To Shield the Queen (7 page)

This was more like a large cupboard, and we were sorely crowded, but it was clean, with panelled walls and a hearth. The sky was now so black that we could scarcely see each others’ faces, but the landlord lit candles and went to find food and drink for us. A few moments later, John appeared, carrying a couple of saddlebags.

“I thought I’d best bring our belongings inside, Mistress Blanchard,” he said. Then he added, “I’d like a word with you, ma’am, if I may.”

I went out with him, and we stood in the porch, watching the rain swish down and turn the potholes into pools. “What is it?” I asked.

“I’ve been wanting to speak to you quietly since yesterday evening but I couldn’t get the chance, ma’am. I didn’t know where to ask for you, in that great palace, and once we were on the road, someone’s always been near enough to hear. Mistress Blanchard, you gave me to understand you were going into the country to be company to Lady Dudley, who is ailing.”

“Yes, John, that’s right.” I noticed, for the first time, how I always called him John, as Gerald had done. One normally addressed servants by their surname, but not John Wilton. To us, he always had been, always would be, John.

“I go about,” said John. “I hear the talk at markets and whatnot. And I talked to the other grooms at court. Seems there are rumours about, well, about the Dudley household.”

“Yes, there are. But then, with people so much in the public eye as the Dudleys,” I said, “there is always gossip.”

“I don’t want to give offence, ma’am.” John always took care to address his employers correctly, even when arguing with them. “But I must speak my mind. Something funny happened to me yesterday evening and I reckon you ought to know about it.”

“Something funny?”

“I don’t mean comic, Mistress Blanchard. I mean peculiar. I was approached.”

“Approached?”

“Aye. By someone I didn’t know who was lounging round the stables watching other folks work. I was cleaning Bay Star’s tack ready for you today and this fellow come drifting up to me and said was I John Wilton. So I said yes. And then he said was I travelling Abingdon way with you today, so I said yes again, since it’s no secret as far as I’m aware . . . ”

“No, it’s no secret,” I said. “We shall certainly pass through Abingdon. It’s the last town before Cumnor. Go on.”

“Well, he asked if I’d like to earn a bit extra, so I said how—though I didn’t say it in a very friendly fashion. I don’t take to people as talk in near-whispers. Makes me wonder what it is they’re afraid to say out in the open. But my tone didn’t put him off. He said there was a private message to be carried. Then he waffled a bit. He said the great lord he worked for wanted a letter delivered secretly, and that it was a delicate affair of state. But it all sounded thoroughly havey-cavey to me, so I said no.”

“Who was the letter for? And who was sending it?”

“That I can’t tell you. Things didn’t get that far.”

“Didn’t you ask?” I said, quite sharply.

“John, I’ve simply been employed to help Lady Dudley, who is very ill. I am to lend a hand to the companion she already has and try to convince Lady Dudley that her husband means her no harm. To help give the lie to the rumours you mention, in fact. I’m sure there’s nothing wrong about that.”

“Well, it sounds all right,” John admitted. “Only, I didn’t like that fellow and his talk of secret messages.”

At heart, neither did I. All too well, I remembered de Quadra and his hints. “If anyone else ever comes to you with such a suggestion,” I said, “try to find out more. Be a little more inquisitive, John, for goodness’ sake. If there is anything going on around Lady Dudley that shouldn’t be, then I don’t know about it—but if it’s there, I
ought
to know about it. Do you understand?”

• • •

The storm persisted and in the end we stayed the night at the Cockspur. We set out early the next day, dined en route in the little riverside town of Abingdon, and reached Cumnor Place in the late afternoon.

The weather was cloudy but the rain had done the crops good. All round us, the meadows were green, and we saw flourishing orchards and ripening corn. The land belonged to Cumnor Place, Bristow said, and John remarked that the estate seemed prosperous. However, Cumnor Place itself, when we got there, didn’t look prosperous at all.

“It reminds me of Withysham, the old abbey near Faldene,” I said to John Wilton. “Your sister told me she had heard that Withysham was going to be repaired and used as a house, just like this. It’s odd to think of old monasteries being put in order to be used as country homes.”

“This could do with being put in order, although it’s a home already, mistress,” said John, eyeing it without enthusiasm.

He was right. Of course, it wasn’t a near-ruin as Withysham had been, the last time I saw it, with lengths of broken-down wall and weeds everywhere. Nevertheless, it was neglected. Grass had sprung up between the cobbles in the courtyard and several slates were missing from the roof. The walls were heavy with ivy, in urgent need of trimming.

A pair of lurcher dogs ran out barking to greet us, and geese cackled in the courtyard, but we were already dismounting before any of the human inhabitants appeared, and when they did, it was unhurriedly, as though no one were much interested.

“You will be Mrs. Blanchard, of course. We are expecting you. You are very welcome.” He didn’t sound over-delighted to see me.

Master Blount said irritably, “Where on earth is everyone? Are all your servants asleep, Forster?”

“They are over in the church, Master Blount. We gave them leave to attend a wedding. One of our maids is marrying a fellow from Abingdon. We couldn’t be sure when you would arrive. Ah, Mrs. Blanchard, let me present my sister-in-law, Mrs. Odingsell . . . ”

A dignified lady with chilly grey eyes had followed Master Forster out. Thomas Blount and Arthur Robsart bowed to her and I curtsied. From yet another doorway came a large lady with iron-grey hair crimped into waves in front of an exotic crimson velvet cap and the rest of her swathed in a voluminous loose dress of magenta satin. She wandered out yawning as though she had just been woken from an afternoon rest, and asked what the to-do was about.

When I had been explained to her, by Forster and Blount together, she remarked, “Oh yes, we had a letter.” I had been wondering if this were Mrs. Forster, but she now informed me that she was Mrs. Owen, evidently thinking that this should impress me. It didn’t, because I had never heard of Mrs. Owen (or Mrs. Odingsell, come to that). Dudley had not thought to give me the fine detail of how the house was organised and I hadn’t thought to question either Thomas Blount or Arthur Robsart. However, the velvet cap and the magenta satin didn’t suggest a housekeeper, so to be on the safe side, I curtsied to her as well. This seemed to meet with approval.

“They are to have rooms in my wing. Because of her poor health, Lady Dudley rarely accommodates guests in her own wing. They will wash and change and then come to see her. But you will be part of her household and I am taking you and your maid to her straight away.”

As he led us towards a third entrance, he added, “The house is oddly arranged. Have you been told about it?”

“No. I know very little about Cumnor.”

“Well, Mrs. Odingsell and I live in the wing behind us. To your left is the part of the house occupied by Mrs. Owen, and the rest, where we are now going, is the domain of Lady Dudley. In fact, there are three quite separate households, although all share a common kitchen. It would be too expensive to provide a kitchen for each wing. We manage very well on the whole.”

I doubted it. My girlhood as a semi-servant at Faldene had taught me a lot about this side of life. I could imagine all too well the squabbles in the kitchen over the use of the spit and the best cauldron, and the way food would arrive on the dining tables lukewarm after being carried through the house or across the courtyard on a cold day.

Not Lady Dudley, I thought. I knew that Amy Dudley was quite young, and this woman was at least as old as Dale, and dressed, in any case, in much too plain a style. She stared at us in silence, and it was Forster who spoke first.

“Mrs. Pinto! This is Mrs. Blanchard, who has come to assist you.” As everyone here seemed to do, he used the shortened form of the word mistress, which was coming into fashion then. Gerald had disliked it, and so did I. “Mrs. Blanchard, this is Mrs. Pinto, Lady Dudley’s companion.”

Mrs. Pinto came slowly down the stairs to meet me. She did not take my offered hand, and I let it fall to my side. She had blunt, rounded features in which one could see the remains of a pudgy prettiness, but her eyes were coloured like flint and not much softer.

“My lady is upstairs,” she said. “She spends much of her time in her room, poor soul. Sometimes she feels too tired to come down. She stays in her chamber and prays and sews. I suppose you wish me to take you to her.”

There was no question about it. Lady Dudley’s woman Mrs. Pinto was looking at me as though I were a mangled and disgusting rodent, dangling limply from the jaws of a cat. Forster observed it too.

“I will leave you ladies to become acquainted,” he said cravenly, and with a hasty bow, removed himself. I heard Dale draw in a disapproving breath, although whether because of Mrs. Pinto or Mr. Forster or both, I couldn’t tell.

Mrs. Pinto did not deign to answer this. She turned on her heel and led the way up the stairs. I followed, with Dale trailing after me.

We were led to a bedchamber, big and shadowy. It was L-shaped, with windows looking out both to the courtyard and the grounds, but the windows were too narrow for the size of the room, and gave only a poor light. The bare stone walls were without any tapestries. Looking about me, I thought that the room couldn’t have been much more austere when it was used by the monks. The bed was luxurious enough, but the only other furniture in the room was a chest-cum-seat under the windows, a small table on which stood a branched candlestick, lit to dispel the gloom, and beside the table, a chair in which a woman was sitting.

“Lady Dudley,” said Mrs. Pinto, in a voice of doom, “as expected, Mrs. Blanchard has arrived. This is she.”

Lady Dudley started to her feet. She was certainly young, but she had none of the glow of youth. The fingers gripping the back of the chair were not slim, but thin; the hair gathered into her little jewelled cap should have been gleaming ash-blonde but instead was as dull as straw. Her face was pale, and the hollows under the charming cheekbones were far too deep.

Most telling of all, her sloe-blue eyes were sunken and shadowed, and although they were luminous, it was not with the sparkle of health but with something nearer to the shine of phosphorescence.

And when they met mine, I saw that they were also terrified.