To Ruin A Queen: An Ursula Blanchard Mystery at Queen Elizabeth I's Court (7 page)

“Oh, it’s no matter. I’ve been longing to see her.” I held out a hand to Bridget as she came puffing up to us. Bridget had never been slim and was now decidedly fat. “How are you, Bridget? Well, you’ve seen a bit of England since we last met. How did you manage the journey from Thamesbank?”

“On a pillion, ma’am, and I was that jolted, I thought my spine would go through the top of my
head. I’m glad to see you, and you looking so well. We’ve all kept pretty stout …”

“Especially you, Bridgie,” said Meg, giggling.

“That will do, Meg. Don’t be impertinent. You’re overexcited,” said Mattie. Mattie had always been a very merry soul who often found it quite hard to maintain the dignity proper to a well-bred lady, but now she seemed unwontedly serious. “Bridget, take her indoors. They’re serving supper in the hall very soon, Ursula, and I’ll bring her to you there, when she’s washed her hands and face. And combed her hair and put her cap on straight. Off you go, Bridget. Oh, Rob. I am so glad to see you.”

Meg reluctantly let herself be led away and Rob, who had held back while I embraced Meg, came up to greet his wife. Then our guide, who had gone on toward the hall, came hurrying back accompanied by a tall, gray-haired man wearing a formal black gown and a butler’s chain of office. Mattie drew herself out of Rob’s arms. “Here is Pugh, all ready to announce you. Mistress Ursula Blanchard is here, Pugh, and this is my husband, Master Robert Henderson.”

“If you will accompany me to the hall,” said Pugh, “Sir Philip and Lady Mortimer are waiting to receive you.”

I was gazing wistfully after Meg, but guests cannot refuse to be introduced to their hosts and besides, I was here on a mission. I was about to meet the man I had come to investigate. As my daughter disappeared into the curious keep-cum-timbered-house, I obediently accompanied Rob and Pugh toward the hall. Our red-faced escort came too, bird droppings and all.

There was a gabled porch and then a massive, studded door which led straight into the hall, the heart of the castle. First impressions were of great size, gloomy grandeur, and domestic confusion, all at once. The place was forty feet long at least, hung with tapestries, most of which looked old and faded. There were numerous cushioned settles and a wide hearth with an intricately carved stone surround. A fire burned there, and for some reason, an untidy heap of fur rugs lay in front of it. Beside it, a man in russet doublet and hose, slashed with yellow, was reading.

Opposite him, a lady in blue was working at embroidery and a pale, quietly dressed woman was spinning. Servants were hurrying about, setting out trestle tables, presumably for supper, and at some distance from the hearth, an unprepossessing crone, with hanks of gray hair trailing from beneath a grubby shawl, sat on a stool with a pail of milk beside her and a small lamb on her lap. She was dipping a cloth in the milk and squeezing it into the lamb’s mouth.

As we came in, the draft from the porch door set the hearth fire smoking, and the heap of furs suddenly moved and dissolved into two shaggy sheepdogs, two greyhounds, and a huge mastiff, which got onto their score of feet and began barking and baying. The lamb on the crone’s lap bleated. Pugh had to raise his voice to make himself heard.

“Mistress Ursula Blanchard and Master Robert Henderson!”

Some of the servants had stopped work to look at us and someone recalled them to their task with a sharp order in a language I had already heard a few people
speak in the Ledbury inn, and now recognized as Welsh. The man in russet stood up, shouting at the dogs to be quiet. The woman in blue laid down her stitchery, came gracefully to her feet, and swept toward us, hands outstretched and azure skirts rustling over the rushes, though the gracious air was slightly damaged as she shot out a daintily slippered foot in order to kick a barking greyhound out of her way.

“For the love of heaven, what a din! These are friends, you silly animals. Did you bring our guests over from the gatehouse, Evans? My thanks. I am so sorry for the noise, Pugh. We so often keep you from doing your office with proper dignity.”

The bespattered Evans and the dignified Pugh both denied being inconvenienced in any way, and looked at her as though they adored her. They withdrew, bowing. The lady patted the affronted greyhound, which subsided onto the mat, presumably not much hurt, and the man in russet, who had by now quieted the other dogs, came forward to meet us. The lady, turning a smile of great charm onto us all, offered me her right hand while drawing the man to her side with the other.

“Welcome. I am Lady Thomasine and this is my son, Sir Philip Mortimer. I apologize for first speaking to Pugh and Evans but they are the most devoted of servants and I care for them as they care for me. They were born to my father’s service here at Vetch.”

“We are delighted to see you,” said Sir Philip. “We had a courier from Sir William Cecil, who told us that you might arrive today but, in fact, we had given you up—or we would have made sure you had a quieter welcome. You must be tired. Please be seated.”

We let ourselves be led to a long settle, and the pale woman, who was evidently Lady Thomasine’s maid, fetched some extra cushions. “I believe,” Lady Thomasine said to me, “that your present married name is really de la Roche but that in England you still use the name of Blanchard. I am rather glad. It makes you seem more of a relation, and it is always such a pleasure to meet new relatives. Your daughter, Meg, has already enchanted us all.”

I made a suitable reply. The crone had now put the lamb on the floor and got it sucking from the cloth while the cloth was actually in the pail, the first step in teaching it to drink instead of suckle. She murmured to it as though reciting a spell and Lady Thomasine’s lovely smile faded for a moment as she noticed what I was looking at.

“That is Gladys,” she said to us. “She used to work in the castle but I sent her back to her home in the village last year. Frankly, I don’t like to have such unlovely beings about the place. Gladys looks like a witch and the villagers say she is one.” Gladys, overhearing, gave us all a grin, or perhaps the word
leer
describes it better, revealing that she had very few teeth and that the ones which were left were horridly like fangs.

“But she is good with orphaned lambs,” Sir Philip explained, “and our shepherd always brings them first to the hall. I take a personal interest in my flock. Sheep are the gold of the Marches. That is a late-born lamb whose dam won’t suckle it. I sent for Gladys to take charge of it and she thought it should have a feed at once, as it is very weak. She’ll take it back to the village soon, Mother.”

Lady Thomasine resumed her smile, and I smiled back and began covertly to study the woman who had brought me here very nearly by force, and her son Philip Mortimer, who thought he knew a way to extract wealth from the queen, and had left court after a brief sojourn ten years ago because of some unspecified scandal.

Lady Thomasine of the enchanting smile must be in her fifties, but she was still straight-backed, tall, and slender—almost thin—with beautiful cheekbones. Her fine dry skin had few lines and her hair was still brown. Her voice, as she continued to talk about Meg and our family relationship, sounded younger than her years.

“Meg’s father, of course,” said Lady Thomasine, “was my son Philip’s second cousin. How sad that you and Gerald Blanchard never met, Philip. You might have been good friends.”

“Indeed, yes,” Sir Philip agreed. To me, he said: “But at least we now have the pleasure of entertaining Gerald Blanchard’s wife and child. My mother has looked forward so much to your coming, Mistress Blanchard.”

He could scarcely know quite how much she had been looking forward to it, let alone why. He must suppose I was simply a hitherto unknown kinswoman, discovered and invited by Lady Thomasine. He took after his mother, I thought. His hair was lighter than hers, but he was tall and long-boned, as she was, with the same fine dry skin; his eyes were like hers, greenish-blue and almond-shaped, with the right and left sockets set at slightly different angles.

The conversation broke off then, as maids arrived with cans of hot water. We were invited to wash our hands and faces in a room off the hall, since supper, Lady Thomasine said, was just about to be served. Our baggage had already been taken to the guest rooms and she would show us the way there after we had eaten. Rob’s men had been looked after, added Sir Philip, and they and Brockley would take their meal with the castle guard, in a separate dining hall.

I was hungry, and the food was welcome. Dale ate with us, and with some anxiety, I saw that she was too tired to do more than toy with her meal. But I ate well, happy because Bridget had brought Meg to supper, and I had her beside me. My little girl was shiny-faced with washing, freshly dressed in orange damask, sparkling with the excitement of having me there, and just a little reproachful because I had been absent so long.

“I had to stay in France, darling, and because there was a civil war going on, I couldn’t risk sending for you. When you’re older, I’ll be able to explain it all. But I can tell you that the war is over now, and when I go back to France, I shall take you with me. That is, if you want to come. I know that you have been happy at Thamesbank.”

Meg considered this, her eyes going to Mattie, who said: “Your mother’s home is now in France and if you would be with her, then to France you must go. Her new husband is there, and her place is with him. The queen has given her consent.”

I detected reservations in Mattie’s tone. She liked me, but in marrying Matthew, I had married an enemy of England. She regretted it and so did Rob.

“I think I want to be with my mother,” Meg said, though in little more than a whisper, since all the attention was making her shy. Mortimer heard, however, and laughed.

“Meg, my sweeting, you can make your home with us if you choose, with our right goodwill. You’ve won all our hearts. Has she not, Mother?”

“Indeed,” said Lady Thomasine.

Mattie, however, shook her head at them, much as she had done at me in the courtyard, and said: “Flattery is bad for children.”

“Oh, come. Who’s the worse for a little praise?” Mortimer nibbled the last vestige of meat off a chicken bone and then sucked the bone to make sure. “Meg won’t have her head turned so easily, will you, Meg?”

Meg looked bashfully down at her platter. I put my arm around her and gave her an understanding hug. Mortimer caught my eye. “In time to come,” he remarked, “Vetch Castle may well be a center for good society and noble company. If Meg were living here, she would in due course have an unrivaled chance to make a splendid marriage.”

He said it in a manner so extremely matter-of-fact that I almost missed it. Then I saw the alarm in Lady Thomasine’s face and understood. This was what she had meant. He was referring to his grandiose future plans, and his tone was one of absolute, calm certainty.

“Well,” I said tactfully. “We’ll see.” Meg looked up anxiously into my face and I breathed: “Don’t worry,” into her ear, before taking a little more chicken and beginning to talk about our journey. It was too soon to embark on any searching questions.

*

“The guest rooms are here,” said Lady Thomasine, leading the way into the curious keep with the timbered house on top. Mattie, who was already well acquainted with the guest rooms, was with us but our hostess was clearly determined to show us our quarters herself. “As you can see, my family built on to the old medieval keep—the last line of defense in more warlike days. It was disused for years and became ruinous in its upper portions. My husband had them removed and we kept the basement and ground floor for storage, until he had the happy thought of building new rooms on top where guests could have some privacy. My husband,” Lady Thomasine explained, “did not care about privacy for himself. He grew up in an old-fashioned home in Ireland and thought it just a modern English fad. ‘But if our guests want it, we’ll provide it,’ he said to me. ‘It’s part of good hospitality, these days.’”

“I’ve noticed that you still keep up the old tradition of hall life,” I remarked.

“Yes, indeed. Philip wishes it. He holds the same views as his father did, so we dine with the household, though I usually breakfast in my chamber, and the guards always eat separately. I see no need to share our mealtimes with soldiers. We scarcely need a castle guard these days, of course; there is no danger now of attack from Wales. But once again, it is a tradition here. Our men even patrol the walls at night. Memories are long on the Marches. Pugh’s first name is Harold—after King Harold who died at Hastings and before he was a king was Earl of Hereford. On the river Dore, to the west of here, there’s
a place called Ewyas Harold. At least, I think it was named after the prior who founded a monastery there, but he must have been called after King Harold. However, as I was going to explain, in the keep—we still call it that—you can live much as you would at home. There are two servants’ bedchambers here on the ground floor—Mattie tells me that your Brockleys are a married couple, so they can share one of them. And in here”—she opened a door to show me—“there is a small kitchen. The main kitchens are only yards away and will send in anything you want so that you can eat in private whenever you like, but if you also wish your servants to cook special dishes for you, they can.

“And up here”—she picked up her skirts and skimmed up a flight of wide, shallow stairs, as nimble as a girl on her prettily slippered feet—“are the bedchambers and parlor which my husband added. I hope you will like them.”

The rooms were in excellent order—the furniture waxed, the beds curtained in velvet, the floors strewn with sweet herbs, and the walls adorned with pleasing tapestries. I expressed admiration and Lady Thomasine, pleased, said that she would leave us.

“Two of our own servants are seconded to the keep when we have guests,” she said. “Mattie will introduce you. They’re a couple like the Brockleys and they sleep in the other servants’ room. They’re English—Jack and Susanna Raghorn—so you won’t have them whispering to each other in Welsh. In the morning, though …” She paused and looked at me, with anxiety in her eyes. “In the morning, will you break your fast with me in my chamber? I will send someone at eight of the clock, if
that pleases you, to bring you to me. Then we can talk.”