Queen Without a Crown

First world edition published 2011

in Great Britain and the USA by

Crème de la Crime, an imprint of

SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of

9–15 High Street, Sutton, Surrey, England, SM1 1DF.

British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data

Buckley, Fiona.

Queen without a crown.

1. Blanchard, Ursula (Fictitious character) – Fiction.

2. Women spies – Fiction. 3. Elizabeth I, Queen of England,

1533–1603 – Fiction. 4. Mary, Queen of Scots, 1542–1587 –

Fiction. 5. Great Britain – History – Elizabeth,

1558–1603 – Fiction. 6. Great Britain – Court and

courtiers – History – 16th century – Fiction. 7. Treason –

Fiction. 8. Detective and mystery stories.

I. Title

823.9′14-dc22

ISBN-13: 978-1780101576 (ePub)

ISBN-13: 978-1780290140 (cased)

ISBN-13: 978-1780295145 (trade paper)

Except where actual historical events and characters are being described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to living persons is purely coincidental.

This ebook produced by

Palimpsest Book Production Limited,

Falkirk, Stirlingshire, Scotland.

For Annabel and Geoffrey

The theory that some artists in the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries may have used a form of the camera obscura to help them with their work has been put forward by the artist David Hockney, whose book
Secret Knowledge
has been most useful to me in writing
Queen Without a Crown
.

Walking in the Rain

T
he messenger who came thundering over the bridge to Windsor Castle on that damp November morning in 1569 brought grave news to Queen Elizabeth and a very curious message to one of her Ladies of the Bedchamber, namely myself, Ursula Stannard. He brought me a riddle to solve and also, possibly, the answer to a prayer. If only I could close my hand upon it.

I was a woman in my thirties and I had led an unusual life, for I had for a long time been not only one of the queen’s ladies, but also, now and then, an agent undertaking secret missions for her and for her secretary of state, Sir William Cecil. In the course of all this I had acquired some unconventional skills such as picking locks and breaking ciphers. I was accustomed to searching out plots and traitors, taking on false identities, reading other people’s letters and listening at doors. I wore divided over-kirtles with hidden pouches sewn inside them so that I could carry lockpicks and a dagger about with me.

I had, however, never learned how to travel into the past, and the best way to grasp the golden prize now dangling before me, which would turn sadness to joy if only I could but win it, would be to turn back time for twenty-three years. It was something of a challenge, to put it mildly.

In an attempt to take a cheerful view of the situation, I reminded myself that although there was serious trouble in the north of England, the queen did not want me to be involved in it. I was not, for once, being ordered to journey into peril on some secret mission. The strange new assignment I was being offered would at least not lead me into danger.

Unfortunately, my mortal ears couldn’t hear Fate laughing.

That morning began in the most ordinary fashion. It was drizzling, but Elizabeth didn’t mind walking in the rain and often did so, her ladies and courtiers, perforce, walking with her. One of her gentlemen would always be at her side, while everyone else followed behind, the ladies lifting their skirt hems clear of the puddles, wishing their shoes were stouter and occasionally sneezing. If Elizabeth acknowledged the sneezes at all, it was usually with a sharp glance over her shoulder and a curt command to stop that noise.

At least, this time, she was keeping to the castle terrace, where we had paving stones underfoot instead of wet grass. Christopher Hatton, one of her most devoted friends, was beside her this time, and the hooded fur cloak that protected the royal head of hair and the queenly array of white brocade and pearls had been a gift from him. I wished my cloak were as good.

We all had cloaks of course, for the drizzle was penetrating. It drifted in chilly clouds over the Thames and the open heath below the castle. I said to my husband Hugh, who was with us, that it was wonderful how weather could alter distance. Amid the sloping open land below us stood a lonely cottage. On clear days it looked as though one good throw would toss a stone into its garden. Today, we could barely see its outline and it seemed distant and unreal.

We were both low in spirit. We would rather have been at home in one of our two houses, Hawkswood on the Surrey border or Withysham in Sussex. We hadn’t welcomed Elizabeth’s summons to Windsor.

It was a safety measure, for the castle was well defended and the rebellion in the north was gathering strength. No one knew how serious the danger was or how far south it would reach, but Elizabeth’s person had to be safeguarded and so, she insisted, did mine. ‘You would make a useful hostage, if the rebels once got hold of you, Ursula,’ she told me.

I had no legal status, for although my father had had a formidable list of wives, my mother was never among them. But blood ties are blood ties and people are vulnerable through their kinfolk. Queen Elizabeth and I were half-sisters. My mother, while serving Queen Anne Boleyn at court, had been seduced by King Henry the Eighth. The facts of my parentage were not widely known, but enough people were aware of them to turn me into a target for conspirators.

I knew I should be grateful to her for taking such care of me and mine. My husband, my fourteen-year-old daughter Meg, and the principal members of our household were in Windsor with us. They included my daughter’s tutor Dr Lambert, my gentlewoman Sybil Jester, our good servants Fran and Roger Brockley and an aged and exasperating hanger-on of mine, Gladys Morgan, for whom I had a reluctant responsibility. We were together and well housed, but it fretted me to be cut off from home.

At home, after all, I was the mistress of the house. At Windsor, I was a Lady of the Bedchamber, a promotion from my former place at court as a Lady of the Presence Chamber, but with drawbacks. Attending on the queen in private as I did now, I was more than ever subject to her wishes, her whims (and occasionally her tempers) as well as being compelled to walk in the rain whether I liked it or not – and I didn’t.

And that wasn’t all. Of our two homes, the one we longed for most was Hugh’s property of Hawkswood, a grey stone manor-house set in a peaceful valley, looking south towards Sussex, with a vista of low wooded hills. It possessed a small ornamental lake, a charming knot garden and a rose garden which was Hugh’s especial pride. I sometimes thought that his roses occupied the place in his heart which his children would have filled, had he ever had them.

Beyond the gardens and the lake there were cattle meadows, cornfields, and a small beech wood. It was a good property, serene and productive, and Hugh had been born there. He loved it, and gradually I had come to love it too.

And now we were in danger of losing it. While it was still ours, we wanted to be there. We walked side by side in the rain, trying to talk of other things but quite unable to concentrate on them.

Abruptly, I said: ‘Hugh, once again, why not sell Withysham instead? I don’t feel about it as you feel about Hawkswood. I wasn’t bred there; it isn’t my family home. Why won’t you let me do this?’

‘Because the queen gave it to you for services rendered, and they were dangerous services. You earned Withysham as I never earned Hawkswood. Because she might even take offence if you were to sell it. And because the unhappy muddle we’re now in is my fault and not yours. I didn’t marry you to rob you, Ursula. I will not let you sacrifice Withysham; please don’t mention it again.’

When Hugh spoke in that tone, he meant what he said and would not be moved. I looked at him sadly. ‘Very well,’ I said.

For the third time, we turned at the western end of the terrace and began to walk back. It was cold and I felt concerned for Hugh, who was much older than I was and whose health sometimes wavered. ‘If only this business in the north could be settled quickly!’ I said. ‘Then we could go home, at least for a while. I wish we knew what was happening. Surely news must come soon.’

Ahead and below, just visible through the rain haze, we could see the bridge across the river. Suddenly, Hugh’s hand closed on my arm. ‘I think,’ he said, ‘that news is arriving now. Someone’s coming across that bridge at a gallop.’

I joined Elizabeth’s court originally as a young widow after the death of my first husband, Meg’s father, Gerald Blanchard. I was in need of money, and when the chance came to earn some, I seized it. That was how I turned into one of the agents employed by Elizabeth and Cecil. Strange and perilous though the business was, it was at least well paid.

And inescapable. I married a second time, and my new husband, Matthew de la Roche, was no friend to Elizabeth. That should have ended my spying days, and as the work had begun to sicken me, I was not sorry. But although Matthew took me to live abroad, the queen, undeterred, found means to draw me back to England. While I was away from him, I heard of Matthew’s death from plague.

Again I tried to escape into private life, by marrying Hugh Stannard, but still, now and then, I was called back into service. I still had my lockpicks and my dagger. If you were useful to Elizabeth and Cecil, they used you, whether you wished it or not. Like walking in the rain.

It was more with resignation than surprise that I heard that the messenger from the north, though his principal business was with the queen and Cecil, had asked to see me as well.

The meeting took place in the anteroom to the queen’s bedchamber. Elizabeth received us formally, seated on a dais, very much the gracious queen in her pale brocade, her pearls and her open lace ruff, except that her expression wasn’t gracious at all, but sharp as a hatchet. The messenger stood facing us, and Cecil stood beside the dais, formally gowned. I waited a few steps back, wondering what all this was going to mean to me. I was worried about Hugh’s health and afraid that the loss of Hawkswood might damage it further. I did not want distractions now.

The rain had grown heavier and blew against the leaded windows while the messenger talked. He was a young man, well educated to judge from his voice, not tall but very handsome, with shapely cheekbones and dark, winged eyebrows sweeping outwards and upwards above deep-set brown eyes. His black hair was vigorous, growing strongly from his hairline. His name was Mark Easton, and he was in the employ of Lord Sussex, President of the North.

He had ridden hard from York, changing horses frequently at the royal posting stables and barely pausing to eat or sleep. Tired and wet though he undoubtedly was, he had insisted on delivering his message before taking any refreshment or even removing his cloak and boots, and it was from his left boot that he withdrew his employer’s written report. He would have knelt to present it to her, but Elizabeth, with an impatient: ‘No need for that!’ held out her hand for it, and when he gave it to her, she broke the seal at once and began to read the contents aloud.