come back for it, bring another tray with you. I shall need it later.” He was well trained and didn’t ask why, and when he returned, he had the tray.

“We’ve surmounted the first obstacle,” I said to Dale. “Now for the rest. You had better get me dressed. Then
we’ll pack up our belongings and put them by the door and set the tray.”

• • •

Watching from the window, we saw Adam Ericks enter the courtyard, carrying a very businesslike claymore. Father Bell and Brockley were with him. We watched as Dormbois’s men escorted them into the keep, and a few minutes later, Jamie Fraser came to summon us downstairs.

“Bring the tray, Dale,” I said, rising to my feet.

“What’s that for, mistress?” Fraser asked. “Those’re the master’s special goblets.”

“Indeed they are. They’re needed. I’d ask you to carry them but with your limp, I should think the stairs are difficult enough for you already. Dale will do it instead. Come, Dale!” I said imperiously and without giving Fraser any more time to argue, I led the way.

The hall was crowded. The principals were there: Dormbois, also equipped with a claymore—Ericks, Brockley, and Father Bell. All were dressed much alike, in brown or black. Ranged around the walls were Dormbois’s men, his servants, and his garrison, all of them armed. There was also a piper, with bagpipes.

I had Dale for support, but never in my life had I felt quite so lonely. I stepped off the staircase and halted, wondering how on earth, or in the name of heaven, I could dominate a situation like this. The crowd of masculine faces was intimidating, alien. The idea of commanding them, like a general controlling an army, felt not just unnatural but impossible. I wondered if Queen Elizabeth, taking charge of her council for the first
time, had felt as nonplussed as I did, and I could well understand why Mary Stuart surrounded herself with Maries.

Poor Dale, I knew, would do her best, but I could feel her trembling. I wished my friend Mattie could have been with me. Or no, perhaps not Mattie, for she was Rob’s wife and that relationship was tarnished for me now. My mind went once more to that admirable woman Sybil Jester, whom I had briefly known the previous year, in Cambridge, and whom I had left dealing with so many difficulties, such as a pregnant daughter and a business that might fail under the onslaught of tittle-tattle that she herself had not deserved. Sybil was not beautiful but she had a calm good sense and a serene good humor, and a maturity of mind that would have been like a wall at my back, if only she had been here.

Dormbois was moving forward, about to greet me and no doubt to tell me what to do next. As confidently as I could, I raised a hand to forestall him. Within my head, I was murmuring a prayer, though not one that Father Bell would approve. I was actually asking the deity why, when the forces of light and virtue needed such a small piece of help as this, it wasn’t forthcoming.