To Shield the Queen (27 page)

I
prepared carefully for my return to the court. Dale washed and brushed my hair and packed it smoothly into the net I had been wearing under my hat, and she shook out and brushed all our clothes. Attended by maid and manservant as a lady should be, I arrived at the castle in the early morning, and asked for an audience with the Secretary of State.

The moment I was within the castle walls, the court atmosphere surrounded me, scented with herbs, musty with the smell of the elaborate fabrics on the walls and on the people, full of movement and bustle. It was invigoratingly alive and also, to me, curiously steadying because for some reason I felt at home there.

“I am one of her majesty’s ladies,” I said. “If I am refused admittance to Sir William, then I will make my report to her majesty. But it should properly be to Sir William Cecil and if he learns through her majesty that you have refused even to let him know that I wish to speak to him, you may be reprimanded. Will you
please
at least inform him that Mistress Ursula Blanchard wishes to see him—and that in so doing, I am keeping a promise which I made to him and to Lady Mildred when they kindly entertained me in their private quarters!”

I was pleased to see that this haughty speech had taken him aback. We were asked to wait in another anteroom, where several clerks, working at desks under the windows, eyed us all with interest. A leggy young page came to fetch me. Dale and Brockley must remain in the anteroom, he said, but if I would come this way, Sir William would see me. A moment later, I was in the Secretary of State’s private office.

• • •

It was a big room, panelled in light brown wood. The windows faced south-east and at this time of day let in the October sunlight which streamed through the leaded panes and cast silvery-gold criss-cross patterns across the floor. It was pleasant. All the same, I was uneasy. I stood beside one of the windows, now and then glancing out. On this fine day, the courtyard below was well populated. Ladies and courtiers strolled; a messenger was led quickly across to an entrance; a man I recognised as the Lord Treasurer, William Paulet, sauntered by with the Under-Treasurer, Sir Richard Sackville, and Sir Thomas Smith, except that Smith lumbered rather than sauntered.

When I first came to the court, the Cecils had said I should come to them if ever I needed help, and in order to see him, I had reminded Cecil of that promise. However, here in his office, listening to a tale of treason, he was not quite the same as the Cecil to whom I gave that undertaking. Seated behind his desk, with his shelves of books and papers behind him, dressed in workaday russet but with a massive gold chain across his chest to proclaim his authority, he was very much the Secretary of State: judicial, dispassionate and chilly of eye. The lines on his face seemed now to be not so much anxious as harsh.

“Let me be clear on what you have told me, Mistress . . . Blanchard or de la Roche?”

“Legally my correct title is Mistress de la Roche, but I would prefer still to be known as Mistress Blanchard.”

“Very well. So, Mistress Blanchard, your servant John Wilton was set upon near an inn called”—he consulted the notes he had been taking and dipped a quill in readiness to make corrections—“the Cockspur, close to Maidenhead. He was carried to the inn and died there. You were sent for and came in time to hear him whisper details which suggested that his assailants were not footpads, but three seeming gentlemen whom he had met on the road. You then set out to find these gentlemen and traced them to a number of large houses—manor houses mainly—where, however, no one wished to talk about them. You believe that some of these places were Catholic in their sympathy. You are reluctant to say which houses they were. Would you care to reconsider that?”

“Indeed they will, Mistress Blanchard.” Cecil did not say it cruelly or lingeringly. He said it in an almost dismissive tone which was even more chilling. If arrested, Johnson, Brett and Fletcher would talk. They would have no choice in the matter and that was that.

“I would rather not name those households myself,” I said. “I like some of those families. I think they believed they were just helping to finance priests and religious teachings. I
can’t
believe they mean harm to her majesty.”

“I think you could trust us to be judges of that. However, as you say, the information may well be forthcoming elsewhere. I will not press you now. Your womanly feelings no doubt do you credit,” said Cecil. “To continue. You eventually traced—you seem to have quite a gift for investigation, Mistress Blanchard—these men to Withysham in Sussex where you found that their employer was none other than Matthew de la Roche, a remote cousin of Arundel who visited him at Richmond last summer and was, I hear, paying his addresses to you. Was Arundel’s name mentioned in connection with this business?”

“No, Sir William.”

“I’m relieved to hear it. I’ve always thought him an honest man, though I know the younger courtiers find him funny. In the days of Queen Mary, you know, when our present queen was the Princess Elizabeth and was accused of plotting against her sister, Arundel was one of her interrogators. But her youth and desperation touched his heart.”

“I can scarcely avoid it,” I said quietly. “It was through my uncle’s account books that I confirmed the truth. I accept that I must name them, though it’s very unpleasant to think of any member of one’s own family being arrested for treason, although they did steal my daughter,” I added.

For the first time, Cecil let himself smile a little. “Your daughter is safe and you are not at heart vindictive? Be easy. From what you say, the number of people who have been talked into making contributions may be quite large. We can hardly clap them all in the Tower. Most will just be fined. For the rest—though they may include your uncle—a short stay in the Tower may be thought sufficient. It’s the big fat salmon we want. Matthew de la Roche is one of them but I daresay he is now making good his escape to France. There are ways of avoiding the main ports,” he said. “If he does escape, will you be glad or sorry?”

“Glad,” I said.

“Even though you were forced into marrying him?”

Cecil’s eyebrows shot up in astonishment and his eyes became cold. “You deliberately delayed to give this traitor a chance of escape?”

“Is he really a traitor?” I asked. “He was reared in France. I suppose he might say his loyalties lie there.”

“He had taken up residence in England. He is a traitor as far as I am concerned! What were you thinking of, Mistress . . . de la Roche would seem to be the most appropriate name!”

“Of my husband,” I said. “He
is
my husband. I have slept in his bed, in his arms. I have known his body. The bodies of traitors are cut open alive and . . . what wife would abandon her husband to that? Yes, I pray he has escaped.”

Cecil gazed at me steadily, as though he were trying to fathom the workings of my mind, then he replaced his quill in its holder and leaned back in his chair. “You are really in love with him, then.”

“Yes,” I said, “and I’m
married
to him. I’ve been torn apart.” I turned to look down into the courtyard once again, unable to meet those too-penetrating blue eyes. “I had the choice between betraying her majesty and betraying my husband. I chose her majesty. I have told you how we hid and how I saw the pursuit go past. I saw Matthew’s face. He is still in love with me, too. He was
grieving
. Am I a good citizen, I wonder, or merely a faithless wife?”

“But you
were
compelled into the marriage?”

“Virtually, yes.”

“Blanchard, please. I prefer Blanchard.”

“I suppose I must say that once again your womanly—in this case your wifely—feelings do you credit.” Cecil allowed his features, once more, to relax into an austere smile. “But rest assured, Mistress Blanchard, that you do not owe Master de la Roche the duties of a wife. We can probably get you an annulment. You most certainly did right. Have no doubt of that.”

I was silent. He reached for his notes again and glanced through them. “You chose not only her majesty,” he said, “but the safety of England. Remember that. The queen will certainly be grateful to you for the sake of her people as well as herself. Now . . . you say that Johnson, Brett and Fletcher were sent away from Withysham before the marriage took place, at your insistence, and that they went to the midlands. You doubt if de la Roche can warn them of your defection in time for them to get away as well.”

“Yes. The midlands are a long way from the coast. Even if Matthew’s messengers have found them already, and that’s not particularly likely, there’s a good chance of catching them before they have a chance to reach the sea.”

I nodded. Even to talk of Matthew brought him back to me so vividly that I could hardly keep my eyes from filling, but I must not break down in this businesslike room. Besides, there were other things to be discussed. “There is another matter I must mention,” I said. “It’s about Sir Robin Dudley.”

“About Dudley?”

“Yes. I imagine that gossip has continued, despite the verdict at the inquest, but I believe he was innocent.” I told him of the letter I had seen and he listened thoughtfully, nodding his head from time to time in agreement.

“I agree with your conclusions, I admit. I must say you have a subtle mind, Mistress Blanchard.”

“I know that there are many who would like to see Dudley discredited,” I said, and recalled Sir Thomas Smith making a remark about a horse-master swanking about in ermine, although I didn’t repeat it. Half the court had heard it, anyway. “Some would like to see the queen discredited too,” I said seriously. “During the last few days, I have met people who hope, even now, that her majesty will marry Dudley and outrage public opinion so much that it will give Mary Stuart a chance. I am telling you this, Sir William, in case you can, well, warn her.”

Cecil nodded. “I will pass on what you say. And now, Mistress . . . Blanchard, I think you should return at once to your duties with her majesty. It will distract your mind from . . . anything from which it needs to be distracted.”

“Sir William,” I said, “please—could you come and look? I want to know who that man is, down there, talking to Lady Catherine Grey. At least, I know his name. I just want to know who he
is,
if you understand me.”

Cecil obligingly rose and stepped round the desk to see. “Which man do you mean? Peter Holme?”

“Yes, that’s the one.”

“He’s one of Lady Catherine’s household—he runs messages, performs errands. Why?”

It was like that moment in the inn yard of the Cockspur, when the ostler spoke of the piebald horse and my brain made an instant connection between the word “piebald” and John’s half-heard whisper of the syllable “bald.” Things hitherto unconnected slid together, whirled in my head and settled into a pattern.

It was too soon to speak of it to Cecil.

“I just wondered,” I said. “I’ve seen him about quite often and never been quite sure where he fitted, that’s all. He seems to talk to so many different people.”