Rescue for a Queen Read online

  ‘I expect she can make a painkiller for you,’ I said, ‘and I’ll smuggle it to you when your doctor is otherwise occupied.’

  ‘My thanks,’ said Cecil, and smiled.

  He was a serious man, who worked long, hard hours in the service of Elizabeth, and she was no easy taskmistress. He had a permanent line of worry between his brows. Elizabeth needed a good deal of protecting because she was a constant target for conspiracy. Her cousin, Mary Stuart of Scotland, was in England, halfway between guest and prisoner, having been driven out of Scotland because of the suspicion that she had been a party to the murder of her husband, Henry Darnley. Darnley had been dissolute and treasonous but there were other ways of dealing with him besides murder.

  Whether Mary had known of the plot or not, she had married the chief suspect and then the Scots would have no more of her. She was constantly manoeuvring to get herself reinstated on the Scottish throne or, alternatively, on Elizabeth’s. She was a Catholic and in Catholic eyes, Elizabeth was a usurper whose mother had not been legally married to her father. While Mary lived, there would be plots, which Cecil must constantly defeat. It was no wonder that he looked anxious and – as I knew in my more honest moments – no wonder either that he was sometimes ruthless in pursuing his duties. He had in the past shown ruthlessness towards me. I had never quite forgiven him and yet I understood him.

  ‘I know I can trust you to look after me, Ursula,’ he said. ‘Probably better than I have looked after you, at times.’

  ‘That may well be,’ I said and again, uneasily, I recalled that considering gaze he had directed at me from the far side of Hugh’s grave.

  Three days later, he was so much better that he joined the rest of us at the breakfast table and said he would leave for London the following morning.

  ‘If I am to become a baron, I had better not be late for the ceremony,’ he said. He glanced towards a window that gave on to the courtyard. ‘I hope my coach horses have been kept exercised; I don’t want to be jolted about by an excitable team on my way to London. I can hear hooves out there now. Are my horses being taken out at this moment?’

  Margaret, who had been seated beside me, rose and went to the window. ‘No. It’s visitors. A man and a woman have just ridden in . . . Mistress Stannard!’

  ‘What is it, Margaret?’

  ‘It’s my parents!’ said Margaret.

  TWO

  The First Bend in the Road

  I hadn’t set eyes on either Paul or Cathy Emory since the day, some months ago, when Margaret, in highly dramatic circumstances, had declined their choice of husband and her father immediately cast her off. Previous to that, I had known them only slightly. They were virtual strangers to me.

  I had been glad enough to take Margaret in, for I was missing Meg. Fond though I was of Dale and Sybil, they were not young as Margaret was. Her youthfulness brought a gaiety into the house, and a sense of a future to be. She had been good for me during the bitter days of Hugh’s last illness.

  I joined her by the window, to watch as the Emorys dismounted and our grooms took their horses. I found myself stiffening. If they had changed their minds and come to take Margaret home, they would be within their rights but I would be sorry and Margaret, who was no doubt wondering the same thing, looked positively alarmed.

  But the courtesies must be observed. Adam Wilder, who had evidently seen them arrive, had stepped out to greet them, a tall and dignified figure no matter how much the wind ruffled his grey hair. He was bringing them indoors. I drew Margaret away from the window.

  ‘They may only have come to assure themselves that you’re well,’ I said to her. ‘They may be worried about your religious life.’

  This was quite possible, as the Emorys were Catholics. Margaret was supposed to be a Catholic too, but at Hawkswood, she had come to the village church with me and seemed perfectly content with Dr Fletcher’s Anglican form of worship. Her parents certainly wouldn’t approve of that.

  Margaret said nothing. ‘We’ll go to the large parlour, everyone.’ I said. ‘No need to welcome guests amid a litter of the breakfast things. Sybil and Dale, come too, and Sir William, would you join us as well?’

  ‘For moral support?’ said Cecil dryly. ‘Certainly. Lead the way.’

  In the parlour we settled ourselves in formal – or perhaps I should say defensive – fashion, skirts arranged neatly and hands folded. The only discordant note was the Secretary of State. Sir William Cecil took a window seat and put his gouty leg up on it.

  ‘This is a pleasant surprise,’ I said with a smile, when Wilder brought our visitors in, followed by Brockley with a wine flask and glasses on a tray. Margaret rose to make her curtsy and Brockley set the tray down on a small table and unstoppered the flask. My heart sank as I saw that these welcoming gestures hadn’t induced the Emorys to smile back. ‘Will you be seated?’ I asked them, gesturing towards a comfortably cushioned settle near the hearth where, as always in winter, there was a fire.

  Brockley filled the glasses while I introduced my companions. The Emorys did look impressed when I told them who the man with the bandaged leg was and the conversation began in a polite and conventional fashion.

  ‘We were sorry to hear of your loss,’ Paul Emory told me as he accepted his glass of wine. ‘We couldn’t get to Master Stannard’s funeral because our river flooded and we had much ado to keep the water out of the farmhouse. But Master Stannard was much respected in this district. We’re here to offer our condolences, even if they’re late.’

  ‘And, of course, to see our daughter,’ said Cathy.

  ‘I try to take care of her,’ I said, offering them another smile.

  They still didn’t respond in kind. Not that they were much given to that anyway, I reminded myself. Paul Emory was a weather-beaten man whose bleak blue eyes had no laughter lines at their corners. He was plainly dressed in brown fustian, with no ruff, just a white linen collar open at the neck, and his powerful hands were calloused with farm work. His wife bore similar signs of a hard-working life, since her white collar and cap were not perfectly clean. Their farm, Greenlease, was prosperous; in fact, the Emorys were quite well off. But you couldn’t guess that from the way they dressed.

  Margaret’s interest in languages had come about because they had had ambitions for her, and as a girl, had let her share the tutor who instructed a neighbour’s son. They had been good parents in many ways and they had meant well when they planned Margaret’s marriage. She had had reasons for her defiance but those reasons were not her parents’ fault.

  Brockley handed me my wine and I sipped it, which heartened me, and began to talk about the studies Margaret and I were engaged on. But then Paul Emory, after drinking half his glass, suddenly set it down on the flat wooden arm of the settle, and cut across me.

  ‘Let’s not waste time. We are here for a very special purpose. We are grateful to you, Mistress Stannard, for taking our daughter in. I was angry enough last year to say I didn’t want her back, but neither of us really wished her to be turned out into the world all alone. However, as you know, ours is a Catholic household and yours is not, which means that Margaret cannot follow her own religion while she is with you. Also, it is time that she was married – if we can find a man she won’t reject!’

  He gave Margaret a sharp look, and she stared at the floor.

  ‘But we think we may have done,’ said Cathy, more gently. ‘It’s someone you’ve met, Margaret. You seemed to like him and he is most suitable.’

  Margaret looked up. ‘Who . . . who is he?”

  ‘You maybe remember,’ said her father, ‘that though I myself don’t go in for travelling, I buy and sell stock from other parts of England or even abroad in France and the Netherlands, hiring agents to make the journeys, and sometimes the people I do business with, come and stay at Greenlease. Do you recall a young cattle farmer called Antonio van Weede, from the Netherlands? Half Italian and half Flemish, but he spoke good English, and has a farm just north of the c
ity of Brussels.’

  ‘Yes, Father. I remember him,’ Margaret said doubtfully.

  ‘He remembers you very well indeed,’ said Paul. ‘In a letter that I wrote to him just after you came here, I told him of your broken betrothal. It was just a matter of mentioning family news; I meant nothing by it. But a week ago, a letter arrived from him in which he offered himself as your husband. He’s not yet thirty years old and good-looking, if you recall. He is quite wealthy, too. It would be the kind of life you’re used to, but better. His letter says that you won’t have to work, either in the house or outside, unless you wish. And, of course, he’s Catholic. Margaret, your mother and I urge you to agree to this marriage. It is a good match; we do still want the best for you, no matter how intransigent you may have been in the past.’

  ‘You won’t have to look after a mother-in-law,’ Cathy added. ‘Master van Weede’s mother died when he was still a lad. He is an only son, who inherited his farm intact when his father also died three years ago.’

  ‘Does this farm have a name?’ Cecil asked.

  ‘It’s simply called van Weede’s, I think,’ Paul Emory said. ‘It’s been in the same family for generations.’

  I said: ‘Will the gentleman come to England to collect his bride?’

  ‘There’s a difficulty there,’ Paul Emory admitted. He picked up his wine glass and swirled the remaining contents round, peering into them as if for inspiration. ‘He doesn’t wish to leave the farm just now. He’s negotiating to buy some adjoining land and it’s taking time. If he came to England, he can’t tell how long it would take. Ships can’t cross the Channel at will at this time of year. On the other hand, he’d like to get the matter settled. He suggests that we should bring Margaret to him ourselves, so that we can see with our own eyes what he has to offer her. Only . . .’

  ‘We’ve never travelled abroad, or even as far as London, in our lives,’ said Cathy. ‘We’d hardly know how to go about it. Can you advise us, Mistress Stannard – or suggest someone who could go in our stead?’

  Smoothly, Cecil cut in once more. ‘Mistress Stannard is used to travelling,’ he said. ‘And just now she is, more or less, Margaret’s guardian. Are you not, Ursula? You could escort her – if Margaret is agreeable to the match, of course. If so, Margaret, you will feel quite at ease, travelling with Mistress Stannard.’

  ‘That ’ud be a good idea. I’ve not much spare time to go on journeys, anyhow, with the farm to look after,’ Emory said.

  I almost gasped aloud. Brockley had not left the room but was standing aside, quietly listening. His eyes met mine and he had no need to say what he was thinking. Brussels! But that’s in the same country as . . .

  His wiry hair, more grey now than brown, had begun to recede, so that his high, gold-freckled forehead seemed higher than ever. Just now, his eyebrows, like mountaineers on a cliff, seemed to be trying to climb it.

  I steadied myself and said: ‘First things first. Margaret? What do you think of this proposal?”

  Paul Emory, tiresomely, began to bluster that it was Margaret’s business not to think but – this time, please God – to do as her parents told her. I let him finish and then looked at Margaret.

  She had been considering. ‘You have been very kind to me, Mistress Stannard,’ she said. ‘But I must marry someone sooner or later, and I remember Master van Weede quite well. He seemed a pleasant gentleman.’ She turned to her parents. ‘I think I should accept him, as you suggest.’

  The Emorys, who had I think been braced for objections, looked almost startled but then, at last, they smiled. With happy exclamations, they embraced their daughter, forgiving her past disobedience and promising her a trousseau of charming new dresses. I turned quickly to Cecil.

  ‘Brussels is in the Netherlands,’ I said. ‘And Anne Percy, the exiled Countess of Northumberland, is in the Netherlands, in Bruges. She hates me. Well, she has her reasons. But you know what she tried to do to me last year! She managed to attack me even from the other side of the Channel. If I go with Margaret, I’ll be putting myself within arm’s reach of her.’

  Brockley had moved to stand beside me. ‘Mistress Stannard is right. Master Cecil, you know what happened last autumn. You know that this journey wouldn’t be safe for her.’

  Cecil said calmly: ‘I doubt if there’s much to fear from the lady now. I get reports from the Netherlands, you know. These days, Anne Percy lives a most pious and secluded life with her infant daughter and she is in Bruges, not Brussels. They’re a good seventy miles apart as the crow flies. Why should she ever learn of the marriage of a cattle farmer, even a prosperous one, who lives so far from her, or care who accompanies the bride from her home?’

  ‘It’s not just Anne Percy. There’s a branch of the Inquisition in the Netherlands,’ I said.

  ‘You and the Brockleys here – I suppose they’ll go with you – can quite well pretend to be Catholics. You could travel under your former name of Mistress Blanchard, too, to hide your real identity.’

  Before I could stop myself, I said: ‘Not Madame de la Roche?’

  Cecil didn’t blench. Still with perfect calm, he said: ‘That might not be a good idea. But I think it would be a good idea for you to take Margaret to her new home. It will give your thoughts a new direction. You are grieving, which is natural, but this would help you through. I’m sure of it. Seize the opportunity, Ursula!’

  ‘I wish you would, Mistress Stannard. Please!’ said Margaret.

  Her parents joined in. It emerged that neither of them had ever been further from home than Guildford in their lives. It seemed impossible to refuse and in any case, grief had sapped my energy for arguing. I did try, for a while, but the Emorys’ anxious appeals and Margaret’s pleading eyes were hard to resist and Cecil’s calm persistence had something inexorable about it. It overcame my protests just as an iron roller crushes worm casts. I began by being determined not to say yes, and ten minutes later, I had done so.

  Margaret, though somewhat reluctantly, agreed to go home with her parents for the time being, though she would return to me a few days before we set out. ‘After all, we may not see her for years once she’s married,’ said her mother.

  I was to organize the travel arrangements and help to prepare her trousseau although Paul Emory would pay the bills. In the Netherlands I would use the name of Blanchard, as Cecil suggested. We would start as soon as possible, and hope that winter weather wouldn’t delay us too much.

  When the Emorys had gone, I went to the rose garden that Hugh had loved so much, wanting to walk by myself and think. But Cecil came to find me there, falling in beside me. He was limping and using a stick but we walked slowly on together, while he said what he had come to say.

  ‘There are things we should clear up,’ he told me, without preamble. ‘I know you are still bitter, towards me and towards your sister the queen, because we deceived you over Matthew de la Roche but you yourself know that you could never have been happy with him for long.’

  I was silent, because it was true. Matthew de la Roche was the man I had married when I had got over the loss of my first husband, Gerald Blanchard. I had lived with Matthew for a while in France. But Matthew was a passionate Catholic and a supporter of Mary Stuart, and was continually up to his eyebrows in plots to put Mary on Elizabeth’s throne and drag England back to what he called the true faith. I didn’t agree with him, and that is a mild way to put it.

  ‘You left your daughter with foster parents in England, because you didn’t want her to grow up in his house,’ Cecil reminded me.

  ‘And you used her to draw me back to England, and then kept me here by telling me that Matthew had died of plague,’ I said. ‘And you and the queen told him the same tale about me!’

  ‘And you married Hugh Stannard and were so content with him that even when you learned that Matthew was still alive, you didn’t go to him.’

  ‘The queen had annulled our marriage.’

  ‘And would that have stopped you, if you had
really wanted to go?’

  Again, I was silent.

  ‘At that time,’ said Cecil, ‘only I and the queen knew that you were her sister, but these things have a way of getting out. If that had become known to Mary Stuart’s supporters in France, then . . .’

  ‘I know. I could have become a hostage.’ I said it sourly, but I knew that it was true.

  ‘You are better as you are,’ Cecil said. ‘And I think you know it. That you stayed with Hugh is proof enough. Now, let us deal with the present day. I do indeed think taking your young friend Margaret on this journey will benefit you in this difficult time. Don’t worry about Anne Percy. The queen and I do try to assure your safety, you know, even if you aren’t always aware of it. Do you remember the Ridolfi business?’

  ‘Of course I do! It was only two years ago!’

  Roberto Ridolfi had been – well, still was – a Florentine banker who had been in London at the time and been involved in another of the plots that so bedevilled Cecil’s life. He had conspired with the Spanish ambassador and others, including the Duke of Norfolk, to get Mary Stuart reinstated on the Scottish throne, after which, they hoped to snatch Elizabeth’s throne for her as well. I had helped to uncover the conspiracy. It wasn’t the kind of thing anyone was likely to forget.

  ‘And do you recall me telling you,’ said Cecil, ‘that I had taken steps to see that Ridolfi never learned of your part in his downfall?’

  ‘Yes. Did you succeed?’ I asked.

  ‘I trust so. He spent six weeks in the custody of my protégé, Francis Walsingham, so that Walsingham could question him and lay traps for him, though we never got anything out of him beyond the fact that he wanted to see Mary Stuart back in Scotland as its queen. He admitted that. He never admitted anything else, and the queen didn’t want to press too heavily on a wealthy international banker. Bankers are useful people,’ observed Sir William. ‘On Walsingham’s recommendation, we let him go – Walsingham said he hoped that Ridolfi would get up to further mischief and then we could have him in the Tower with the queen’s goodwill. The queen was very distressed by the whole affair, especially Norfolk’s part in it. He is one of the principal men of the realm and not just that – he’s related to her. His father was her great uncle. He confessed everything to her, you know, and knelt at her feet, in tears. She forgave him. It would break her heart if he ever failed her again. She has said as much to me. But that’s by the way. The point is, that I ordered Walsingham to be very very careful what was said in Ridolfi’s hearing. To him, you are almost certainly still just the Englishwoman who acted as companion to his wife for a time.’