Rescue for a Queen Read online

  ‘To have Anne Percy wanting revenge on me is bad enough,’ I said. ‘I would rather not have Signor Ridolfi as well. I must thank you for taking care of that.’

  ‘Well,’ Cecil said. ‘That’s all. I wish you well, Ursula, always that, and both I and your sister have valued the help you have given us. I must prepare to leave for London tomorrow. My thanks for your hospitality, and for Gladys Morgan’s potions! I was very careful not to let my physician know about them.’

  I let him make me laugh. But my feeling of unease persisted. I was afraid of this journey to the Netherlands. I also kept on asking myself why Cecil seemed so determined that I should go.

  Later that day, while Cecil was upstairs, resting his gouty leg before tomorrow’s coach journey, I settled myself and Sybil in the large parlour to discuss the items of Margaret’s trousseau we had promised to make for her. We were interrupted, however, by the arrival of Brockley, Dale and Gladys. They were unmistakably a deputation and I knew at once what that meant.

  ‘Very well,’ I said. ‘Sit down, all of you, and tell me the worst. Is it about the Netherlands?’

  ‘Madam,’ said Brockley, ‘it’s most unwise for you to undertake this. Mistress Jester and Fran and I will escort Margaret to Brussels. Margaret knows us. You would come, would you not, Mistress Jester?’

  Sybil nodded. Dale said candidly: ‘I can’t abide travel, but I’ll do it for that nice lass Margaret, and to help you, ma’am. But will you really want us all to pretend to be Catholics? I don’t know as I can do that.’

  ‘If you visit the Netherlands, you must,’ I said. ‘It’s no good looking mutinous. It’s necessary for your own protection. Otherwise, I shall have to leave you here, and I’m sure you’d rather come with Roger. I’d want him with me anyway. Yes, Brockley, I am going to make the journey. I must. I have given my word.’ I added bravely: ‘I’m sure Cecil’s right. Who is going to tell Anne Percy in Bruges about a private wedding party bringing a girl from England to marry a farmer seventy miles away?’

  ‘It’s Sir William Cecil I’m worrying about,’ said Brockley. ‘He was watching you at the funeral, madam. I saw him. Didn’t you? He pounced on this chance to pack you off to Brussels, as quick as a cat when a fledgling falls out of a nest. He’s up to something,’ said Brockley ominously.

  Gladys had seated herself beside the fire. ‘If that’s so,’ she remarked, ‘it’ll show itself afore long, I dare say. Be quite like old times!’

  She emitted the dreadful cackle which had probably done as much as her curses and her potions to get her accused of witchcraft. That and the knowing look in her dark Welsh eyes, and the brown fangs which did duty as her teeth. ‘We’ve had some lively times, look you, and maybe there’s more ahead. Remember Signor Ridolfi and that shocking topiary garden of his.’ She dissolved once more into eldritch mirth.

  ‘Stop that cackling!’ I said. Brockley was trying not to grin, but Gladys had just stirred up memories which had their comic side. When Cecil arranged for me to enter Roberto Ridolfi’s London household to help Ridolfi’s wife Donna find her feet in a strange country, the Brockleys had been with me and so had Gladys, who – to our amazement – had then been pursued by an elderly and lustful gardener with a most impure imagination. He had clipped the topiary into thoroughly suggestive shapes. Brockley declared he was scandalized and discouraged Dale from going there but judging by the grin he was now trying to suppress, he hadn’t been as shocked as he claimed.

  I had liked Donna. She was a sweet young woman and I was glad for her sake that Elizabeth had decided that it was improvident to throw wealthy foreign nationals into dungeons or to chop their heads off.

  ‘I hope,’ I said repressively, ‘that my journey to the Netherlands will not be like old times! Please don’t create bogies, Brockley. I intend to escort Margaret to her new home, see her married and settled, and then come back to Hawkswood. I can’t see how that can be connected with plots or affairs of state.’ I said it very firmly, so as to convince myself.

  The long empty road to the horizon seemed to have a bend in it after all. I could only hope that what lay beyond would be interesting and cheerful and that nothing dangerous lurked there in ambush.

  THREE

  Just a Simple Farmer

  We set out in March. The journey was planned without much difficulty because there was a foreman at Greenlease who had been to van Weede’s farm once before. He was dispatched in haste with a letter accepting Master van Weede’s proposal and was lucky with the weather. He got back a week before we left, bringing a delighted reply to the Emorys, a most affectionate letter for Margaret herself and the news that the land he had hoped to buy was now his and he regarded it as a gift for his bride. He also included some useful information about the route to take once we reached the Netherlands, information that was supplemented by the foreman.

  Margaret came back to me two days before our departure. I realized then that she was nervous. She showed me the wedding gown that a Guildford dressmaker had made for her, but stood doubtfully fingering the deep cream brocade overgown and the blue silk kirtle with its silver embroidery, and then whispered to me: ‘I hope I shall like him. I didn’t take much notice of him when he visited us. What will I do if when we get there I suddenly find I don’t like him? My parents will never let me come back to Hawkswood. They’d keep me at home – as a sort of prisoner.’

  ‘If the man is quite impossible, I’ll do my best for you. But I’m sure he won’t be,’ I said calmly. ‘Don’t panic before there’s need!’

  ‘I’ll be glad you’re there, though I know you don’t really want to make the journey,’ Margaret said.

  ‘I’ve promised your parents,’ I said. ‘Now, do remember that since the Netherlands are under Catholic rule, I shall be representing myself and my companions as Catholics. Also, as Sir William Cecil recommended, I shall call myself Blanchard instead of Stannard, as a protection against Anne Percy of Northumberland who now lives in the Netherlands. You know how she tried to injure me last year. You must remember to address me as Mistress Blanchard. I am trusting your discretion.’

  ‘Yes, of course!’ Margaret said.

  ‘Thank you,’ I said, and then took the opportunity of mentioning something else that had been on my mind. ‘Margaret, I take it that your mother has told you everything you should know about marriage. Is there anything you want to ask?’

  ‘Mistress Stannard, I grew up on a farm. I am a little nervous, but I expect I’ll live, just as every married woman does.’

  I hoped to heaven that the unknown van Weede would be gentle and affectionate and would be able to coax this restrained enthusiasm into something warmer. Still, it was better than ignorance, or fear.

  On the morning of departure, Margaret’s parents came to Hawkswood to say goodbye. Those who were to go were Margaret, myself, Brockley and Dale. Dale never liked to be separated from him and was in any case to attend on me. Sybil was to remain behind and look after Hawkswood and there was of course no question of taking Gladys with us.

  Margaret had no maid and said she didn’t need one; she had never had one at Greenlease. However, I told Dale to help her when necessary. Some of her new gowns were difficult to put on without assistance, and I hoped that Master van Weede would provide his bride with a tirewoman. He had said that she wouldn’t have to work unless she chose, which sounded as though his household was well served.

  Our belongings and Margaret’s comprehensive trousseau, which included linen and some silver plate as well as clothes, occupied a big pile of hampers but Margaret and Dale (who was thankful not to be on a horse) were to travel to London in the coach that Hugh had once used and the coach could carry the luggage as well. Arthur Watts, our head groom, drove it. Brockley and I rode. Once in London, we embarked on a ship called The Lucky Chance, and set sail down the Thames.

  Margaret loved it all. She was thrilled by London and its crowds, even inhaling the town air with joy, though, as ever, it smelt of a mixture of horse dro
ppings, human ordure, coal fire smoke and rotting leftovers on kitchen middens. The ship too was a whole new world to her and she explored it with the curiosity and venturesomeness of a female Christopher Columbus, bemusing the sailors by asking questions.

  The hostelry we found in Ostend was another new experience for her. We spent a night there, and in the morning, we set about hiring transport for the rest of the way. Our coach, of course, had been left in England and Arthur Watts would by now have driven it home to Hawkswood, with the horses Brockley and I had ridden, tied behind. We now had to arrange a wagon and driver for Margaret, Dale and the luggage, and saddle horses for Brockley and myself.

  It took the best part of four days to reach our destination. The weather stayed dry, though there was continual wind, blowing unhindered across country markedly flatter than the rolling landscape of Surrey. We saw many fields in which crops were sprouting, and Margaret was particularly intrigued by some tall wooden structures with great sails on top, arranged like the spokes of a wheel, that spun in the wind. She leant over the side of the wagon to ask me what they were.

  I didn’t know, but Brockley did. ‘I’ve heard of them though I’ve never seen them before,’ he said. ‘They’re windmills. They use the power of the wind to move grindstones, just as we use strongly flowing rivers and streams in our watermills.’

  Our driver, Pieter, who talked to us in French, remarked: ‘Plenty of wind here,’ and Dale, who knew enough French to understand him, muttered: ‘That’s true enough,’ and drew her cloak more tightly round her.

  The Emory foreman had described the approach to van Weede’s. ‘There’s an avenue of trees, quite long, with fields to either side, leading to the house. There’s no gatehouse or courtyard in front – just a flat space and then a tall wooden house with a tiled roof. The farm buildings are behind it and so are the farmyard and the fowl pen. You’ll know it when you see it.’

  We did, for it was an accurate description. The trees of the long avenue were tall and straight, with quivering, silver-tinged leaves and Margaret wondered at them, having never seen such trees before. ‘They’re poplars,’ I told her.

  The house was in sight by now. It had overhanging eaves, and as we drew near, I saw that the walls were made of dark, narrow horizontal planks, overlapping downwards. Presumably the design was meant to drain rainwater off easily. The windmills we had seen were much the same. No other buildings were visible from the front. I thought the place looked stark and lonely and was just wondering whether it had struck Margaret in the same way, and what I should say to encourage her, when the main door opened, and a man came out and walked to meet us.

  As we drew nearer, I saw that he was not tall, no more than five feet five inches. He held himself well, however. When we were close enough, he swept his cap off in greeting, and I saw that he had brown eyes and a brown beard, and hair to match, a rich, warm colour. He was smiling broadly.

  ‘I am Antonio van Weede,’ he said, in excellent English. ‘I was looking from a window and I saw you arriving. And this is Margaret!’

  He had identified her at once, and held out his hands to assist her out of the wagon. ‘You are welcome,’ he said as her feet touched the ground. ‘Very, very welcome.’

  ‘I am happy to be here,’ said Margaret. She made him a curtsy, but he drew her up for a kiss of greeting and then they smiled at each other and with relief, I saw that liking had already sparked between them. Margaret, I hoped, would bask in his kindly greeting and not notice the starkness of his house. Probably, in time, she would introduce improvements.

  ‘I would like to present Master Roger and Mistress Frances Brockley,’ I said. ‘They are in my service, but they are also my friends and travelling companions. And this is Pieter, our driver, who will take the wagon and horses back to Ostend.’

  ‘You are all welcome! Ah, here are my grooms.’

  Two men, dressed in breeches and leather waistcoats over their shirts, had appeared round the side of the building. ‘They will help Pieter to see to your horses,’ van Weede said. ‘You may safely leave your animals in their care.’

  Brockley, who had dismounted and was helping Dale out of the wagon, grunted uneasily. Brockley never trusted anyone to look after our horses properly without his supervision. I caught his eye and he subsided. In this not entirely friendly land, I preferred to give my servants status enough to keep them near me.

  ‘Come indoors,’ said van Weede.

  The moment we were inside, the air of starkness disappeared. There was warmth here, and a human population. As we stepped on to the slate floor of the entrance vestibule, we were surrounded by van Weede’s servants. There were three women, all middle-aged, with clean white headdresses and aprons; a man who looked like a valet, and a cook with a white cap on his head and a rolling pin in his hand, as though it were a badge of office. Everyone looked pleased to see us. We were led into a snug parlour, warmed by a wood fire and with deep red woollen curtains to shut out darkness and the draughts from doors and windows. The plastered walls were painted a pleasant cream and there were settles with cushions, a lute lying on a table, and a shelf holding books, a chess set, a backgammon set and a statuette of the Virgin and Child.

  We took off our cloaks and the maids whisked them away. Van Weede waved us all to seats and one of the maids reappeared almost at once with a tray of wine, ale, and some delicacies that were new to all of us, little confections of pastry and toasted bread, variously topped with nuts in cream, a kind of smooth brown cheese, bits of fried bacon and what seemed to be spoonfuls of a savoury beaten egg concoction. It was all very tasty. Van Weede, having made sure that everyone had something to eat and drink, came to sit beside me.

  ‘You are Mistress Blanchard?’ he said quietly. ‘Margaret has stayed in your household, I think, according to the letter I had from her parents.’

  The Emorys, who were well aware of Anne Percy’s machinations the previous year, had willingly agreed to refer to me as Blanchard when they wrote to van Weede about Margaret’s acceptance, and her travel arrangements.

  ‘I agreed to bring her because I have travelled a little and her parents have not,’ I explained.

  ‘So they said. I hope Margaret will be happy here. Most people here speak French and I understand that she has the language.’

  ‘Yes, she speaks it very well,’ I said, in that tongue.

  ‘That will make it easier for her to settle down,’ said van Weede, also switching to French, with an air of relief. ‘It isn’t long since I last saw her, but I didn’t then pay her much heed. I understood that she was spoken for and in any case, I was too busy talking cattle with her father. Now I see that her appearance is pleasing. She has lovely eyes. Mistress Blanchard, have I your permission to talk to her aside? I think we should get to know each other somewhat before the final decision is made. I don’t expect a bride to be handed to me on a plate like a trussed chicken, with no say in the matter. From the letter they sent me, I think her parents think all is settled, but though I am just a simple farmer, I have more delicacy than that.’

  ‘Of course.’ Margaret had sat down beside Dale, opposite to us. ‘Dale!’ I called. ‘Change places with Master van Weede and let him exchange a few words with Margaret!’

  For the next half hour, Dale, Brockley and I sat together, nibbling the refreshments, talking in low voices and pretending to ignore the couple on the other side of the room though I, of course, was trying to catch something of their conversation, which was in French.

  ‘. . . you grow crops as well as rearing cattle, do you not? I saw fields with crops growing in them. What are they? Wheat and barley?’

  ‘Wheat and oats. I have chickens and geese too, and a vegetable garden. Eggs, capons, vegetables can bring in useful extra income . . .’

  Dale’s voice, admiring the red curtains, briefly drowned Antonio’s and when Margaret’s voice reached me next, she was asking whether Antonio used oxen or horses for the ploughing.

  ‘My father employed
oxen,’ he told her, ‘but I have horses, Percherons.

  ‘Percherons?’

  Brockley was always interested in anything to do with horses. He pricked up his ears and signalled to Dale not to speak.

  ‘Ah. You would not know,’ van Weede was saying. ‘Back in the days of knights in heavy plate armour, huge, strong horses were bred to carry the weight. Guns have made such massive armour useless and the enormous horses weren’t needed as chargers any more. But farms can use them, and also, when crossed with lighter breeds, you get a sturdy animal, not so huge and cheaper to feed but still powerful enough for most farm work. A Frenchman in Perche has created a whole new breed that way and it’s called the Percheron. I have two. They’re dapple grey – most of the breed are. They’re mild tempered, as well. Would you like to see them?’

  ‘I would like to see everything; the house, the farm, everything!’ Margaret’s exclamation sounded eager.

  ‘Indeed you shall.’ Van Weede rose and came over to us. ‘Mistress Blanchard, I would like to show you and your companions round my property, house and farm alike. Margaret is clearly interested, and knowledgeable, too.’

  ‘Well, she is a farmer’s daughter,’ I said.

  Master van Weede grinned. ‘One of the reasons, Mistress Blanchard, why I have stayed unmarried so long, is because here, there is a modern fashion for keeping girls, even farmers’ daughters, what their parents call innocent. It’s the Lutheran influence, I think. It seems to infect the air and change the way people think even when they’re not Lutheran at all. I have had hopeful mammas trying to tempt me into marrying their daughters, but I don’t want a wife who won’t discuss the realities of life, such as horse breeding. Farms are full of reality. Not that my life is quite without luxuries. This is a comfortable place, as you and Margaret will see. Shall we start our tour of the premises? We’ll start in the kitchen. Any future lady of the house will want to inspect that.’