The Siren Queen: An Ursula Blanchard Mystery at Queen Elizabeth I's (35 page)

Meg looked at him, her tears subsiding a little, and he smiled at her. “You’re too courageous and too pretty to put at risk,” he told her.

I looked at Cecil. “I want to take Meg home. It will be permitted?”

“Meg may go home now; Dean has confessed and we won’t need either of you at his trial. But for Gladys’s sake, I think you should remain.”

“I can take her,” Sybil said. “If Mistress Stannard can’t yet leave London, Meg and I will go back to Hawkswood, as we did before.”

“Yes,” said Cecil. Meg began to exclaim that she couldn’t abandon Gladys, that she must speak at the trial, but over her bent head, Hugh and I exchanged glances and came to a decision.

“No, Meg,” I said. “No, my darling. Sybil will take you home.”

“I want to see the queen,” I said to Cecil, “as soon as possible.”

Cecil nodded. “It’s time Her Majesty became aware of what has been going on, but I would prefer not to tell her formally. I’m still out of her favor,” he said, and sighed. I regarded him with sympathy. I knew very well how distressed he always was on the occasions when Elizabeth turned against him.

“Formality,” he said, “would oblige her to take action. Perhaps to do things she does not wish to do, or that I don’t wish her to do! God knows, she has had trouble enough this year. My wife talks with her ladies. The queen has had sleepless nights, many of them, over the trouble in her council.”

I nodded. I knew of Elizabeth’s tendency to insomnia.

“You,” said Cecil, “can be—shall we say, cautious. Keep Leicester’s name out of it if you can, but warn her—informally—about Norfolk. Don’t mention Ridolfi’s—er—religious agenda, please. We intend to make sure that Dean doesn’t mention it either, when he comes to trial. By the way, you will not appear at the trial. Ridolfi is not to know that you had any part to play in this. As far as he’s concerned, you were his wife’s companion and a friend of the Cecils, but nothing more. Your secret career will always remain a secret, as far as possible.”

“Dean may talk proudly of being a martyr for his faith but he hasn’t yet had a traitor’s death fully described to him,” Walsingham
said. “When he has, I think he will be willing to be told what he should and should not say in court. He murdered Gale for betraying Norfolk’s marriage schemes, nothing more. That will be the official story and Dean won’t contradict it, I promise you!”

I wondered who would do the describing. Walsingham looked to me more than capable of the task. He was the kind who would find words for lurid details in a completely dispassionate tone of voice, coolly watching his words find their mark as he spoke. Walsingham was as loyal a man as ever entered Elizabeth’s service, and I learned later that I had guessed right about his private life, for he was a good and well-loved husband and father. But I never liked him, while I always did like Cecil, despite his meddling in my life.

“Norfolk isn’t actually guilty of treason yet,” Cecil said. “He has no right to enter into a powerful marriage without the queen’s consent, but unless he actually ties the knot without permission, he has not committed a crime.”

“He’s sounded the northern lords to see if they’ll support him in arms in case of a Catholic rising,” I said doubtfully. “Isn’t that a crime?”

“They haven’t given him much response. It may all die away into nothingness. If not, the queen will have to be fully informed and we can take action quickly, but that’s for later and very much a matter of
if.
I don’t
want
Norfolk brought to the block. Your warnings and mine are bearing fruit, Ursula. Mistress Dalton pulled herself together valiantly after finding Walt’s body, though I understand that she collapsed at the time, and she’s been turning in reports as usual. She has seen a draft of a letter from Norfolk, asking the northern lords
not
to rise, after all. She doesn’t know whether he’s sent it, but he’s prepared it. Ursula, whispers must eventually reach the queen but I want to control what is said. Will you do it? Alert the queen quietly to, shall we say, a limited exposition?”

“Yes. I want to ask her to intercede for Gladys too.”

“I wish you luck,” said Cecil somberly.

 • • • 

I loved Richmond Palace. There was something magical in its structure, in its slim turrets and elegant windows, as though it belonged to a pretty legend. This was no stern fortress like the Tower of London or Windsor Castle; nor did it hold the unhappy memories that haunted the galleries of Hampton Court.

Such a pity that the conversation Hugh and I had with Queen Elizabeth three hours after our arrival was so painful, so out of tune with the enchanting surroundings.

She was not, these days, as mercurial as she had been. Once, Elizabeth had been giving to lightning changes of mood, from imperious ruler to playful kitten, to spitting cat, to vulnerable maiden, and had been known to run through them all in the course of half an hour. At times she had nearly driven Cecil out of his mind with such behavior.

She was an experienced ruler now, and far more mature. She had borne the crown for a decade and acquired a deeper, stronger dignity. Her clothes were of a greater sumptuousness; even her voice was lower in register. The crimped waves of pale red hair in front of her pearl-edged caps were a little, just a little, faded and her golden brown eyes were effortlessly commanding.

But something of the mercurial Elizabeth still existed, even though, nowadays, the kitten had grown into a lioness. She was less accessible than she had been and to come into her presence we had to pass through three sets of guards and finally be escorted to her by two of her gentlemen pensioners, as she called the men in red and gold livery, who waited on her personally and ran her more important errands. She received us in one of her private rooms, but three of her ladies were with her. However, when I said that the news we had for her, though informal, was confidential, she sent the gentlemen and ladies away. When we had cautiously explained that Cecil felt she should know that Norfolk was once more playing with the notion of marrying Mary Stuart and even appeared to have fallen in love with her at a distance, she took to striding around the chamber in a fury, damask skirts swishing like a lioness’s tail, while that beautiful voice expressed a powerful wish to have the Duke of Norfolk seized forthwith, conveyed to the Tower, and beheaded.

Hugh, who had never witnessed anything like this before, stood bemused. I hoped that the storm would pass. I put a reassuring hand on his arm and we both stood still, out of her path, and waited. At length, Elizabeth sank onto a settle. Her tawny eyes were flashing. “I suppose Cecil claims that Norfolk has not committed any actual crime!”

“We understood that that was so, ma’am,” said Hugh cautiously. “Of course, we are not experts on the law.”

“No, but Cecil is! You admit that he has sent you here. Is there more to this—are there other ramifications that I don’t yet know?”

I was ready for that. “I don’t know for sure, ma’am. It is possible, but Cecil thinks they are vague—glints in the eyes of dreamers, as it were.”

“If they’re dreaming of reinstating Mary Stuart on the throne of Scotland, they’ll dream in vain. Never, if I can help it,” said Elizabeth savagely. “Not even if she’s married to a real Protestant and Norfolk’s not a real anything. I know him! That man would trim his sails to any convenient wind. I know about the Popish images in his chapel! He’d toss the whole lot into the Thames if it suited him; only if he marries Mary, it wouldn’t suit
her.
Hah! I fancy he’s among the dreamers and maybe one of his fantasies has something to do with one day being King Consort of England. I wonder if he’ll admit as much to me! He once said he wouldn’t want Mary because he liked a safe pillow, but dangle a crown in front of him, and lo! He changes his mind.”

“He may well change it back again. Cecil thinks so, certainly,” I said.

“He will if I have any say in it! I shall leave shortly for my summer progress—through Hampshire this year. He will be one of my entourage. I shall make sure of that. He will be under my eye. We will talk,” said Elizabeth, becoming dangerously silky.

We said nothing. Elizabeth’s guesses were uncomfortably accurate.

“I wonder,” she remarked, “that he doesn’t offer to marry
me
! It would be a quicker route to the crown matrimonial. Yes, Ursula? I see that you are almost swallowing your tongue
because you long to say something and fear it will displease me! What is it? Come along!”

“I don’t think you’d say yes to the Duke of Norfolk, ma’am.”

“No, I wouldn’t! Who wants to marry a weathercock? And if I did,” said Elizabeth—and suddenly the lioness was lolling in the sun, at ease, almost playful,
almost
a kitten, though not quite—“if I did, he’d lose his nerve at the altar. The priest would wait for him to say
I will
and he’d buckle at the knees and faint. And if he didn’t and by some miracle he got the words out,” she added, “Leicester would draw a sword and make some new slashings in the good duke’s wedding doublet! Hah! Well, well. We shall ask the duke if he has anything to tell us—perhaps of marriage plans. Whatever is lurking in his mind, I fancy he will at least recognize the warning. You can tell Cecil that he need not skulk out of my sight any longer. I forgive him for his bad advice about that Spanish money. It’s still useful money, anyway.”

“Ma’am,” I said, “there is one more thing . . . ”

 • • • 

“Ursula,” said Elizabeth, gently this time, very kindly, a sister speaking to a sister and a brother-in-law, all stateliness laid aside, “I may not do it. I may not imperiously interfere in the due working of the law. As a sovereign anointed, I am above the law, yes, but I must not trade on that. I must not countermand the verdicts of honest juries to please myself. Yes, Ursula? Once more, I give you permission to say what you are thinking.”

“Gladys’s accusers, Dean and Johnson, acted out of spite. Dean is already arraigned on a charge of treason and there is no question that it was he who murdered Gale and that Gladys was not concerned. Johnson can be brought into court and made to admit that he laid information against her for the sake of petty revenge. And surely any good lawyer can argue that the deaths of Mistress Fleet and the people at Hawkswood were ordinary things, part of the hazard of everyday life; that they happen in every community, and that Gladys is nothing but a foolish old woman. Ma’am,” I said painfully, “you annuled my marriage to Matthew de la Roche. Was that not—taking command of the law?”

“And you know—Walsingham has told me—that I lied to you about his death. Yes, I did. But I do have the right to control the marriages of people who share the royal blood, even illicitly. I had my reasons for controlling yours, as well you know, my sister. Nor are you unhappy now because of it.”

“That’s true, ma’am. But Gladys . . . ”

“Ursula, I am sorry. But in general, I am not above the law. It must take its course. If she is truly innocent, I trust she will be found so. If not . . . I can do nothing.”

As we entered the boat that took us back to Cecil’s house, I said furiously to Hugh: “
Cecil
can warp the law if he wants to! He arranged the outcome of Norfolk’s lawsuit, I know he did! He made sure the verdict went Norfolk’s way. But the queen won’t do this one little thing.”

“She won’t do it
because
she’s the queen,” said Hugh sadly. His arm was round me, trying to give comfort. “And in the court that will try Gladys, Cecil has no power. We can only hope, and pray.”

“I’m afraid for Gladys. Dr. Fleet will be a dangerous witness. He’ll manage to make it sound as though she killed his wife!”

“Yes,” Hugh said. “I’m frightened for Gladys, too.”

“What can we do other than pray and I haven’t much faith in that,” I said bitterly. “I don’t think even God can get past Elizabeth if she doesn’t choose to let him!”

It was late October. The summer had ended in rain and gales, but on this day the skies had cleared, giving place to bright autumn weather. Touches of gold and russet had appeared among the green leaves of the trees along the three-mile road from London to Tyburn, glowing against the smooth blue of the sky. The sun still had some warmth. Those who had come to watch the spectacle were not in danger of catching a fatal congestion of the lungs. It was no day for dying.

Except for those unhappy souls who would travel that road today, on a journey from which they would not return.

Hugh and I were not on the road but had come early from Cecil’s house, where we were still staying, and placed ourselves at the front of the crowd before the gallows at Tyburn. It was hard for me to look at the thing but, I said, “We must be where Gladys can see us.”

Brockley and Dale were waiting at the Marshalsea Prison in London in order to walk beside the cart, so that Gladys could have friendly faces near her along the way. Many people would accompany the cart, some to jeer, but some, like the Brockleys, to give support to friends or relatives. We couldn’t do that because Hugh couldn’t walk so far. But we would be there for her at the end.

“I wonder if it helps,” Hugh said, as we waited. “Can anything help, in such a case?”

“I don’t know. I hope so, that’s all. I think I’d like to see a friendly face at the last. I wouldn’t want to die surrounded by avid strangers. Hugh . . . are you sure . . . ?”

“I saw the executioner yesterday. He will do what I paid him for. And we can take her body afterward, and have her decently buried. I’ve arranged it all. Don’t worry.”

There were soldiers around the scaffold to make sure that the crowd was kept under control and that prisoners with enough money or sufficiently violent friends would not be rescued. The executioner and his assistant, two black-clad figures, were waiting to begin work, standing side by side and talking to each other. I wondered what made anyone take up such a profession. It was hereditary, I supposed. This was what your father did, so you followed him. No doubt he instructed you from an early age, taking you for walks and explaining his work—later on, taking you along to watch.
You see, son, there are tricks to the trade. You can make it quick or you can make it slow. It’s important, either way, to get the knot positioned just right . . . sometimes relatives pay you to make sure it’s quick and that’s one of your perks . . .