The Siren Queen: An Ursula Blanchard Mystery at Queen Elizabeth I's (24 page)

“He is in the house but he’s in conference with Francis Walsingham. I believe you met Walsingham briefly the other day?”

“Yes. I wanted to hand the letters over to be deciphered by Sir William’s own clerks. I wish to God I had. I wish I’d never read them. I wish I didn’t know . . . ”

I stopped, choking.

Mildred stepped to a doorway and called. Someone came at once and she said briefly: “Fetch wine for four, and immediately.” Coming back, she said: “All three of you look exhausted and you, Ursula, have obviously had a very bad shock.” She sat down on a settle and signaled for me to do the same. “Can you tell me what happened?”

“I’d like to.” My own voice sounded strangled. “But I must see Sir William first. I must . . . ”

She glanced at the Brockleys, who were standing by. Brockley said: “We know, my lady. Yes. But we can say nothing until Mistress Stannard gives permission.”

“Since my husband sent you to the Ridolfi household, he will, I think, be willing to see you. But take some wine first, and compose yourself. Meanwhile, I will tell him you’re here and that it’s important. You wouldn’t make a mistake there, Ursula; that I know.”

The wine came, and the message, couched in properly urgent terms, was dispatched by the page who had brought in the tray. As I sipped at my glass, I asked: “Who is Walsingham? Is he trustworthy?”

“He’s a rising star in my husband’s service. He has already brought in valuable information, following a stay in France, and I believe,” said Mildred, her fine eyes crinkling with humor, “that some of the less reverent spirits at court are laying bets on whether he will one day follow Sir William as the next Secretary of State. There has been talk of promoting my husband to some still greater position. Ah.” The page had reappeared. “Yes?”

“Sir William will see Mistress Stannard at once, my lady.”

“Thank you, Tom. I’ll bring her myself. Please wait, and when they’ve finished their wine, take Mistress Stannard’s people downstairs and see that they have any refreshment they need. Come, Ursula.”

I had hoped to see Cecil alone but when I was shown into his study, I found the grave, dark Walsingham with him. However, it seemed that Cecil and his wife both trusted him. He was no doubt reliable, just as Harry Scrivener had proved to be reliable. I had been a fool. I had withheld trust from men who were entitled to it and given trust where I should not. It was Cecil, Cecil himself, who had betrayed me.

Cecil, as perceptive as his butler and his wife, looked at me and wasted no time. “Ursula? I gather that this is serious. Seat yourself, and explain. What have you discovered?”

I brought out the papers I was carrying in my hidden pouch and laid them in front of him, on his desk. “Brockley and I have overheard an interesting conversation between our host Signor Ridolfi and the Spanish ambassador, and also, I have these. They’re copies of cipher messages that Roberto Ridolfi recently sent to various people. I have been able to interpret them and here are the deciphered versions. I have written out details of the cipher, so that your own clerks can verify my work. I consulted Harry Scrivener for advice. He helped me to break the cipher but he hasn’t seen the contents of the letters.”

“Go on.”

“There are four letters here altogether. One is to John Leslie, Bishop of Ross. Two others were enclosed with it—one to Mary Stuart and one to Sir Robert Dudley, Earl of Leicester. The fourth, which was separate, is to the Scottish regent, Moray. The messenger, apparently, was to deliver the packet of three to the bishop here in London and then ride for Scotland with the regent’s letter.

“It happened,” I said carefully, “that in order to accustom myself to the work of deciphering, I left the longest letter until last. That is the one to the Bishop of Ross. There is one sentence in it which has a peculiar significance to me. I have underlined it.”

Cecil looked me in the face and I looked straight back at him. In that exchange of glances, there was accusation on my side and on his, the recognition of it. His brows rose inquiringly. Walsingham, standing beside the desk, watched us with his dark eyes narrowed, as if trying to interpret the unspoken messages between us.

Then Cecil picked up the letters.

There was a long silence, while he studied what I had given him. Walsingham looked over his shoulder, reading along with him. At length, they both raised their heads and gazed at me.

I said: “I must now speak of what Brockley and I overheard. He is my witness to this, for he was with me. Last night, de Spes, the Spanish ambassador, made a clandestine visit to Ridolfi. We heard de Spes say that his master would not move unless he knew that the English Catholics were ready to rise. Ridolfi remarked that war was costly. They appear to be collecting money for that purpose. And we heard de Spes say the words ‘
when Mary is on the throne of England.
’ ”

Neither Cecil nor Walsingham moved, but I sensed the shock that ran through them.

Then Cecil said: “So that’s it.” His voice was quiet, shaken, as though he were suddenly short of breath for talking.

“You half-guessed, sir,” Walsingham said. “You said only yesterday that you believed that Mary had her eye on more than just the Scottish throne.”

“Since restoring her would make her Elizabeth’s natural heir, I was bound to think so.” Cecil’s tone was still hushed. “However,
I still supposed that Mary and her adherents looked on her accession in England only as something that might one day happen in the way of nature. I’ve been so blind. They intend to
make
it happen! We’re seeing the first moves in an assassination plot. Dear God! I’ve behaved like an innocent. I’m old enough to know better!”

There was a silence. Then he picked one of the letters up. “Let me clarify what these letters say. This, to Mary Stuart, assures her that efforts are continuing to persuade the Scots—especially her brother Moray, the regent—that she should be reinstated as queen in Scotland. It also assures her that the Duke of Norfolk continues interest in marrying her, and expresses the further hope that if Queen Elizabeth can be induced to approve the marriage and the restoration, this may drive a wedge between Elizabeth and myself, as Ridolfi is quite sure that nothing in the world will induce
me
to approve them. He mentions a number of council members, including Leicester and Norfolk, who know of the marriage negotiations, and are encouraging them. Most of these gentlemen are those who would like to see my influence destroyed. I have my enemies. As well I know!”

He paused, and then resumed, his tone grim. “The letter also says that Norfolk is in touch with the northern earls. It doesn’t say what he is in touch with them for, but the final comment, that the Spanish administration in the Netherlands has been alerted, is a useful pointer. It tallies with the remarks you overheard last night!”

“We also heard Ridolfi say that a man whose name we didn’t catch has already been in touch with someone—again we don’t know who—but it sounded as though de Spes thought this was happening too soon,” I said. “It
could
have meant Norfolk and the northern earls.”

“Very likely,” said Cecil. He picked up a second letter. “This is the one to Moray in Scotland, expressing anxiety because he is so lukewarm regarding Mary’s restoration. It is a relief to know that someone in this sorry muddle still has a little sense in his head! Mary was a fool. When she first came to Scotland, Moray was ready to be a good brother to her, but when he warned her
against Darnley, they fell out, and when he suspected her of being involved in Darnley’s murder, they fell out further than ever. They hate each other now.

“Here, Ridolfi points out that if Mary is married to Norfolk, she will have a mature male partner to help and advise her. I wonder if Moray will find that a persuasive argument! He’s probably got a taste for power now. He may think that Mary with a mature male partner at her side is a more depressing prospect than Mary wild and willful.”

He put the second letter down and Walsingham handed him the next. “This is the one to the Earl of Leicester, sir.”

“Ah. Yes. The Gypsy. Well, he would be involved in any scheme to get rid of me,” Cecil said. “I could have expected that. This doesn’t say much. The prospects for the Norfolk marriage are encouraging but Regent Moray is being unhelpful. There’s nothing of great importance there. Leicester can’t possibly want Mary as queen of England. I greatly doubt that he has the remotest idea what his coconspirators are up to. But now . . . ” He took up the missive to the Bishop of Ross, handling it with great distaste, between finger and thumb. “. . . now we come to this.”

Once again, his eyes met mine but this time impersonally. “It really is a muddle, isn’t it?”

I was wounded and angry but I had been shaken, too, by the far-reaching extent of the plot that we had uncovered. “This whole business is so huge,” I said. “It seems to bring in so many people . . . so many different kinds of people. The queen’s councilors, the Bishop of Ross, Moray, Mary, Ridolfi, Spain . . . ”

“And some of those involved,” said Cecil, “such as Leicester, assuredly don’t know that they’re joining hands with people whose intentions are quite other than their own. And who are sniggering at the simpletons they’ve trapped into helping them. I congratulate you on your work, Ursula.”

I said, “Thank you,” in a stiff voice.

Cecil nodded, but returned at once to his exposition of the letters. “According to this one to Ross, Ridolfi fears that Moray has begun to suspect the ultimate purpose and that this is one reason why he is dragging his feet. Ah. Yes. I missed this at my
first glance through. He adds that it is vital that the Earl of Leicester shouldn’t suspect. He is very worried in case Leicester
does
sense something amiss. He remarks that one of the queen’s pet names for Leicester is her Eyes, which means that she relies on him to notice what is happening out of her sight.

“The letter then goes on to repeat much of what is in the other letters but adds that the process of gathering funds is not yet complete and
must
be complete before the scheme can go ahead, for it will surely result in bloodshed. Money is needed to recruit and pay soldiers and arm them. Ridolfi himself is providing personal money and a bank loan, and a number of other individuals have been drawn in. These include merchants who realize that Mary’s restoration will please Spain, and may therefore induce the administration in the Netherlands to reopen Antwerp.”

He paused. “It would seem,” he said after a moment, “that Mary’s marriage to Norfolk and her restoration in Scotland represent the first step in this ugly conspiracy. The second will be to foment a Catholic rising in England and put Mary on Elizabeth’s throne. Nothing is actually said of the plans for Elizabeth, though we can all guess what they are. And also . . . ”

For the third time, our eyes locked.

“I am sorry, Ursula. In the last paragraph of this letter, Ridolfi says that although Spain and France are traditional rivals, there are supporters of the scheme in France, who have been gathering money for it. The Seigneur Matthew de la Roche of Blanche-pierre has acted as the assembly point and in April he forwarded two thousand marks to Ridolfi. You have underlined the words
Matthew de la Roche of Blanchepierre
.”

“Yes,” I said. “Unless it’s a relative of the same name. But as far as I know, none of his relatives were called Matthew.”

“So you know,” said Cecil, and his voice was genuinely regretful. “You know that your second husband, De la Roche, did not die in an outbreak of plague as you believed, but is still alive in France.”

“And my marriage to Hugh is void,” I said bitterly. “And I have been lied to and betrayed. By whom?”

 • • • 

At the end of another very long silence, Cecil said: “Your marriage to Hugh Stannard is lawful. You were married to De la Roche in a secret ceremony conducted by a Catholic priest who was not entitled, in the eyes of Queen Elizabeth, to perform such a ceremony in this country, and you were also married under duress. The queen, as head of both church and state in England, has annuled your marriage to De la Roche. I can show you the document. That annulment was in force before you ever met Master Stannard. You need have no fears.”

I said, “There were letters. From Matthew’s people in Blanchepierre, his home in France. They told me . . . ”

“That he had died in the plague. Do you remember, Ursula, some years ago, unmasking a gifted forger who had created with his own hands some documents which he thought might injure her majesty?”

“Yes. Very clearly.”

“He really was—and is—gifted,” said Cecil. “Such men can be useful. It was part of the deal we did with him. His neck would be spared and he would not be imprisoned, but his gifts henceforth were to be used in the queen’s service.”

“Were there letters for Matthew as well? Does he believe . . . what does he believe?”

“That you are dead. That the plague broke out here, as well.”

“You have known all along. You, and the queen. You
planned
all this? Arranged it?”

“Yes, Ursula. You were too valuable to lose; nor was it in your best interests to return to a marriage which was all too likely, in the end, to place you in an intolerable position. You loved De la Roche, but he is an enemy of this realm. What, in the end, would that have done to you?”

“It was my business,” I said. “I would have dealt with it in my own way. No one had the right to interfere.”

“You are also,” said Cecil steadily, watching me, “the queen’s half sister. It’s all right.” He glanced sidelong at Walsingham. “Sir Francis here knows about it. You are not of dynastic significance, since you are not legitimate, but you are of emotional importance
to Her Majesty. If the facts of your paternity had leaked out in France, you could have become a very useful hostage. I should perhaps tell you, by the way, that Matthew has remarried and has a son.”

“Have you any idea,” I asked him bitterly, “any idea at all, what you have done? What it was
like,
seeing his name in that letter?”