The Ringed Castle (24 page)

Exhausted, the Queen’s ladies continued to give her their care and their comfort. The Queen rose from her bed, and moved through her rooms slowly, undertaking no business. Then plans were announced to move the whole Court briefly to Oatlands, four miles farther from London, and Philippa along with the others was plunged into lists and planning and packing. The Queen, sitting erect in her carved chair, a counterpane over her knees, issued the orders, and, when the time came, was placed in her closed litter and taken through the green summer park to her barge, and from there to her palace.

Hampton Court emptied, for cleansing. The ladies brought for the accouchement, unable to find rooms in the bijou restrictions of Oatlands, were advised quietly to withdraw and vanish. And a cradle, carried out and locked in a storeroom, lay on its side so that this time its poorly scanned legend had only the mice to be witness:
The child whom Thou to Mary, O Lord of Might has send …

Ten days later, the King and Queen were back in Hampton Court, and the watchers and Ambassadors saw that the Queen no longer walked with her ladies alone, but had her statesmen for the first time around her, and was giving audiences once again, her manner affable; her face stiff; half-shorn, half-crumbled, like sandstone, and only the small, tightly-rimmed eyes liquid and suffering. Philippa heard then that the Emperor had sent a peremptory summons to Philip and that the Queen had agreed he should go.

He left for London in less than a fortnight, and the Queen, staying by his side at the last moment, unexpectedly shared his public farewells in the City, acclaimed in her open litter by the crowds who ran and shouted along the long road, and who had seemingly considered her dead. Then together, the Crown and the Court moved on downriver, to where Philip’s ships waited at Greenwich.

And at Greenwich, the Queen summoned Philippa and at last gave her leave of absence. ‘You have been my sweet servant, and you deserve rest from your labours. Your mother must lack you. Take your way home to the north, and comfort her, and on my good lord’s return we shall see you.’ And dismissing her, had given her a brooch and a chain; while from Lady Lennox there had emanated a kind smile and a message for her good lady mother.

Philippa retired to her room, wanly aghast. She did not want to go north. She could not face her own mother, and how could she avoid visiting Midculter, when all that she knew must be stamped on her face? And more than that, the ships would be returning from Russia. Not with Chancellor: that she did not expect. But the
Edward
and the
Philip and Mary
were to sail back to England to winter. And, since they might surely bear letters, Philippa wished to be there when they came.

She applied, as was her sensible habit, for aid to the Sidneys. Lady Mary did not inquire why it was inconvenient for Mistress Philippa to spend a month at her home in Flaw Valleys. She merely arranged, with the greatest good will, for Philippa to join them instead down at Penshurst. And two days later, sent her husband to Greenwich to escort her.

He arrived on a day of typical chaos. All the Court were still there, Spanish and English, for with King Philip to Brussels were going the Queen’s principal ministers and almost the whole of her Council: a measure of safety, no less than a promise of willing and speedy return. And back in England, Philip was leaving his Queen yet another assurance: his German and Spanish infantry and Burgundian cavalry, his Chapel functionaries, his physicians and pages and his whole stable department were to remain behind him, patient pawns awaiting redemption; exiles in an unfriendly land.

Philippa was ready and thankful to leave. She welcomed Sir Henry as he stooped, spurs clinking, through the low door of her room, and he smiled and gave her a kiss and said ‘It should have been Allendale. I was to bring you his respects. That’s one young man, along with a number of others, who wish your divorce would speed, Philippa.’

So Austin had already said. She thought of him, smiling, and of all the warm farewells she had received today from her immediate circle. The kisses and gifts and affectionate raillery from all the men and women with whom she had brushed shoulders in the last ten months had both surprised Philippa and touched her. Don Alfonso, miming despair combined with exhausted relief, was going in the King’s train to Brussels. Austin, she knew, would find more than one excuse to come to Penshurst. She said, ‘I don’t suppose they want it any more eagerly than I do. It seems to be delayed once again. They say now that nothing can be done until Mr Crawford sends his formal consent.’

‘Sends,’ Henry Sidney repeated. He looked round and pushed the door shut; then pulling a stool forward for Philippa, went and perched himself on the window seat. ‘Philippa, are you sure he won’t come back to Scotland?’

‘I am sure,’ Philippa said. She would not be there to persuade Lymond. Her first two letters had brought no reply, and she had not sent a third, since Diccon Chancellor had sailed without her. She knew she would never commit now to paper what Leonard Bailey had told her. She knew that whatever excuse she had given, Margaret Lennox had placed her under restraint for one reason only: to prevent her from sailing to Russia.

How had she discovered her plan? Or was it merely a guess, based on the knowledge, somehow acquired, that Lymond was living in Russia? And why had she been prevented from sailing? Of all people, Margaret Lennox had no interest at all in her safety.

She had found no solution to that. Or to the choice she saw standing bleakly before her. Whether to sacrifice Sybilla’s wellbeing to her son’s peace of mind and safety in Russia. Or whether to persevere: to bring Lymond home to face what he already knew from the Abbess; or to be pursued and confronted by the outrage of his great-uncle’s spite, needlessly destroying both himself and Sybilla?

Perhaps, Philippa thought flatly, they were wrong, all of them, in their view of him. Perhaps he would learn the truth, whatever it was, with perfect equanimity, indifferent to the lives of his parents and the accident of his own origin; occupied, sensibly, with his own future. If that were true, then for Sybilla’s sake he should come home, for nothing could hurt him.

It had been a long silence. Coming to herself suddenly, Philippa looked up at Sir Henry and grinned, and said, ‘Or I think I’m sure. Confidence, like Admiration, is the daughter of Ignorance. But so long as he writes, does it matter?’

‘It matters now,’ Sir Henry said. ‘I am glad, Philippa, you are not going north. I would like you here when the ships come back from Muscovy. Because I think they may bring you word of your husband.’

The pause was perhaps a second too long, but she did not make a single mistake. ‘From
Muscovy
!’ said Philippa Somerville.

‘You didn’t know? He hasn’t written you?’ said Sir Henry quietly. And to the latter part of the question she answered with a truthful shake of the head.

‘I wondered if perhaps he had. I have been in two minds whether to speak to you, Philippa. But if these ships bring letters for you, it is right that you should answer them fittingly. Mr Crawford, Philippa, is in service in Muscovy. His employment is honourable, but it is one which closely concerns this country and others in Europe. He is believed to be helping the Tsar to train and muster his armies. For that reason, no doubt, he has not written to you. And for that reason, his whereabouts have not been made known outside Russia so far.’

Philippa said briefly, ‘Who told you?’

Henry Sidney said, ‘That is why this door is closed, and why I must ask you not to repeat to anyone else what we are saying. Diccon Chancellor was told the news, before he sailed, by the Countess of Lennox.’

‘Whom Mr Crawford had told?’ inquired Philippa.

‘She did not say, but I think it unlikely. She did appear, however, to be perfectly sure, although she took the trouble to swear Diccon to secrecy. Fortunately Diccon and I have known each other so long that in the matter of promises we are one soul and one flesh. But no one else at Court knows, or must know.’

Philippa said, ‘I still don’t see how she could have known. But since she did, why tell Mr Chancellor? He’ll find out in Russia in any
case. Or … I see. She wished to send Mr Crawford a message?’

‘She wished Diccon to tell Mr Crawford to return,’ said Sir Henry in the same clear, subdued voice. ‘Mr Crawford was to be told that, unless he returned, there would be no annulment for you. He was to be told, that in the event of a war between England and France, your safety would be in question. He was to be told that if your marriage persisted, as it would unless he returned, Flaw Valleys would be seized to preserve it, and your mother obliged to remarry, at the Queen’s instance. Diccon was told to use every means in his power to ensure that when he sails in the spring, he brings Mr Crawford back with him. And he has been told that if he fails, when he returns he will face an indictment for heresy. At worst, the stake. At best, ruin and banishment at the start of a brilliant career.’

‘Then the Queen knows?’ said Philippa, her heart plodding within her.

He shook his head. ‘Only the Lennoxes. From what spite they do it, I don’t know. Perhaps you can guess better than I. Perhaps they think truly they may do England a service. With all this secrecy, it seems unlikely. But Margaret Lennox is the Queen’s cousin and what she threatens, she can carry out amply. She has threatened Diccon with death. She has told him this also. If Mr Crawford does not leave Russia now, he will never leave it. He will be dead before the ship sails, by her agency.’

She did not speak. Nor could he possibly know the pressures of thought which for once had rendered her speechless. He said kindly, ‘You are not to be frightened. These are serious threats, but he is a responsible man, Diccon, and so is your husband. They will return, I am sure, since they are forced to. But once back, these toils will be straightened.

‘Meanwhile you must pray, as I do, that he comes.’

*

On 29 August, thirteen and a half months after his arrival, the very high and mighty Philip, by the grace of God King of England, France and Naples, and Prince of Spain, took barge at Greenwich to travel to Gravesend by water, and from thence on to Dover and Brussels. Before leaving, the King took leave of Queen Mary, who chose then to walk with him through all the chambers and galleries to the head of the stairs, where, in the face of the crowd, she bore herself with perfect and regal decorum, although visibly moved when the Spanish nobles bowed, saluting her hand, and, as was the custom in England, the King bestowed a kiss on each of her plain, weeping ladies.

Once in the barge, the King mounted the steps to be seen, and waved his bonnet back to the palace. The Queen stood at the river
Windows of her apartment until he had embarked and sailed out of sight, and then was overtaken by an unrestrained bout of violent sobbing. Later, as was her custom, she sought comfort in prayer.

‘Domine Jesu Christi, qui es verus sponsus animae meae, verus Rex et Dominus meus
 … O Lord Jesus Christ, Who art the true husband of my soul, my true King and my master. Thou Who didst choose me for spouse and consort a man who, more than all others, in his own acts and in his guidance of mine, reproduced Thy image; Thy image whom thou didst send into the world in holiness and justice. I beseech Thee, by Thy most precious blood:
Assuage my grief!’

At Sweetnose, there was frost in the shrouds and a cold midsummer fog which forced the
Edward Bonaventure
to lie idle on the last stage of her journey to Russia, with the boom of the whirlpool in Chancellor’s frustrated ears, and a flotilla of impertinent Lapps gathering under his poop, assembling for the midsummer fishing of belugas and walrus and salmon at Pechora.

He did not know until one of the grinning creatures climbed aboard, crucifix swinging, with a gift of fresh salted salmon, that Christopher had been off with them at half-tide to smear oatmeal butter on the Kamen Woronucha, the biggest rock by the whirlpool; and when the fog presently lifted, he viewed Christopher’s crowing with fatherly disfavour, and mentioned to his sailing-master, John Buckland, that he should probably be burned as a heretic.

Buckland, a stolid Devonshire seaman, grinned without answering. Light-hearted by nature, with a questing, vigorous mind and a long apprenticeship in the exact arts, Diccon Chancellor was a good friend on shore. But at sea, launched on his adventure with the stars caught in his astrolabe, he carried, like a man drunk on small wine, an aroma of happiness.

It had been a fine trip, Chancellor thought; and better still since he had left the
Philip and Mary
to discharge her cargo and drop her agent at Vardȯ, and had been able to sail on alone, with his charts and his sightings, and Buckland, who knew what he wanted. Christopher had been all he had hoped. The new merchants had been no trouble, and three of them had been with him before, and knew what to expect; or were here because they liked the unexpected. Eleven reasonable men, barring the two Members’ sons, Judde and Hawtrey, who had needed a little careful handling until Buckland got them interested in navigation. And Best had drummed some Russian into them as well.

‘If we can keep the cook sober,’ Chancellor said to the Master as, pitching slightly, the
Edward
stubbed her way round to Cross Island and headed for Foxnose across the wide gulf of the bay, ‘we’ll have sailed two thousand miles in a month. Then you can turn round and go back, while our troubles are only beginning.… D’you know why the Germans can’t keep a navy afloat?’

And Buckland, who was in a state of some elation himself, grinned and said, ‘Why? No oatmeal and butter?’

Richard Chancellor batted a derisory palm. ‘No! The cooks burn them down to the waterline.’

They crossed the bar of the River Dwina on 23 June, and anchored off the village of Nenoksa, in the roadstead of St Nicholas, where the brine pipes ran in from the ocean. As before, the log cabins were plumed with the steam of salt boilings, and as before, there combined with the breath of violets and rosemary, drifting over the water, the fishy reek of the hot trenches swimming with blubber.