The Lost Duchess (3 page)

Secretary of State Walsingham saw her first.

‘I would speak with you, Mistress Fifield.’ He inclined his head, fixing her with his dark hooded eyes while a thin smile formed on his long gaunt face.

Could he have found out what had happened to her? Emme stared back at him in dread, aware that Walsingham knew everything; he was the eyes and ears of the Queen. But perhaps all he wanted was to extract more information from her of the kind which had so far kept her in his favour and for which her father had been rewarded in small ways. Walsingham seemed to value her opinion on what was being said at court out of the hearing of the Queen, and to trust her integrity in delivering him the truth. His interest should have been a credit to her, yet, at that moment, she could not have wished him further away. She smiled back at him uneasily.

‘Now, my lord Secretary?’

‘
I
will speak with her now.’

The Queen’s strident voice sent a tremble down Emme’s spine. She looked ahead and saw that the Queen had stopped and was beckoning her closer.

‘Come, Mistress Fifield, and do not keep me waiting as you did last night.’

Emme held her skirts and tripped forwards, eyes averted from those she passed, but feeling their looks like darts in her back. She curtseyed low over the damp camomile as Lady Howard and Bess Throckmorton stepped away, leaving her before the Queen alone.

‘Your Grace,’ she said, rising with her head still bowed.

‘Let us talk.’ The Queen walked on. ‘What were you doing yestereve?’

‘I was …’ Emme’s mind spun, turning with explanations, none of them convincing. She could not tell the truth, not the whole truth. She would not even mention Lord Hertford’s name. The Queen must not suspect that there had been any intimacy between them, that she had been defiled and was now no longer a virgin. She could not believe that Lord Hertford would openly admit to having ‘married’ her, far less to having ravaged her. He would say she had enticed him or had fabricated a fantasy, anything but accept that he was guilty of any wrong. The blame would be hers if their indiscretion became known. She would be vilified, ruined and sent back to her father in disgrace. No one must find out what had happened to her. Yet she felt as if her shame must show like dirt on her face. She could not lie; lying was anathema, against the deepest principles by which she had always led her life, and something about her demeanour would be sure to give her away. Most of all she could not lie to Her Majesty. If she was found out …

‘Well?’ The Queen quickened her steps making Emme hurry to keep up. Her proud face showed no gentleness when she turned for an answer. Unmade-up and wan, with deep lines either side of her thin-lipped mouth, her face seemed haggard and she looked
every one of her near fifty-three years, though Emme was shocked to think it, even having seen her thus before.

‘I was abed,’ she said, clinging to the truth. ‘I was sick.’

‘Oh, give me reasons more convincing!’ The Queen’s voice rose, snapping back. ‘Every maid of mine who dallies with a courtier, making eyes when she should be doing my bidding, will tell me later that she has been sick. What sickness was it that kept you from your duty to your Sovereign yet the next day leaves you fit to walk and talk? You shared a bedchamber with Lady Frances Howard last night and she tells me she was not aware of you being ill. I have no doubt about what you were doing, and do not forswear yourself by denying it.’

Emme bowed her head, seeing no choice but to be admonished for a failing not her fault.

‘I am sorry I did not attend on you as I should have done.’

‘Sorry! Yes, you should be sorry.’ The Queen spoke so loudly that Emme had to force herself to keep walking and not edge away, while the humiliation of knowing that everyone following must have heard was like a brand against her shoulders that made them shrink back.

‘I will not fail you again, Your Grace, I promise.’

‘Pah! Promises …’ The Queen waved dismissively. ‘Raise your pretty face, Mistress Fifield, and let me see you properly.’

Emme looked at her, but not at her eyes.

‘You are very young,’ the Queen said in a much quieter tone.

‘I am twenty-one years of age,’ Emme responded. Not young at all, she thought, though she did not say so.

The Queen gave a soft hollow laugh and turned towards the bright sunshine that was brimming over the palace walls. Then she
wiped at her eye, perhaps because of the light, Emme could not tell; she spoke wistfully.

‘Young enough to think that the world can turn around a love sonnet, to have no cares beyond the attention of a favoured gentleman, to nurture ambition without limit, and think that death can never touch you. I know what it is to be that young.’

Emme lowered her gaze, humbled by the Queen’s candour, both relieved that she had not suspected the truth and saddened that she supposed her carefree.

‘But I am a Prince,’ the Queen said in a harder voice, ‘and as a Prince I had to leave my youth behind. My duty has always been to England, as yours is now to me. We cannot put our own desires first, or rest from the burden placed upon us, or ever lower our guard.’

She looked quickly round, and Emme followed her gaze, breathing in the fragrance of crushed camomile as she watched the ladies who were following some paces behind suddenly stop, while Secretary Walsingham raised his head from a conversation with his clerk. A hush descended on everyone, broken only by a cockerel’s crow and the faint tolling of a bell in the distance. Nothing moved until the Queen raised her chin, nodded, then turned and carried on walking. She spoke to Emme in a way no one else would hear.

‘I am loved by my subjects but all my life I have known that there are those who will pose as loyal with treason in their hearts, and they can reach me anywhere.’

Emme felt a chill run through her. Did the Queen fear for her own safety now, here in the Privy Garden? She looked about, wondering what the shadows might hide.

‘I would lay down my life to protect you,’ she said softly.

‘I do not ask for your life,’ the Queen answered with a wry smile, ‘merely that you come to me when I ask for you, and, if I wish to take ease in a few moments’ diversion, that you are always ready to keep me company, even if only to sing to me.’

Emme dropped to her knees. ‘Always, Your Majesty, I will always do your bidding.’

‘Rise, girl, and be of some use rather than mopping up the dew.’ The Queen gestured for Emme to get up, and chuckled quietly. ‘We have a pirate to receive, and an ambassador to keep in ignorance.’ She looked towards her ladies and signalled for them to come nearer.

‘Sir Francis Drake arrives this morning after almost a year spent pricking Spain’s pride in the New World and avenging us for past treachery. Let us honour him with a fit welcome, and ensure that His Excellency, the Baron de Chateauneuf, has news of our hero’s triumphant return which he may report to his Spanish friends, as well as his master, the King of France. But let the Baron not learn too much before I have spoken to Sir Francis alone. Therefore please stay with him, Lady Howard, and ensure that he speaks neither to Sir Francis nor his men. Charm the Baron to distraction, Mistress Throckmorton, and together keep him company in the Presence Chamber while I hear Sir Francis in private. Meanwhile you, Mistress Fifield, may ensure that any gentlemen Sir Francis brings with him are also entertained in the same place, and not left wandering in the Great Hall or Gallery able to converse with all and sundry. But keep them apart, good ladies, I particularly do not wish the French Ambassador to have a chance to question anyone newly returned from Virginia.’ She gestured them away then admonished them further as they drew aside.

‘Wear your finest gowns, but no colours, and leave your partlet off, Mistress Throckmorton; the day is already warm enough for your throat to be uncovered.’

Emme noticed her friend’s fleeting frown as she curtseyed in response, and felt sorry for her, certain that the Baron’s attention would be below Bess’s throat. She herself would cover up as much as possible in case Lord Hertford was still at court, but if he was, and he saw her, what then? Should she try to avoid him or act as if nothing had occurred between them? Yet it had, and her whole body stiffened at the recollection of what he had done. Head down, she followed the Queen’s ladies last, and each step was a suppressed stamp on the thought of that man.

‘You are still in favour, I see.’

The voice startled her, and she turned to find Secretary Walsingham picking his way like a lugubrious black stork at her side.

‘The Queen has forgiven you for whatever vexed her last night; that is good. Her moods change like the tide, and never more so than now when her life is in greatest danger.’

Emme caught his eye in sudden apprehension. ‘Her Majesty hinted as much. Yet surely no one near her would cause her harm?’

The Secretary of State inclined his skull-capped head.

‘There is a priest in the Tower as we speak, spilling out the names of those sworn to a new plot to murder her, and though we have apprehended most of the traitors, the ringleader has so far managed to evade capture.’

‘Who?’ she asked softly, fearing the answer might be a friend.

‘Anthony Babington.’

She nodded with a shiver, remembering him as a vain gallant
and a rumoured Catholic, and that she had been introduced to him once. ‘I have met Master Babington at court.’

Secretary Walsingham’s hooded eyes slid towards her. ‘If you spot him here again then inform the guards immediately, though I think it unlikely that he will dare to show his face, and if he does then he will be disguised. You might bear that in mind.’

‘I will.’

‘Her Majesty is aware of the danger.’

His jaw clenched in a grimace, and she sensed his hatred of anyone who would think of harming the Queen; it clung to him like sweat – a hatred which must have been inflamed because a would-be assassin was still at large, even making it prudent for him to warn her. She watched him turn his head slowly, looking from side to side; then he hunched his shoulders.

‘Now what did Lord Hertford say?’

She looked at him in amazement. How did he know she had spoken to Lord Hertford? Someone must have seen her near him, presumably in the gallery. But could they have been spotted leaving together by the tower stairs? Could Secretary Walsingham have guessed where they had gone? He could not possibly know what the Earl had done to her; the door had been locked …

‘I …’ She saw him smile thinly as she began. ‘I only spoke with Lord Hertford briefly.’

He would not be interested in what had happened to her, she tried to reassure herself while panic surged through her like cold lightning. All Secretary Walsingham ever wanted from her was intelligence concerning the powerful and to know what others were saying about affairs of state. Though Lord Hertford was important, what he had done to her was not, at least not in the greater order.
Her humiliation would be of no concern to Secretary Walsingham. Her worthlessness was absolute. Oh God, she wanted the ground to swallow her up, and to turn her back on the tawdry affairs of the world. She wanted to die. But life would not let her go so easily. She gritted her teeth and stared at a knot of clipped box like a miniature maze. She supposed she must satisfy Walsingham with snippets as she usually did.

‘… He told me that Sir Francis Drake had taken all the men from the fort in Virginia and that Sir Walter Raleigh would be angry since he had invested a fortune in the venture, most especially since he had sent Sir Richard Grenville with fresh supplies. He thought Sir Walter would soon be arriving from Ireland.’

‘That he will,’ Secretary Walsingham put in, with his head on one side as if waiting for more.

They were approaching the moat, and Emme took her chance to step ahead and enter the covered bridge first. Their conversation came to a halt as Lady Frances Howard took her arm.

‘Hurry, Mistress Emme. We must get ready.’ The lady’s fingers dug in as Emme glanced back, but Walsingham was already talking again with his clerk. She noticed Biddy waiting ahead and waved her on.

Lady Howard spoke breathlessly. ‘I hope you will help me, dear Emme.’

Help in what way? ‘I will, if I am able, my lady.’ Emme was taken aback, the more so when Lady Howard kept looking over her shoulder and peering into stairwells and doorways. ‘Only tell me how.’

‘Not yet,’ the lady whispered, ‘I will tell you in private,’ though they were soon far enough removed to have little chance of being overheard.

What concerned her? Emme glanced at the lady askance, loath to be drawn into sharing another’s troubles when she had troubles enough of her own, wanting only to sit and try to order her thoughts. Yet Lady Howard had always been good to her, despite a manner usually so reserved that Bess Throckmorton considered her conceited, and Emme would not fail anyone in real need. Her surprise was that the lady might consider confiding in her at all. Lady Frances Howard was almost past the age of marriage, effectively made a spinster by her loyalty to the Queen, and Emme could not imagine her having any problems she might be coy about revealing yet wish to share with someone like herself – someone much younger with far less claim to nobility. Once they had climbed the tower stairs, Lady Howard looked down into the courtyards through every window they passed. She was plainly anxious, and Emme looked through the windows too, wondering whether there could be a connection between the threat to the Queen and this strange behaviour of Lady Howard’s, seeing men too far away to identify wandering about in the shadows below, and light slicing in shafts across the pale limestone walls.

But whatever privacy Lady Howard might have hoped for, it was not going to be found in their dressing room for a while. Opening the door, they were confronted by Bess having her sleeves sewn in place while her white silk skirts were pinned in falling pleats over a bell farthingale and her veil was attached to a huge heart-shaped wire frame behind her head. The only parts of her unadorned by an extravagance of white dress were her face, her hands, and her soft milk-white breast. As soon as she saw Emme, her face lit up, though her body was immobilised by all the pinning and tucking.