Queen of Ambition (36 page)

I would not consider the other thoughts, deep in my mind: the fact that I need not, now, face another pregnancy and risk my life in childbed. At this, I would not look. I would not admit that for me Matthew’s death was anything but unrelieved calamity.

I would never now go back to France. Matthew had not left Blanchepierre to me but to a cousin of his, evidently assuming that if I lost him, I would not want to live in France but would wish to stay at Withysham, and that Withysham was adequate provision for me, which indeed it was.

I will not speak of the next week or two; indeed, my memory of that time is vague. People were very kind, including the queen. I was allowed to keep to my chamber as much as I wished; prayers were said for me in chapel, asking God to comfort me and heal my grief.

The grief was the worse because Matthew was already buried before I even knew he was dead. I had had no means of saying farewell. I had had no opportunity to place the kiss for the dead on his forehead; no chance to shed tears by his grave. The queen, when I asked, refused to give me a passport for France.

“It is better not,” she said. “The place you need now
is your own home, Withysham. You should go there as soon as you feel well enough to travel.” She regarded me with those remarkable golden brown eyes of hers, which could be both kind and implacable at the same time. “When you were here so briefly before you set off for Cambridge, I think you told some of my ladies that at home in Withysham, you had been studying Latin with your daughter. I urge you to resume that. There is healing in such occupations. I speak from experience.”

I had been right when I wondered whether Elizabeth, to whom the worlds of marriage and motherhood were closed, had sought and found a refuge in the life of the mind. I think she did. I could only hope that I would, too.

And so to Withysham I came, in the late September of 1564. Behind me in London, I left two men who were doomed soon to die, and I had brought them to the scaffold. Though my conscience about Woodforde and Jester was not too troubled. One memory that kept on recurring was that of Dr. Barley’s book-crammed study with the flask of dark red Rhône wine on the corner shelf, and his housekeeper, the spry, loquacious Mistress Cottrell saying that Woodforde had been there on the day before Dr. Barley died.

He had brought wine with him and shared it with Barley. He could have had little chance of bringing poison to put in it, or so I thought at first. Unless …

I found at Withysham that my aged protégée, the Welshwoman Gladys, had behaved circumspectly while I was away and had caused no trouble. She greeted me cheerfully, with her fanged smile, and
showed me some new medicinal plants that she had grown in the garden, which would be good for coughs and colds in winter. On impulse, I picked her brains.

“Gladys,” I said, “are you still making infusions of foxglove for the steward, Master Malton?”

“Yes, I am. And it works, indeed it does, as well as anything could!” Gladys bridled slightly, fearing censure.

“I heard of a physician in Cambridge who uses it, too. But I wanted to know—what happens if you take too much of it? Would it make you ill?”

“’Course it would,” said Gladys. “Lots of things do, if you take too much. You take foxglove for a toiling heart and it’ll ease it, in the right amount. Take too much and you start throwing up and likely you’ll die.”

I never reported my suspicions. There was no need. Woodforde was as good as dead already. Besides, I couldn’t be sure. But the pictures kept coming into my mind: of Woodforde arriving with his wine, talking to Dr. Barley, poor ailing Barley who found the stairs such a trial, and saying, perhaps,
I’d like a look at such and such a book … you keep it upstairs, don’t you? No, no, I’ll find it. I know the stairs are hard for you
….

If he knew the house, he might know of the medicine on the windowsill in Dr. Barley’s bedroom. As an educated man, he might know little about the practical work of brewing potions, but still have some knowledge of medicines in general. I could see him, in my mind, climbing the stairs, perhaps taking a little empty vial from his belt pouch, filling it from the medicine flask. And coming down, and sharing the Rhône wine with his friend, and finding an
opportunity to slip the contents of the vial into Barley’s glass of deep red wine, whose color would mask it. I didn’t know what the medicine tasted like but a few pinches of spice might have solved the problem of taste. And then Woodforde went away and Dr. Barley …

Became sick and the next day, died.

The idea wouldn’t leave me. I believed that Woodforde was capable of it and he certainly had his reasons. As for Jester, he had killed Thomas Shawe and had confessed to it. They were as murderous as each other, those two. Jester was more apt to murder from fear while Woodforde was content to kill for expediency, that was the only difference.

If I could not quite forget Woodforde’s cries as he was dragged away from Lady Lennox, well, I still need not lie awake and think about them. On the day of his execution, which was also Jester’s, I did have a sick headache, but it passed.

Hitherto, I had only known Withysham in summer. Autumn that year was beautiful for a while, with the trees turning to gold and red, and lively winds to tear at the leaves and fill the air with a dancing largesse of bright leaves. But when the trees were bare, the days turned gray and hushed. Underfoot, the earth was muddy and the evenings darkened early, filling the old house with shadows. In this house, I had been married to Matthew; in this house I had lain my first night with him. Here, too, I had schemed to flee from him, and done so, because Elizabeth needed me. But I had torn my heart from my body when I did it and I had been glad, at last, when we came together again. I would
have been happy, in time, at Blanchepierre, I told myself, and surely, I would have had children for Matthew, and survived it.

Well, the dream was gone. I tried my hardest to fill my days well. My aunt Tabitha and uncle Herbert paid me a formal visit of condolence and we sat in the hall exchanging correct sentiments. Aunt Tabitha never omitted the social proprieties. I was glad, however, when they went away.

I had not after all ridden with Rob to collect Meg from Thamesbank. The news of Matthew’s death had thrown all arrangements into confusion. In the end, I had gone to Withysham first and then sent for Meg. Rob dispatched her to me with an escort but neither he nor Mattie came themselves. But Meg was well, and glad to see me. Together, she and I resumed our studies.

As I had once planned to do in France, I began to look for a tutor so that we could take up Greek. I took an interest in the house and the kitchen and began teaching my daughter to cook. I also introduced her to advanced embroidery stitches. I did write once or twice to Mattie, giving her news of Meg, and Mattie wrote back, but I knew our friendship was withering, because Rob would not forgive me for being a more successful agent than he was.

Which was absurd, for my days as an agent were over, just as my days as a wife were over. I had Meg and I had the company of Brockley and Dale, who would have to remain with me now, although I was careful, very careful, to keep my distance from Brockley. I must make a new life and it must be the life of a
widowed matron, a dignified chatelaine, the lady of the manor of Withysham, of whom no scandalous word was ever spoken, for I must not hurt Dale, and one day Meg would grow up and perhaps go to court, and I wanted her to have every chance of a good marriage.

In December, although I was wearing black, Yuletide still had to be celebrated in some fashion and with a huge effort, I arranged for the usual green branches to be brought indoors and for the usual feast to be served. I think Meg enjoyed it. I can’t say that I did. I was aware, all the time, of Dale and Brockley watching me anxiously, as though I might suddenly collapse. I felt sometimes as though I might, but came through it all without drama.

January was gray and bitter. I tried to take an interest in plans for changes to the garden when the springtime came. About the middle of the month, I was walking one morning in the grounds with Dale and Meg, pointing out the places where I thought this or that might be planted, when Brockley came out of the house to tell me that, just as she had done before I went to Cambridge, Aunt Tabitha had called on me. She was waiting in my parlor, where there was a fire. Would I come?

When I entered the parlor, I stopped short, startled. This was not the Aunt Tabitha to whom I was accustomed. This was a version of my aunt that I had never seen before, with an old cloak thrown on anyhow, and graying hair looped untidily under a cap that did not look entirely clean. And a look in her eyes that was quite new to me—of desperation and appeal.

“Ursula!”

“Aunt Tabitha? My dear aunt, how cold you look. Please come and sit by the fire.”

“Ursula, I can’t waste time on politenesses. We need your help. Our son … your cousin Edward … he has gone to Scotland and … I think he’s gone to do something … something that people might say is wrong …”

“To do with Mary Stuart?” I asked sharply.

“Yes. Yes! He’s been before. Your uncle and I have been worried for a long time. I wanted to ask your advice in the summer, before you went off to court but I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t think I could trust you. Not after what you did to my husband. Only, now … we’re frightened. His wife is frightened too and … Ursula, you’re the only person now that we
dare
trust. You’re family. We want you to go after him and bring him back and … stop him before it’s too late! It would be in the interest of the queen … yes, I know we’re Catholics, but we can’t let Edward risk himself like this … young people can be so passionate … Ursula, please help us!”

Lady Lennox, I thought wryly, was not the only one who could be called a queen of ambition. I too had my ambitious longings.

I was glad of this. This was the summons back to my own world, of secret missions and adventure and the subterranean labyrinth of scheme and counter-scheme that lies below all the dignified and glittering affairs of state, the audiences and receptions and banquets—the council meetings and the festive processions.

It was the summons back to a world where to win
prestige might mean alienating old friends like Rob Henderson, but where the prestige rested on defeating such fierce challenges that nothing, not even Rob’s enmity, could destroy one’s satisfaction. I was of the temperament that could not win such satisfaction from a well-planned Christmas dinner or shelves full of preserves, and if that was wrong, well, it was the way I had been made and those who disliked it had better address their complaints to the Almighty who made me.

It was like a sudden jolt, a surge of excitement, and a rush of new, hot blood through all my veins. It was like the call of the wild geese in the cold, wide sky.

I motioned Aunt Tabitha to a seat and without taking her eyes from my face, she accepted and sat down. I sat down opposite to her. “Now,” I said. “Tell me everything. If it is in Elizabeth’s interest, I will help you if I can.”