A Pawn for a Queen: An Ursula Blanchard Mystery at Queen Elizabeth I's (Ursula Blanchard Mystery at Queen Elizabeth I's Court) (34 page)

“What are you saying?” Fraser caught my arm and pulled me to my feet again.

“Leave her,” said Dormbois. “
Leave
her, I said! Fraser . . .”

“Sir?” said Fraser.

“Let her go, with her things and her people. I command it. She’s ill luck for me.”

I glanced at Fraser. “My belongings are packed and waiting in the room where I was kept,” I said. “Will you have them brought down?”

“Aye. Since that’s the laird’s bidding. The sooner ye’re oot of this place, the better,” said Fraser sourly. He gave me another nasty look, but he turned away and barked out orders. A couple of serving men went back through the courtyard door and the men who had been tending Dormbois’s wound went to fetch a stretcher—it looked like an old door—which had been lying ready and lifted Dormbois onto it. His head lolled and this time he didn’t groan. I think he had slipped out of consciousness.

Dormbois had ordered our release, but Dormbois was as near to dead as made no difference. We were still in danger. I hadn’t liked that word
witchcraft.
Brockley hadn’t, either. “We’d better get to the horses, madam. Come, Fran. Let’s mount.”

There was a murmur from among some of the garrison, who by this time had crowded around, and for a perilous moment, some of them moved to block
our way. Surprisingly, it was Fraser who stopped them.

“The laird’s given his orders and he’s no’ dead, not yet. They’re to go, as was sworn yesterday in the hall of this keep, and again this morning, and good riddance in my view. Let them pass!”

Brockley, facing the crowd boldly, said: “Master Fraser is right. You all heard, in the hall, what had been agreed. Is our gear being brought? If not, we will leave without it. Get to the horses, madam, Fran.”

“Your gear is coming,” said Fraser. “And the outer gate is open as a sign of good faith. The sooner the pack of ye are through it, the happier we’ll be.”

And yes, our baggage was being brought. The servants who brought it scowled at us, but they carried our belongings to the horses, put the saddlebags in place, and even helped us to put our shoulder bags on and mount. Brockley’s bag was already slung across his saddle. He heaved it onto his back.

Father Bell came to wish us Godspeed. His good wishes included Adam Ericks, who had a pony tied outside the gate and evidently proposed to leave with us. From Dormbois’s men there were no friendly looks to bid us a good journey and the muttering continued, but Fraser, whatever his private feelings, was a somewhat more honest man than his master and they respected his authority. Nor had we given Dormbois’s men time to brood on such matters as witchcraft or double-dealing and ferment themselves into defying orders. I think it was a near thing, but in the end, they let us go without hindrance.

This time, we went free. Genuinely.

• • •

We parted from Ericks when he turned west for Stirling while we turned south for the border. “Tell me, madam,” said Brockley as we jogged along, afterward, “how did you do it? You did something. I know it.”

“I used the poppy draft that Queen Mary provided for Dale,” I said. “There was quite a lot of it left. Sir Brian has a custom of drinking to important occasions, in special goblets. There’s a story attached to them, but the point is, they’re made of dark brown earthenware, almost the same color as the draft, and they’re very deep and narrow. I thought that if a little were in the bottom of a goblet, it wouldn’t be visible. It wasn’t, either, at least not after I’d diluted it with a little water. It was difficult to estimate the dose—I had to use enough to make a difference but I daren’t use too much or it would be quite obvious that he’d been drugged.”

“We experimented last night,” said Dale. “The mistress needed her sleep anyway, so she took a small dose herself and I watched to see how long it took to work. I think we got Dormbois’s dose more or less right.”

“He guessed, even so,” I said. “But not until it was too late! The hardest part was making sure that he drank from the drugged goblet! I’d put the draft in the one on the right but when Dale carried the tray in, Dormbois was on my left and Ericks on my right! I could have torn my hair out. I dared not even take the tray from Dale and turn it round. I had to be as remote from it as possible. I dared not touch it.”

“But you thought of that in advance, ma’am, and thought of the trick with the favor!” said Dale, laughing.
“Though my heart turned over when Dormbois tried to interfere and almost picked up the wrong goblet! If you hadn’t made that suggestion that he was nervous, I think he would have spoiled everything at that moment!
And
. . .” Dale was clearly lost in admiration, “when Master Ericks came up to you, you moved away to your left, so that the goblet there was nearest when you reached out to pick one up and hand it to Ericks. I felt faint, ma’am, wondering how you’d manage but you did! You pushed Dormbois back at the same time.”

“I know. I trod on his foot as well as pushing him,” I said.

“What on earth would you have done if Ericks
had
picked up the wrong goblet?” Brockley asked.

“Jogged his elbow and spilled it, I suppose,” I said.

After a pause, Brockley said: “Did Master Ericks know about the . . . drug, madam?”

“No, of course not.”

“I don’t think he would be very pleased if he did know. His sense of honor . . .”

“Brockley, I wasn’t going to risk having to marry the man who murdered my cousin by crawling in at a window and stabbing Edward in his sleep. Not even to save Adam Ericks’s honor!”

Brockley sighed. “I understood your message about the button, madam. Dormbois murdered Master Faldene, I take it?”

“Yes.”

“But why?”

I said: “You’re not going to like this, Brockley. Master Henderson ordered it.”

“Master . . . how do you know, madam?”

I said: “You won’t like the answer to that, either, Brockley.”

“Madam!”

“Leave it,” I said. “Let us never speak of it again. Dale will tell you when you’re alone. I don’t ask her to have secrets from you.”

“Dear God!” said Brockley.

I said, determinedly: “How far is it to the English border?”

It took us five weeks to reach southern England. The weather turned wet, changing tracks to rivers, flooding fords, converting once solid ground to quagmires and delaying us, and then both Dale and I caught cold on the way. We fell ill virtually together, Dale on one day and myself on the next, and spent a fortnight of shared misery, confined indoors in a Midlands hostelry. It was lucky that I still had enough money with me to pay the innkeeper for the extra time and the stabling for our horses.

I was very worried about Dale, with whom colds so easily turned serious. She developed a cough, which I did not, and took much longer to recover than I did. Brockley, who remained well (and prudently slept over the stables rather than with Dale), went out to buy horehound medicine and a balsam to put in boiling water so that she could inhale the aromatic steam. We
got her well in the end, but she had lost a great deal of strength, and when we set off again, we could only do a few miles a day.

Brockley’s manner to me, throughout the whole ride, was odd; not disapproving exactly, more a mixture of the distant and the anxious. But only during the later part of the journey did he actually comment, and then it was oblique. He did not mention Dormbois’s name, or speak of Roderix Fort, but as he rode at my side one misty morning, he said: “Madam, you may think me impertinent, but you know me well enough to know that I only have your welfare in mind.”

“Yes, Brockley?”

“The way you are living isn’t right, madam, for you, or for Fran. I do ask you, with all my heart, to find a more settled manner of living. I urge you to marry again.”

He didn’t add
and it would be easier for me,
but the implication was there and I knew it. Brockley loved me. Dale by now must have told him (even if he hadn’t guessed) that in Roderix Fort I had been with Dormbois as I would never be with Brockley himself. He was a conventional man and he could accept the thought of me with a lawful husband, but Dormbois had not been that, and the thought of that night must stick in his gullet. It was hard for him.

I said: “I know,” and he nodded, understanding that I also knew the things he hadn’t actually said.

It was the last week of April before, at last, we came in sight of the chimneys of Thamesbank, where I had left Meg. I intended to collect her but not to sleep under Thamesbank’s roof. I didn’t want to hurt Mattie’s feelings,
but this was Rob Henderson’s house and accept its hospitality now I could not and would not. I saw to it that we timed our arrival at Thamesbank for mid-morning, so that we could easily pack Meg’s things and be on our way to Withysham the same day.

But before we had dismounted, Mattie came out to greet us, and though she was smiling bravely, I knew at once that something was wrong. The smile was a mere pretense. She reached up a hand to clasp mine and hers was shaking.

“Mattie, what is it?”

“You’d better get down. You . . .”

“Mattie! What’s
wrong
? Meg? Is Meg all right? Tell me!” Giving Brockley no time to alight and offer his help, I was already scrambling out of the saddle.

“Meg is perfectly well and is at her lessons,” said Mattie. “You shall see her in a moment. This is nothing to do with Meg. Please come inside. You too, Dale, and Brockley, leave the horses to our grooms. You know very well they’re reliable. Come.”

Bewildered, we did as she said. Thamesbank was a large and beautiful house close to the river, with a wide stretch of grass running down to the water and a landing stage and boats of its own. We had come to the landward side, but as soon as we were indoors, in the big main hall where the family dined, with the minstrels’ gallery above and windows looking out to both the front gate and the river, I saw that an unfamiliar barge was drawn up at the stage.

“You have visitors?” I said to Mattie.

“They’ve been here since yesterday,” said Mattie. “They’re waiting for you.”

“For me?”

“Ursula . . .” Mattie took my hands and drew me away to a window seat, out of anyone else’s hearing. We sat down and she looked gravely into my eyes. “My dearest Ursula. I love you, and I love Meg. But I also love Rob. I don’t know what to say to you. Rob came home a few days ago. He expected to find that you had been here long before him and was surprised and worried that you had not.”

“I was ill on the way and so was Dale. Mattie . . .”

“Yes, we know that now. Word reached Cecil three days ago—one of the innkeepers on your route is . . .”

“One of Cecil’s agents. Is that what you mean?”

“Shh. Listen. Ursula, we know everything that happened in Scotland. I know that your cousin was murdered and by whom—which means that I know what part my Rob had in it. What
am
I to say to you? To me, he is still my Rob and always will be. But . . .”

“I don’t blame
you,
Mattie. How could I? You have been a good friend, a blessing. No one could have been kinder to Meg. Only, now . . .”

“I know. Oh, Ursula . . .”

“It means,” I said, “that I can’t stay a night with you because . . . because . . . well, I’ve come to fetch Meg and take her home. I’ll have to go to Faldene, of course, and . . .”

I was upset and nervous, almost rambling. Mattie put a finger on my lips.

“Ursula, I said that I had guests who were waiting for you. They come from the court. It was they who told us that you were on your way and were making for Thamesbank and would arrive soon. Sir William Cecil sent them,
with orders to bring you to court at once. If you hadn’t appeared by tomorrow, they were to set out to meet you. They haven’t actually come to arrest you, but . . .”

“I went to Scotland illegally,” I said tiredly. “I daresay that a man called Christopher Rokeby informed them of that. But . . .”

I broke off, hearing voices. The door of the hall opened and in came three men. One of them I instantly recognized. He was middle-aged, his hair by this time almost entirely gray, but he looked as tough as ever and he was a man whom Cecil trusted absolutely. So, indeed, did Brockley and I. He had been with us for a while in France and Brockley had made friends with him.

“John Ryder,” I said.

“Mistress Blanchard.” He bowed, but his face was unsmiling. “We are relieved to see you safely here. You will wish to take a glass of wine with Mistress Henderson and greet your daughter and I will allow that. But after that, you and your people must come with us. We have orders to bring you with all speed to Hampton Court, where the queen and Sir William await you. And I regret to say,” added Ryder, sounding as though he really were regretful, “that you have no choice in the matter.”

I said: “But I
must
go to Faldene. My cousin Edward was murdered and I ought to see his family and . . .”

“Your letter, sent in March by Master Henderson’s man Barker, was duly delivered,” said Ryder. “They know of Master Faldene’s death. They can wait a little longer for you to come in person. Mistress Henderson, I suggest you send for the wine and fetch
Mistress Blanchard’s daughter to her. But we must leave before midday.”

• • •

So, a brief hour with Meg. Long enough to hug her, to exclaim that she had grown again, to ask after her studies in Latin and hear her play a melody on the lute. I asked her the name of it and she said: “It is ‘Leicester’s Dance,’ Mama. The music master here says it is the most popular dance at court, and has been named after the Earl of Leicester.”

“Robin Dudley,” said Mattie, who was watching in the background. “He was made Earl of Leicester in the autumn.”

“Yes, I know. So he is still—very much a favorite?” I was speaking to Mattie.

“It would seem so. But that’s of no interest to you, Meg,” Mattie added hastily. “These court affairs won’t matter to you for a good many years yet. I only wish . . .”