A Pawn for a Queen: An Ursula Blanchard Mystery at Queen Elizabeth I's (Ursula Blanchard Mystery at Queen Elizabeth I's Court) (39 page)

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

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Hugh and I looked at Dudley, puzzled. He smiled. “One of the problems the girl has is lack of dowry,” he said. “We have enquired from her and from her mother what her portion is likely to be, and there is little to spare for her.”

“The rents of one small sublet farm and the tiny hamlet that goes with it,” said Cecil, speaking for the first time. “Not enough to attract a court gentleman unless he were to fall deeply in love with her—and that doesn’t seem likely.”

“No,” I agreed regretfully, thinking of Pen’s unremarkable looks. “With Pen—no, it isn’t very likely.”

“I, however,” said Dudley, “am willing to help.”

Hugh and I continued to gaze at him, but now it was with astonishment. Dudley was a very wealthy man and could be generous; he gambled a good deal but had a reputation for paying his debts on time. He was not, however, known as a philanthropist, and I had never heard before that he went about providing dowries for plain young women who had no connection with him.

“I have a parcel of land in the north of England, about fifteen miles from the castle of Bolton,” he said smoothly. “It’s on the edge of a wild place called Saddleworth Moor. I was left it by a former employee who had no family of his own to will it to. It’s a fair-sized stretch of land, with arable fields, a big flock of sheep, and both meadowland and hill grazing for them. They’re valuable. The wool is good. It all amounts to a very respectable piece of property, or so I understand. I have
had reports of it, although I haven’t seen it myself. I have little time or, to be honest, inclination to travel north and inspect it personally. In fact, in many ways, it’s a nuisance to me. I am willing, as it were, to donate it to a good cause. It might well help to attract a husband for the girl.”

“We understand that her mother would prefer a husband with Catholic beliefs,” observed Cecil. “Provided, of course, that he has a loyal reputation and attends Anglican services at least once a month, as the law states. There are many Catholic adherents in northern England. A suitable man might be easier to find there. Mistress Penelope should perhaps go to see her dowry lands in Yorkshire.”

He finished on an odd, thoughtful intonation. I recognized it. I’d heard him use it before. I looked at Dudley. “The place is near Bolton, you say, my lord?”

“Reasonably near,” Dudley agreed suavely.

As soon as the word
Bolton
was spoken, I had come alert. That was where Mary Stuart was being held. Something was coming; I knew it. There was more to this than just making arrangements to marry off a wayward Maid of Honor.

“Mary Stuart of Scotland is at Bolton,” said Elizabeth, echoing the words that were already in my head. “You met her, did you not, Ursula, when you went to Scotland a few years ago?”

“I . . . yes, ma’am. I did.”

“And I believe she liked you? You were her guest at Holyrood in Edinburgh for a while?”

“Yes, ma’am,” I said with caution.

“No doubt she finds life strange and limited at Bolton, compared with life as a queen,” said Elizabeth gravely. “Her representative, Lord Herries, is at Richmond now and would like us to receive her here, but my good Cecil is much against the idea of bringing her to London.”

“She has a charge of murder hanging over her. She is not a fit person to associate with the queen of England until her name is cleared,” said Cecil, his voice now quite colorless. The words
over my dead body
were not spoken aloud but hung in the air like an overripe ham from a ceiling hook.

“We think,” said Elizabeth, smiling sweetly, “that it would be an excellent idea, Ursula, if my lord of Leicester’s generous gift could be signed over to Pen at once, and if you took the wench north to inspect it. You could look for a husband for her in that district—and while you are about it, you could visit Mary Stuart. We can arrange that Sir Francis Knollys, who has charge of her, will admit you, though I shall tell him only that you and she have met before, and that since you chance to be in the district because you are accompanying Mistress Penelope, I wish you to present my compliments to my cousin.”

“I see,” I said uncertainly. “Or—do I?”

“Not yet, but I am about to explain,” said Elizabeth. “In fact, Ursula, I want you to pass a confidential message to Mary Stuart, from one queen to another. I said confidential—it’s more than that. It’s personal—on an unofficial level, if you understand me.”

I did. There are strange rules in the world of diplomacy. A message passed on by an official personage may be confidential, but it is not personal.
Personal
means a far greater degree of secrecy.
Personal
means that no one will ever acknowledge that the message was ever passed at all.

“I know of it,” said Cecil in a low voice, “and so does Leicester here . . .”

“Because I trust your discretion as I trust my own,” said Elizabeth. “And the same applies to you and your husband, Ursula. But I wish the matter to be known to no one else, not even to Knollys. He is official. And the task might make him uneasy,” Elizabeth added. “He might even dilute the message without meaning to. A mere tone of voice can make a difference sometimes. I know that you, Ursula, won’t do that.”

“Either that or he might approve of it too much and imagine himself to be Mary’s champion,” Cecil remarked. “We put him in charge of her, thinking he would be immune to her charms, but we understand that he finds much in her to admire! That won’t do, either.”

“Quite. She is not to have champions among my subjects. By all accounts, she is remarkably good at acquiring sympathizers
and has enough of them as it is. So, you will be my mouthpiece instead, Ursula,” said Elizabeth. “Cecil advises it, and I have agreed.”

I glanced at Hugh, but he was looking at the queen. His face told me nothing. “The message has to be by word of mouth, I take it, ma’am?” I said. “Nothing written down?”

“Exactly,” said Elizabeth. Her eyes met mine again and held them. “There will be an enquiry,” she said. “Into the facts of how Henry Lord Darnley, the husband of my royal cousin Mary Stuart, met his death. We have received an emissary from James Stewart, Earl of Moray, her half-brother and at present the Regent of Scotland, requesting us to hold such an enquiry, and we can scarcely refuse him.”

“The request is reasonable, in the circumstances,” said Cecil.

“But
. . .” Elizabeth’s gaze was still fixed on mine. “There is a difficulty. Any such enquiry could well turn into something very like a trial. Representatives sent by Moray will attend and may demand that Mary give evidence herself and allow herself to be questioned. This must not happen. It mustn’t happen because Mary is an anointed queen and if one monarch is treated like a subject and questioned like a felon, then it can happen to any monarch—especially to one who permitted such a thing to be done in the first place. That is the message you are to take privily to Mary, Ursula. Tell her from me, her cousin, that the enquiry will probably have to proceed but that she must on no account whatsover agree to testify in person or to be questioned. That is all.”

She smiled. “We will not demand an answer now, this moment, Ursula. Think about it.” Her gaze moved to Hugh. “You must think about it, too. You and your wife must discuss it. Ursula can give me your answer tomorrow.”

FIONA BUCKLEY
has received critical praise for her historical mystery series featuring Ursula Blanchard:
To Shield the Queen, The Doublet Affair, Queen’s Ransom, To Ruin a Queen, Queen of Ambition,
and
A Pawn for a Queen.
The seventh novel in the series,
The Fugitive Queen,
is forthcoming in hardcover from Scribner. A former technical journalist and industrial editor, she lives in North Surrey, England.

ALSO BY FIONA BUCKLEY

Queen of Ambition

To Ruin a Queen

Queen’s Ransom

The Doublet Affair

To Shield the Queen

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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.