Queen of Ambition (11 page)

“Do we stop?” Brockley whispered in my ear.

“Better. It would look more natural,” I whispered back.

I could see now that Jester was working with charcoal, and that the sketch he was making, of the skyline of Cambridge, was quite remarkably competent. “Master Jester!” I said, halting beside the easel. He glanced up at me.

“Mistress Faldene. Takin’ the air with your cousin, I
see. Mind you get back into the shop in half an hour. Good day to you, Master Brockley.”

“You draw so well,” I said, in admiring tones. “Why, sir, you could earn your bread at it!”

“I’d not enjoy it then,” Jester said, sketching in the roofs and tower of a distant building, which, now that I knew Cambridge a little, I recognized as Peterhouse College. “A man has to have his relaxations. You oughter be grateful. I’m not let to keep the shop open all afternoon so I use my free time for amusement, and I’m such a generous and good-hearted man that I grant the same to the rest of you. Unless there’s work still to do, that is, or you’ve put my back up—and we make up for it on Sundays, you’ll find,” he added ominously. “And now away with you. I don’t like bein’ watched when I’m drawin’.”

We hurriedly murmured farewells and walked on. Once out of earshot, I said: “Well! I never would have thought it. That drawing was good! Whoever would have guessed that Jester was a secret artist? Now, Brockley, there’s no one near us just now, so what is this scheme that you and Rob are laying?”

“It depends on your consent, madam. Master Henderson has arranged a chance for me to become Master Woodforde’s manservant. We are pretending that I was formerly in Master Henderson’s employ. I meant to come and speak to you this evening. It’s settled, except, of course, that if you don’t agree, I can back out. If I do join Woodforde, Master Henderson’s men will keep an eye on the horses at Radley’s. I made a point of that.”

“How in the world did Rob … ?” I was astonished but also impressed. “It’s an excellent idea, if it’s possible.
Would you have to live with Woodforde? I hope Fran won’t mind.”

“It would hardly be for long, madam, and Fran is much occupied.”

“What precisely is she doing?” I asked.

“Embroidering cushions for the Provost’s Lodge where the queen will stay. That Officer of the Wardrobe that we rode some of the way to Cambridge with; he’s got here now and he’s decided that some of the cushions and so forth in the Provost’s Lodge need repair. He’s hired seamstresses but since Fran is there and you’re not using her, he’s ordered her to help. He isn’t paying her, either,” said Brockley crossly. “He says there’s no need since she has wages from you!”

“Well, I can hardly object, since I don’t need her just now. But look, getting back to your plans, what about Woodforde’s present manservant? I know he’s got one.”

“Had one, madam. The man wishes to leave.”

“How very convenient!”

“I think, madam,” said Brockley, “that Master Henderson—er …”

“Delved into his purse and brought out some sovereigns. All the same, if it was a good post …”

“According to Master Henderson,” said Brockley, with a blank face but a gleam of laughter in his eyes, “the fellow was quite glad of a chance to leave. Master Woodforde isn’t the easiest of men to work for. He’s rough with his servants.”

“Indeed? Brockley, the idea of you entering his service is a most promising scheme and of course I consent. But I hope it won’t be too unpleasant.”

“It can hardly be more unpleasant than the life you’re leading at Jester’s,” Brockley said. “I’m concerned for you, madam. It sounds to me as if Woodforde and Jester are two of a kind.”

We halted, halfway across the bridge. With one mind, we moved to lean on the parapet and look down at the flowing water of the Cam. “How do you know about that?” I asked.

“I’ve managed to talk to some of the students, in casual fashion, madam, and Master Henderson, of course, has talked to them officially. We learned nothing useful, but we did hear a few remarks about Jester and the way he treats the folk who work for him. I can only hope, madam, that Jester has offered you no offense.”

“I’ve had a bad moment or two but if the worst came to the worst, I could walk out. Except that I don’t like walking out with a task unfinished.”

“No more do I,” Brockley said. “But if when it’s all over, Jester’s not been found guilty of anything worse, if he’s raised his hand to you, he’ll have a bill to pay and I’ll present it, never fear.”

I turned my head to look at him. “You’re a good friend, Brockley.”

“I would hope so, madam. You need friends. I know you’ll think this is just singing an old song that you’ve heard too often, but I wish you weren’t doing this. You should be at home with your daughter in Withysham, or else both of you should be back in France with the Seigneur de la Roche.”

“I wish I were, Brockley. With all my heart, I wish I were, but … if … if anything happened to Matthew, I
would need a home in England and so I need Withysham. The queen gave it to me for services rendered, but although she didn’t put it that way, I think that while I remain in England, she still expects services. They are part of the payment.”

“I think you would still choose to serve her whenever possible, madam.”

“You may be right.” Suddenly I pounded a fist on the parapet. “Why must there always be plots and … and people who want to harm her? Above all, why here? This is Cambridge. Elizabeth has put an end to heretic-hunting; she has made England Protestant and in England, Cambridge is where the movement began. Here, of all the places in the entire realm, she should be valued; she should be safe! All along, I’ve hoped that this business of the playlet is just a mare’s nest. But now that Thomas Shawe is dead—oh, dear God, he was so
young
…”

I hadn’t expected to burst into tears. They overtook me without warning and although I tried to stop them, they began to fall on the parapet and on my hands as they rested there.

“Thomas Shawe ought
not
to be dead!” I said furiously. “He should have had years before him, and a chance to marry Ambrosia, too—they were in love, Brockley. Ambrosia’s heartbroken now … !” Brockley put a tentative hand on my shoulder. It was warm and kind and at once aroused a new longing, to be back again in Matthew’s embrace. But Matthew was far away, embattled in Blanchepierre in the midst of a plague epidemic, and I could not go to him. There was no comfort for me anywhere, except in the person of
the friend at my side. I turned to Brockley and for one moment stepped into his arms and pressed my face into his shoulder, wetting his shirt with my tears.

He patted my back, as though I were a baby, but then put me gently away from him. “We mustn’t give way, either of us,” he said, and I knew that there was a double meaning in the words. I mustn’t give way to grief over Thomas Shawe, and neither of us must yield to the secret thing that ran between us.

Least of all just now, for as I stepped back, dashing the tears out of my eyes and attempting to smile, I realized that a familiar figure was coming toward us over the bridge. We at once went to meet her, hoping that she hadn’t seen.

“Roger! Ma’am! I’ve finished my stitching for today and I thought I’d take the air again awhile. I didn’t expect to meet you here.”

She curtsied to me, and smiled at Roger, a wife greeting her husband and a tirewoman encountering her mistress. “We are waiting here for Master Henderson to catch up,” I explained, and began to tell her of Thomas Shawe and our visit to King’s Grove and our encounter with Roland Jester and his easel.

Fran listened respectfully and made the right exclamations in all the right places, but I observed, with a heavy heart, that her eyes were full of pain.

Yes. She had seen.

There was nothing to be done. Any attempt to explain why I was embracing Brockley could be interpreted as trying to explain it away, instead. It was for Brockley to deal with it later, in private with Dale. As we stood on the bridge, I stared down unhappily into the sun-dappled river. The water was not sparkling quite as it had been. The ripples were oily now and the sun-flecks duller. The air was growing humid and the sky was dimming. From the corner of my eye, I caught a glimpse of peacock-color and turning, I saw Rob approaching. “Here comes Master Henderson,” I said brightly.

I knew that I should be on my way to the pie shop but I still had things to discuss with Rob. When he came up to us, I said briefly: “Let’s lean on the parapet while we talk. I’m short of time so let’s get to the point quickly. I repeat what I’ve said before. Thomas Shawe’s so-called accident is proof, to my mind, that
something is wrong about that playlet. Can we bring the coincidence—I mean Thomas’s plan to meet me in secret, and his sudden death—as evidence at the inquest? In fact, can we cast enough doubt on the innocence of the playlet to justify canceling it on our own responsibility?”

“I wouldn’t gamble on it,” said Rob. “This looked so very much like sheer mischance. I’m still not sure that it wasn’t, frankly, Ursula. Thomas’s worries could have been about nothing worse than fear of pinking Dudley by mistake or thinking that some of the students are plotting a secret extra rag of their own.”

“I don’t think so,” I said.

“Well, you always have your own strong views, I know,” Rob said. “You
may
be right.” Again, I was startled by a sourness in his voice, and he made a movement that was remarkably like an irritable shrug, but his voice was pleasant enough as he added: “Has Brockley told you yet about our scheme to get him into Woodforde’s service?”

“Yes, and I’ve agreed.”

“Good.” Rob mopped his brow. “How close this weather is. We shall have thunder soon, for sure. Now, listen. Let us assume that you’re right, Ursula. We could try to start a murder scandal at the inquest but we might not succeed. It’s thin, to my mind. We could also go ahead and cancel the playlet, and brave the annoyance of the queen. I doubt if she would actually clap us into the Tower for it. But if we do simply quell the whole thing, and after all there is a plot of some kind …”

“And the inquest jury brings in a verdict of accident,
” I finished for him, “then we have muffled an attempt against Her Majesty but we are no nearer learning just what kind of attempt it is, and who the plotters are.”

“The wolves,” put in Brockley in his level voice, “would still be at large.”

“Yes,” I said slowly. “Yes. I do see.”

“All of which,” Rob said, “is an argument for letting the inquest go and continuing to investigate. What kind of man
is
Jester? Is he likely to have political interests? Or Catholic ones? You must know him quite well by now.”

I thought that over. “No,” I said at length. “I don’t know him well. Cecil said he was a dull man—he writes dull letters, apparently—but I haven’t found him tedious, not at all! He keeps on startling me. Oh, not about religion. I’ve never heard him mention it, but according to Cecil, he and his brother are both Protestant and that’s probably true. I’ve been told that everyone from the pie shop worships at St. Benet’s in Cambridge on Sunday.

“
But
—he has a violent temper and his wife ran away from him. And I’ve heard him speak of her in a way that wasn’t just violent—it was … it was
vicious
. As though he’d never heard of the laws of God or decency. And then I come across him sitting at that easel, making a charcoal drawing that wouldn’t shame Hans Holbein. I don’t know what to make of him at all. I feel I haven’t the slightest idea what he’s really like. He could be anything, under the surface. And so could his daughter.”

Hesitantly, I found myself putting into words
something that I had felt for some time. “Ambrosia’s got a strong face; I think she’s got strong feelings. And yet—I don’t know what she’s really like, either. She was in love with Thomas but I can’t guess what she would say, or think, if anyone told her that Thomas was involved in something … treasonable or dangerous. Would it make her draw away from him or defend him? I can’t tell.” Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed another familiar figure approaching the bridge. “I think,” I said warningly, “that Jester is on his way home. We should move on before he gets close to us.”

We did so. Dale walked at Brockley’s side, silent as she had been throughout the discussion, but somehow making it plain by the very way she moved that she was at this moment far more Mistress Brockley than tirewoman Fran Dale. I smiled at her once but her response was faint.

Striding at my side, still mopping his brow now and then, Rob said: “So we leave the inquest alone and go on as we were? Is that agreed?” His tone was irritable and looking at his flushed face, I wondered if this was merely due to the heat or if he was unwell.

“On reflection, yes, I think it best,” I said mildly.

“I agree. And you are happy for Brockley to enter Woodforde’s service?”

“Yes, if he’s willing. Brockley?”

“I’m willing,” Brockley said. “It will be tomorrow. As yet, I don’t know when I’ll get a chance to get away and report on anything I find but I’ll manage.”

“If you find out anything useful,” Rob said, “try to tell both of us. I can’t pass news on to Mistress Blanchard
because I can’t call on her. Courtiers and cook-maids don’t mix. But I’m about in the university a good deal; you should have chances to speak to me, and I suppose you can visit the pie shop or meet her outside. You’re supposed to be her cousin, after all.”

“I’ll do my best, sir.”

“And, Dale, try to come with him,” I said quickly. “I shall be glad to see you both. Meanwhile, I think I must poke my nose a little more earnestly into the Jesters’ affairs. I’ve gone about for days with my ears and eyes open and I’ve learned next to nothing. Talking to the students was different—that would have worked, if only Thomas hadn’t been …”

Remembering that still young face with the flecks of dust from the carpentry work in the chapel, and the hard cold brow that I had kissed, I was nearly overcome all over again. I had seen death before, many times, and I had thought I was hardened, perhaps more hardened than a young woman has any business to be, but Thomas Shawe had moved me deeply. I blinked the tears away. “I
hate
prying into other people’s personal documents; you’re right there, Rob—but I think I must try it. I will see if there is anything, anywhere, in writing that will help.”