A Pawn for a Queen: An Ursula Blanchard Mystery at Queen Elizabeth I's (Ursula Blanchard Mystery at Queen Elizabeth I's Court) (29 page)

“Yes.”

“You are our witness, Fraser, and this is the bargain,” Dormbois declared, holding his goblet high. “That tonight, she will be as my bride, bonny and buxom as ever she was to the husbands who went before me. And that tomorrow, I shall tell her a certain name which she desires to know, and then, if she still wishes it, set her free to walk unmolested out of Roderix Fort, with her tirewoman. Though I shall strive my best to see that she does not so wish, for her place here as my bride is assured forever, if she will only choose it. Drink!”

We drank, with some difficulty, owing to the narrowness of the goblets. One’s nose got in the way. The dark, narrow shape made the wine look like ink, as well. It was good wine, though. Dormbois had a worthwhile cellar. There were gleams of refinement in his peculiar nature and his equally peculiar home.
Such a pity, I thought, that the barbarian in him took over so easily, and at all the wrong moments.

• • •

That night, I sold myself, body and spirit alike. To my life’s end, I shall remember that night with bitterness.

I was carrying out my part of a bargain. I kept that in mind throughout. It was for me to smile, to look willing, to respond, to welcome, and all of it was false. I longed so much for Matthew. It was nearly a year since I had parted from him, and things had not been quite right between us then. Now he was gone and this reminder of what we had had together broke my heart. I wanted to weep. And must not.

In fact, once we were in the dark, with the candles out and the bed curtains closed around us, a few tears did escape me. I tried, in the dark, to pretend that the man I was embracing was Matthew but it was no use. I was conscious, all the time, of Dormbois’s own shape and texture. The bones and muscle of his body and limbs were different; the texture of his skin was different; his smell was different, sour compared to Matthew’s smell.

He was different too from that other memory, farther back, of Gerald. Nothing at all was familiar or comforting. I was left with only one recourse, to do as whores do, and pretend.

One of the troubles between Matthew and me was that because we had such different beliefs, he had secrets that he kept from me. Gerald and I, though, had talked of anything and everything. Among the things that Gerald had told me (though not from personal experience) was that even with a whore, some men
still want to give pleasure. They want her to enjoy it. Whores mostly don’t; they do it as a job and spend the time thinking about something else. When enjoyment is demanded, they act.

Dormbois wanted enjoyment from me. He began with prolonged, unhurried nuzzlings and caresses that made his wishes amply plain and so . . . I acted. Having known the real thing, I knew how to create the semblance. At least, that is how it was the first time. But the second time . . .

The second time is the worst of my memories of that night.

After that first union, Dormbois slept. I did not, but lay beside him open-eyed and wretched, waiting for him to wake up again, knowing that he would, and to me that time seemed endless. Then, while the night was still deep, he stirred and turned over, reaching drowsily out to me and his caresses began once more.

And this time, against my will, treacherous as quicksand, my wayward body answered him. I fought it. Inside my head, I screamed to it to be silent, to be unfeeling, to refuse its own needs, its own instincts. It would not. It had been almost a year since I parted from Matthew. I was still young, and more hungry than I knew.

That second time, I did not have to act. Against my own will, I gave the reality and not the semblance. Then he fell asleep once more, and as the gray dawn began to seep through a chink in the bed curtains, I cried silently but in good earnest, the tears mingling with the sweat of my own unwanted passion.

There was only one part of that night that I can recall
without shame, and that was earlier, after our first lovemaking, if it can be called that. Before he fell asleep he talked to me for a little while, I think trying to build some kind of friendly bridge between us. He said: “You were interested, were you not, by those brown goblets? You’d expect goblets used for ceremony to be of gold or silver or jewel-studded, maybe?”

I responded politely. “I suppose so. I’ve never seen goblets made of earthenware before.”

“They’re not English. They’re Roman—modern Roman, that would be, nothing to do with Nero or Julius Caesar. My father’s father—his name was François Dormbois—liked to travel. My da took after him—which is how he came to Scotland. But when he was young, before he was wed, Grandda’s itchy feet took him the other way, south, to Rome. He wanted to see the pope. He was of good family, and on the way he’d look for lodgings in the houses of good families when he could, but one night he found the dark coming down on him and nowhere to lodge but in a little village place. He knocked on doors and found beds for him and his man, with a potter.”

“Go on,” I said, becoming intrigued despite myself, and finding that I preferred this version of Dormbois, telling a story with his mind on telling it well, rather than on impressing me.

“Aye, well. The pottery adjoined the house and had a kiln in a kind of shed behind it. In the night, Grandda smelled smoke and woke up, and just as well, for something had gone awry with the kiln and it was afire and the shed as well. He roused the house with shouting, and they all woke up and went rushing to the well for
water, and the fire was put out. I never knew him but he told the tale to my da and Da told it to me. Seems there was little danger to life, for the buildings were only one story and everyone could have got out of windows if they’d had to. Grandda said he wasnae any great hero, just for smelling smoke and giving the alarm.

“But the potter was grateful, because the fire would have taken the workshop next, and destroyed the wheel and the work he was doing and all the things that were made and ready for them that had ordered them. Grandda was good with his hands and didnae think it shame for a nobly born man to use them, though some think in that fashion. He stayed on awhile to help rebuild the shed and the kiln, and the potter made him these goblets and fired them in the new kiln as soon as it was ready. He made them to a new pattern, just for Grandda, so that no one else in the world would have anything the same, and he even used some of a little store of gold leaf that he kept handy for special orders, which was generous of him for he wasnae wealthy. It was the best thanks he could offer.

“So I grew up,” said Dormbois, “with those goblets as part of my life. My grandda and my da both had affection for them, and as I told ye, they became something to drink from on special occasions. They’re a bit awkward for common use, as ye may have noticed.”

“Yes, I did,” I said, and he laughed and so did I, and just for a moment we were two human beings sharing a moment of harmless amusement that had nothing to do with male and female.

But it didn’t last. He slept, and then woke, and our
second joining had no easy conversation afterward. He slept again, and I wept.

I did drift into slumber eventually, but not for long. Soon, too soon, it was time to rise. Hoping that my face didn’t reveal my nighttime tears, I gave my companion good morning. He sat up. Below his mustache, his chin was gray with stubble, and his black hair was tangled. He grinned at me. “And how did I do, my sweet bird?”

“You were excellent,” I told him.

“So were you.” He eyed me glitteringly, and, with resignation, I saw that he was going to pounce on me again.

“One moment. I need the privy,” I said, and fled from the bedchamber into the parlor where Dale had spent the night on a truckle bed. “New sponge,” I muttered to her as I went past, and then waited in the privy until she had handed in a fresh piece of vinegar-soaked sponge. The one I had donned the night before, I tossed down the privy chute. Then, I arranged a pleasant smile on my face and went back to bed.

After a night that had been all but sleepless, I had no energy left either to respond or to pretend a response beyond a few sighs and murmurs. When it was over, I lay quiet on the pillow and said: “I have fulfilled my promise. Will you now fulfill yours? Who ordered my cousin’s death—and why?”

“Strewth, woman, can you no’ wait until we’re up and dressed? You havenae told me whether or no you’re willing to stay with me or whether you intend to walk out o’ Roderix this morning.”

“I haven’t yet decided,” I said ruthlessly. I was lying but wanted to keep an advantage over him until I had the information I had bought so dearly.

“I’ll tell you one thing. It isn’t a name you’ll like to hear.”

“I still want to know what it is.”

“Verra well.” He too lay back on the pillow, linking his hands behind his head. He turned his head so as to look at me and smiled.

“Master Rob Henderson,” he said.

I said in bewilderment: “Why? Why would Henderson do such a thing?”

Dormbois shrugged. “He’s Cecil’s creature, is he no’? Edward Faldene was carrying news to Queen Mary which Cecil didnae want her to have; that’s what I heard.”

“From whom?”

“Ah. Well now, that was not in the bargain. You have the name you wanted. I’ll not reveal to a living soul how I know, but Rob Henderson it was, and that’s the truth. I said you wouldnae like it.”

“It’s time to get up,” I said.

He called Dale to me and then went to dress in the parlor, shouting down the stairs for someone to bring him fresh garments and leaving me to dress in private. I told Dale what he had said.

“Do you believe him, ma’am?” she asked.

“Yes. Yes, I do.” I puckered my brow, thinking. “The reason
must
concern that list. I’m sure now that it never reached Queen Mary. I fancy that Henderson ordered Edward’s death on account of it, though I still don’t quite understand why. But I suppose whoever did the
killing took the list and either handed it to Master Henderson or destroyed it.”

“The list that Master Henderson gave you, madam, that he said was a copy of an old one . . .”

“Oh, it was. If he’s got the new one, he wasn’t likely to admit it to me!” I said grimly. I was still trying to think. “I must say,” I said, “that I’d like to know how on earth anyone found out that Edward was carrying the thing in the first place or what was in it, and I do
not
see why they couldn’t just have taken it without murdering Edward, but . . . yes, I believe Dormbois. It would be such a pointless and unlikely lie! Oh, dear God, if only he keeps his word and lets us leave here today. I want to go home!”

Since I had my saddlebags, I had spare clothes and was able to put on a fresh gown. Tidy and miserable, I went out to the parlor at last to find that breakfast, in the form of ale, buttermilk, porridge, salt, and what looked like fresh bread, had been brought upstairs. Dormbois, who was already eating, was fully dressed as well, in a businesslike doublet and hose of black woolen cloth, though, since he was a man of position, the slashings on the doublet sleeves were of satin, patterned in silver and pale blue.

The outfit wasn’t new, for I could see the dull patch on the doublet where it had been sponged, probably to get rid of wine or gravy stains. It was typical, somehow, of the Scottish nobility: a mixture of the luxurious and the scruffy.

The morning had turned bright, the best I had seen since I came to Scotland, and a shaft of warm sunlight slanted across the room. As we sat down at the table,
Dormbois looked at me questioningly across it, lifting his dark brows.

“You promised that if I chose, I should go free this morning,” I said. “Will you keep your word? For I still wish to go free, to go home. I am sorry.”

He looked at Dale and jerked his head. “Tak your breakfast into the other room, woman,” he said, and Dale, looking frightened of him, gathered up a beaker of buttermilk and a bowl of porridge and hastily departed.

As the door closed behind her, Dormbois said: “Will nothing change your mind?” in a voice so grave and sad that I actually found it touching.

“I said, I am sorry,” I told him. “But I can’t stay. I can’t. I’m homesick, for one thing. As Marguerite was, I think. Would you want me to die as she did?”

“You are a stronger woman than Marguerite. Ursula, can nothing at all persuade you? If I were to go down on one knee . . .”

“No,” I said, putting out a hand to check him as he slid from his seat and began to kneel. “Please don’t. It won’t make any difference.”

“Would this make a difference?”

He caught hold of me and pulled me against him. I endured his kiss with my lips closed. He put me back from him and his eyes were angry. “So it was all acting, in the night, was it? The performance that women of the night put on for their buyers?”

I searched his eyes, trying to find in them some trace of understanding or even guilt and seeing nothing but a hard brightness. “It was more dignified than the alternative,” I said. “Wasn’t it?”

He didn’t answer. I said: “Will you keep your word?”

Dormbois sighed, taking his seat again. Then he nodded. “Aye. I had the feeling all along that that would be the way of it. Obstinacy’s your middle name, lassie.” He picked up his porridge spoon. “I’m a man of my word. You go on foot for I’m not minded to make it easy for you, but yes, you can go. Fill up with a good breakfast, now. It’s a long walk to Stirling, though there are hamlets on the way. I’ll see you have bread and meat to take with you and water flasks.”

I could hardly believe it, but he appeared to have given in. Perhaps, I thought, I had not proved such a delightful bed partner as I supposed. Perhaps he was wondering if a different lady might indeed prove a better wife. To my own astonishment, I felt almost indignant.

But Dale, when I went to tell her what was afoot, was full of thankfulness. “I only hope we can find Roger, ma’am. If he wasn’t much hurt, he’ll have made for Stirling, I suppose. Maybe we’ll find him there.”

“We’ll find him, anyway,” I reassured her. “We won’t set off for home until we have.”

I didn’t want to waste time, partly for fear that Dormbois would change his mind, but there was no sign of that. He left us to finish breakfast in private, telling me to call him when we were ready to go. We made all the haste we could. The food was filling, though the porridge, like yesterday’s washing water, wasn’t as hot as I would have liked, probably because it had had to be brought across the courtyard from the round building I had seen on the way in, which must be the kitchen. The appointments of Roderix Fort really were medieval.