Queen of Ambition (19 page)

“I’m not. I’m sure I’m not.” I hardly knew why I was so sure, but now I rummaged in my mind for the reason, and found one. “Brockley heard you tactfully questioning Woodforde and I think he was trying to follow your lead. When he began asking questions I was afraid that Woodforde would be angry, but he wasn’t, not at all. He answered fully and he was very very pat. It
was
as if he’d been waiting for a natural-seeming chance to talk about it.”

Rob sighed. “I don’t agree with you but have it your own way. Let Cecil decide, when you speak to him tomorrow! I shall see him when he first arrives—he’s going to lodge at St. John’s College—and I’ll ask him to be ready to receive you during the afternoon. I suppose you could leave the pie shop now, though.”

“I’ll stay until the moment comes to see Cecil. I’ll give myself every chance to find out more. And now I’m going to be late back. I’ve got to go back to our lodgings first and change my clothes again! And I’ve got to get out of here unnoticed, somehow.”

Luckily, a quick, cautious glance through the window to the choir showed us that Woodforde, the ushers, and the three other harbingers were now all busy with the dais and the stage. We slipped quickly down the stairs and with the rood screen to shield us, we hurried to the south door and escaped unseen. We hurried back to the lodgings as quickly as the convalescent Rob could manage, and I resumed my cookmaid’s clothes before setting off alone for the pie shop.

I was half an hour late by now and I thought grimly that I could expect trouble from Jester when I got there. I was in no mood to tolerate it. That afternoon, I had once more become Mistress Ursula Blanchard, court lady, and now I was finding it difficult to turn back into Ursula Faldene, humble cookmaid. I had said I would stay until tomorrow, but if Jester as much as raised his hand, I decided, I would walk out after all.

Which would be a pity, because in the course of the afternoon, it had come into my mind that I would very much like another look at that odd set of drawings I had found in Jester’s study, the ones that seemed in some cases to be not quite finished. For some reason, they were nagging at my mind. I hoped I wouldn’t have to forgo the attempt in the interests of self-preservation.

In my experience, oddities in general follow the same rule as coincidences. If you find one in conjunction
with any sort of mystery, there often turns out to be a link, however unlikely this may seem to begin with. I had once made a journey in company with a man who for no apparent reason pretended to be ill. There didn’t seem to be any connection with the mission I was on … but it was there, all the same. Those drawings might, just possibly, reward further investigation.

I need not have worried. When I reached Jackman’s Lane, I found the Jester shutters half closed, which meant they were set to let in light, but not to welcome business. Entering quietly through the private door, I heard voices in the shop and went in, catching my breath as I did so, for the first people I saw in the shadowy interior were Woodforde and Brockley. They paid me no attention and silently thanking heaven for the sanctuary of the queen’s bed, so that Woodforde had not seen me less than an hour ago dressed as a court lady, I moved around them, to find Ambrosia sitting at a table and softly weeping while her father sat at her side, patting her arm but looking irritable. Wat and Phoebe were standing awkwardly by.

“Oh, Ursula!” Ambrosia caught sight of me, wiped her eyes hurriedly, and spoke to me with valiant aplomb. “My uncle Woodforde has brought such sad news! My old tutor Dr. Barley is dead!”

“Oh. I’m … I’m so sorry,” I said.

Jester said: “Where in God’s name you been, girl? What time d’you call this? I want to open up but what with all this and Ambrosia carryin’ on as though I were dead instead of an old tutor she ain’t seen in years …” He didn’t, however, sound as though he
were really interested in my movements. Guessing that they had all been in the shop for some time, I said righteously: “I beg your pardon, sir. I heard you in here when I came in and not wanting to intrude on family matters, I went upstairs and have been sweeping.” Ambrosia gave me a ghost of a conspiratorial nod.

“Mistress Ambrosia’s told me a little about her tutor, sir,” I said to Woodforde, addressing him, I realized, for the first time in my life. The daylight through the partly opened shutters gave me my first really good look at him. I could see the petulant lines around his downturned mouth and the cold gray stare of his eyes. I didn’t like him. “Was it a sudden death?” I asked him civilly.

“Yes, but not exactly unexpected. I’ve known him for many years. He’s been ailing a long while. His housekeeper sent me word and I was sorry to hear of it but not surprised,” Woodforde said. “I was too busy to attend the burial but I sent my condolences and a contribution to the funeral expenses.” He paused, continuing to stare at me. His next words were alarming.

“Your name’s Ursula? Doesn’t sound familiar and I haven’t seen you here before that I know of, but I’m sure I’ve seen you somewhere.”

My insides did a somersault. “I haven’t worked here long, sir,” I said mildly. “Perhaps we have passed in the street. I go out on errands now and then.”

“Perhaps.” He went on staring for a couple seconds more and then gave it up. “Dr. Barley seemed much as usual when I saw him last, maybe a little short of breath. But there—a man of his age—sooner or later
God is bound to call him. The message from his housekeeper said that he fell ill after supper on Friday evening, and then had a final seizure on Saturday and was gone.”

Ambrosia’s tears were flowing again. “Oh, go upstairs and wash your face, girl!” her father said to her. “Can’t you control yourself? Ursula, take her up and get her calm so you can both get on with your work. The man was old and ill and God’s called him, as my brother says. There’s no need for all this. Wat, open the shutters. Go on, Ursula, see to Ambrosia.”

Ambrosia rose to her feet. Going to her, I put my arm around her and guided her away. We went up to our chamber and I sat her on the bed. “That was a splendid performance,” I said. “Anyone would think you really had just heard the news! The second message went off to your mother yesterday. It’s all right. She’s got it.”

Ambrosia looked tearfully up at me. “But she hasn’t.”

“What?”

“That’s why I’m in such a state. Uncle Giles came and I was called down, and I was trying not to cry—and then when he came out with the news about my poor old tutor, at least it gave me a chance to let go.” Once again, she fished under her pillow and brought out a letter. “This came just after you went out. A gardener’s boy from Brent Hay brought it. I was going out too and found him hanging about, waiting for me. He said he’d had orders to give it to me in person and not to let anyone else know, and that a lady at Brent Hay had paid him well to bring it.”

She handed me the letter. It bore the date of Wednesday second of August. “Today!” I said. It was from Ambrosia’s mother. It said that she had heard of the death of Dr. Barley, expressed grief for him and went on to say that since she could no longer write through him, she had decided to write direct to Ambrosia this once. She had news she longed to impart and a request that she must make. She had decided to reveal the name she was now using and where she was living, because it was likely enough that Ambrosia might learn this soon in any case and she could only hope that Master Jester didn’t learn it, too!

She hoped to find a replacement for Dr. Barley soon so that she and Ambrosia could go on communicating through a third party, which would be safer, as then there was a chance that their correspondence might remain a secret from Ambrosia’s father.

And now for my news. I am living as Mistress Smithson in the household of Mistress Grantley of Brent Hay. You must have heard, dearest girl, that when the queen comes to Cambridge, she is to pause in Jackman’s Lane and that a lady called Mistress Smithson is to present flowers to her there. I am that lady. This very day I have also learned that there is to be some sort of little jest and I am to let some students kidnap me and snatch me away. Perhaps you have heard about this, too. It seems that I have quite an important part in the welcome for the queen!

I would have had to tell you in any case, dearest girl—for not to do so would be unbearable. My darling, I couldn’t bear to be so close to you without you knowing. Perhaps, just for one moment our eyes will manage to meet. I shall be looking
out for you. It has been so long, so very long, dearest daughter, since I last saw your face. I wonder if you have changed much in the five years since I fled? I hope you will know me when you see me; but will I also know you? I pray with all my heart that I shall do so.

But I am also telling you this news because I need your help. This task is a great honor which I could scarcely refuse when it was offered to me, but in spite of this and much as I yearn to be near you again, I am very much afraid of coming to Jackman’s Lane. I want you to recognize me, but what if your father recognizes me, too? I shall be dressed very grandly in a gown that Mistress Grantley is lending me and, of course,the crowd will be kept at a distance, so perhaps he won’t. If he does, well, I tell myself that in the queen’s presence and with students all about me to protect me, he can surely do me no harm then and there. But the secret of my present name and whereabouts will be laid open to him and in that case, please, Ambrosia, warn me as quickly as you can, for I shall have to leave my present home and adopt yet another name.

Apart from this, it would be safer for you not to write to me here or try to see me.

I am sending this by one of Mistress Grantley’s garden boys who often runs errands both for her and for me. I have told him that it concerns a very private family matter and that he must make sure that he gives this letter to you and to you only and that without anyone else nearby. I have told him that we resemble each other though I said that we are but cousins. If he can identify you, and I trust he can, then surely I will do the same myself, and next Saturday I will know you.

We had been right to think that Mistress Smithson was Mistress Jester, then. She had taken a serious risk in revealing her name and whereabouts to Ambrosia
and writing to her in such candid terms without a third party in between but the desire to see her daughter again and to be recognized by her breathed out of the letter.

“She doesn’t know,” said Ambrosia desperately. “She
still
doesn’t know! What went wrong?”

“I don’t know,” I said faintly, passing the letter back to her. “I can’t think—I was sure …” I was thinking quickly. I hesitated and then plunged. “I’ll try again to get word out to Brent Hay. And there’s something else I might do—look, I … well, my cousin Roger works for a courtier and the courtier works for Sir William Cecil …”

“Who’s he?”

“The queen’s Secretary of State,” I said shortly. “He will come to Cambridge tomorrow. I think I can speak to Roger’s employer and tell him about this. You see, it sounds as though—well, your uncle Giles encouraged the students in their nonsense, didn’t he? I’m wondering why, that’s all. What if he knows that Mistress Smithson is your mother and has some scheme to throw her back into your father’s power? Perhaps that’s why he wanted to make the playlet official! But I don’t think that the people of the court would like that. From things Roger has told me, I think that if they even suspect such a thing, they’d put a stop to it. They wouldn’t like being used. If I’m right, then if I tell what I suspect, the playlet will be canceled. If you love your mother, just don’t repeat what I’ve said to anyone but leave it to me to do my best and tell lies for me if I have to go out at difficult hours.”

“Is it true?” Ambrosia asked wonderingly. “
Could
you? Would you dare—go and talk to these great people?”

“Roger will help,” I said.

I would see Cecil tomorrow. I would get the playlet canceled if I could and I would make sure, once and for all, that Mistress Jester knew what had been planned—and knew, too, what I had learned while hiding under the bed in the retiring room: the fact that her brother-in-law did indeed know who she was and where she was. She could decide for herself what to do, I thought, but in her place I would fall diplomatically ill, keep well away from Jackman’s Lane, and set about finding a new name and hiding place forthwith!

And I would also, I thought grimly, make a point of seeing that leaden-footed Mercury of mine, that anything but winged messenger, Fran Dale.

I wanted to rush out of the shop and go to Dale then and there. But when Ambrosia and I went downstairs again, after Woodforde had gone, we found a surge of business. The queen’s entourage was arriving in force by now, and some of the less exalted ones, the grooms and wagoners, the laundresses and scullions, were roaming around Cambridge in search of cheap suppers. The shop was full, and Jester in his most chivying mood.

Since I really did want another look at those drawings, I needed to keep my character as an employee and as such, I had no more chance of getting out of the shop that evening (or of getting up to the attic either) than of growing wings and flying to the moon. At the end of the day, when at last we all went wearily to bed, I found that Ambrosia was still worrying about her mother. “What if you can’t get another message to her and can’t get the playlet stopped either?”

“I
will
get word to her, whatever happens. There’s still time. Leave it to me and don’t worry.”

But she did worry, to the point of lying sleepless. I knew this because I was seething with such impatience that I was sleepless too. I tried to calm myself, because a dull ache had started above my left eye and I was afraid of developing a sick headache. In the event, the ache eventually faded, but sleep I could not and as I lay there, I now and then turned my head and saw Ambrosia’s open eyes gleaming in the dark. Once or twice I thought that she was crying.

Toward morning I dozed but was wakened early by Ambrosia, who was getting up. She was too restless to stay abed, she said when I heard a distant watchman proclaiming that it was four of the clock and all was well, and protested. In the dawn light, I saw that she looked exhausted and from her reddened eyelids, I knew that I was right; she had wept in the night. When we were alone for a moment because Phoebe, who had also woken up, had carried our chamber pots out, she said to me: “You promised.”