Except for poor Lady Margaret, we all recovered quickly. By the afternoon, though we were still weak, the rest of us had even begun to feel hungry again. A physician had been called, however, who recommended that we all rest for a time, so we stayed at the Castle Inn for three complete days more, though there was much sending of messages, for the queen had to be told what had happened and Lady Margaret had to be carried back to Richmond so that plans could be made for her funeral.
Brockley acted as the messenger and took Dale with him to collect night-gear, fresh linen and two dresses for me, with kirtles. I had only the dress and linen I had been wearing when the illness struck, and all of that was stained beyond hope.
On the third day, Hatton and Leicester, as the two senior men of the group, called us all to join them in Leicester’s room.
‘We shall have to report what has happened,’ said Leicester. ‘But we need to be careful what we say. We must all say the same, and stand by it.’
‘Food poisoning,’ said Hatton. ‘That’s the story that’s been told in the messages we’ve sent to Richmond so far, and we must hold to that. Rumours of any other kind of poisoning must be quashed. They are absurd, of course, for who would want to harm that poor young lady? But rumour isn’t logical. There was a keg of wine sent by Jean de Simier to my lord of Leicester here, and it is known that my lord is not in favour of the queen’s marriage to the Duke of Alençon. It is also known that although de Simier has apologized for the earlier rumour, he resents my lord of Leicester’s attitude. If scandalous talk arises, it will be quite as dangerous as the rumour about my lord trying to poison de Simier! There will be such a public outcry against de Simier and through him, against Alençon, that there would be no chance of the marriage proceeding. I don’t favour the marriage any more than the earl here, but the decision belongs to the queen, not to anyone else, and in any case, I think I can say, my lord of Leicester, that neither you nor I would want it halted by scandal.’
‘No, indeed we wouldn’t,’ said Leicester with feeling, and I knew that he was thinking of the mysterious death of his first wife, and the suspicions that had clustered round him then. ‘It could even be said that it was a scheme on our part to discredit de Simier and Alençon! A scheme that went somehow wrong. Who knows what they will say – the they that is our nickname for the imaginative and talkative men and women of England! No. Food poisoning is probably what really happened and in any case, that’s our story and there’s nothing odd about it in such thundery weather.’
I said: ‘But what do we really think?’
Leicester looked at me. ‘We don’t,’ he said. ‘Better not. Lady Margaret was unlucky in that she was more sensitive to whatever it was than the rest of us.’
‘No one can be sure,’ said de Lacey, ‘where the venom, whatever it was, came from. If it really was food poisoning, it could have been in the food! There was pork in that soup and pork can be dangerous in sticky weather.’
‘The innkeeper,’ said Hatton, ‘tried a little of the wine on a stray dog. The dog fell ill, though it hasn’t died, and now seems to be recovering. It was the wine, for sure.’
A cold worm of suspicion coiled itself in my stomach. And as I looked Leicester in the eyes, I knew that he felt the same. The trouble had lain in the special keg of wine. And the provenance of that keg was … suggestive …
In the barge, on the way back to Richmond, Brockley came to sit at my side. ‘Madam …’
‘Yes, Brockley?’
‘I managed, yesterday, to take a really close look at that keg,’ he said. ‘It had been emptied and taken down to a storeroom to be cleaned. Such kegs are useful; the innkeeper isn’t one to let a handy windfall slip past him.’
‘Yes?’
‘It had been tampered with,’ said Brockley. ‘In the lid, there was what, at a brief glance, looked like a knot mark in the wood. But when I looked closer, I could see that a hole had been drilled there. It had been filled in with something – clay, perhaps – and then the whole lid had been varnished. I looked hard enough to make sure. I have no doubt at all that there was tampering, madam.’
I thought about it. ‘Well, de Simier can’t have done it in person – the wine was ordered from a London vintner; he can never have set eyes on it. Though someone could have acted on his orders. Antoine? Only, why would de Simier give such orders? He wouldn’t want to risk ruining the Duke of Alençon’s marriage prospects! Marriage to the queen would make de Simier the close friend of a king! De Simier just can’t have been responsible for this.’
‘Madam, have you not told me and Fran that your mysterious correspondent Janus reported a plot that was said to be afoot in France, to scuttle the marriage?’
‘You think that we may have been the victims of some scheme of that kind? But surely the aim wasn’t to kill Lady Margaret!’
I shook my head, trying to clear my mind. It refused to clear. ‘I’m getting confused. I’m muddling up what actually happened with what rumour may say. I can’t see any thread of sense in this.’
We returned to Richmond, and our bland story of food poisoning – so convincing considering the thundery weather – was accepted. I did speak to Walsingham. I reminded him of the Janus report about a plot against the queen’s marriage, and I told him of Brockley’s discovery that the keg had been tampered with. He agreed and said that Lord Burghley shared my suspicions; indeed, that a quiet investigation was taking place.
‘But where it will lead, how successful it will be, is another matter. For the moment, I advise reticence.’ He repeated what Hatton had said. ‘We don’t want to start a scandal!’
Thereafter, life at Richmond seemed to go smoothly on. Brockley and Spelton duly rode off to Woking one day to attend the inquest on Thomas Harrison and came back to report, glumly, that the verdict had indeed been murder by a person or persons unknown. The queen was still temperamental and was said to be missing Alençon a good deal, but she followed her normal routine. She attended Council meetings, met ambassadors, held a dinner for a number of bishops, rode and danced. On one occasion, she called Antoine de Lacey to demonstrate his conjuring to her, and rewarded him lavishly for it.
Now that Leicester’s reputation was restored, I wanted to go home, but the queen told me that a masque was being planned that she thought I would enjoy and I was invited – well, bidden – to stay on for that. With Elizabeth, invitations and orders were apt to be indistinguishable.
I took up the good-natured offer that Leicester had made, to help in arranging the sale of Eric Lake’s horse. It turned out that after the inquest, Christopher Spelton had taken a little extra time off from his duties in order to pay yet another visit of condolence to his cousin Eric’s widow. He took charge of bringing the horse to Wanstead. He told us that Lisa was also making a visit to West Leys as company for Kate for a while, now that her brother and sister-in-law had gone home, and that Lisa was full of news about the plans for Jane’s wedding; it seemed that Robert was expected back from France very soon. Kate was well, Christopher said, and behaving sensibly, keeping calm and making preparations for her baby. She had begun to interview prospective nursemaids.
‘I am being careful,’ he said to me. ‘I am taking my time. For the moment, I remain just her husband’s cousin, concerned for her welfare and that of my future baby cousin. But you can imagine my hopes.’
‘I wish you well,’ I said, and I meant it. I had done right in choosing to remain at Hawkswood and remain Ursula Stannard, even though, at times, thinking of Christopher’s friendly brown eyes and knowing what pleasant company he could be …
Well, well. Never mind all that. I put such ideas resolutely aside and concentrated on the matter of Eric’s horse.
Its name was Firefly and Leicester was impressed with it. He proposed a good price for it and he would clearly have liked to buy it himself, but gave way with grace when I reminded him that Kate had actually offered it to me and that I was interested.
I had chosen to go to Wanstead, taking the Brockleys with me, to see Leicester inspect the horse, because I had had an idea.
‘If the horse is sound, and if you like it, Brockley,’ I told him, ‘I want to buy it for you. You are a fine horseman and worthy of a really good mount of your own. Your Mealy is a nice, sturdy cob but …’
‘I’m very fond of Mealy, madam,’ said Brockley mildly. ‘And he is a good sturdy animal, as you say. If he’s to be sold, I don’t want him to go to just anyone.’
‘You’re always fond of your horses, Brockley, and quite right too. But I wasn’t suggesting that we sell Mealy. He could be very useful!’
He could indeed. My chief cook, John Hawthorn, was a large and heavy man but I reckoned that Mealy would be capable of carrying him if necessary. ‘There are always errands at Hawkswood,’ I said, ‘and though we now have a number of horses, it’s amazing how often there isn’t one available just when a horse is wanted. Is Mealy harness-broken, by the way?’
‘No, madam, he is not.’
‘Well, you can train him to the shafts. You’ll enjoy working with him and he’ll be extra-useful once he can pull a cart. Anyway, see what you think of Eric Lake’s horse.’
‘I already know,’ said Brockley. ‘I’ve seen the animal, after all – I had plenty of time to observe him when we went to Cornwall. He is a fine-looking horse.’
And in his voice, there was definitely a note of longing. When we rode back to Richmond, he was leading Firefly.
Back at Richmond, I had made some arrangements. I had been granted stabling for only three horses – for me, Eddie, and the Brockleys. Dale always preferred to ride pillion, when she had to ride at all. But I had persuaded an amused Leicester to give me a note for the head groom, instructing him to make an extra stall available for just one night, so that if we did come back with Firefly, he could be accommodated. The next day, Eddie would lead Mealy back to Hawkswood and Firefly would have his stall.
‘Mealy will stay at Hawkswood. I promise,’ I said, when Brockley, even though he had thanked me for buying Firefly, looked at me as though I had asked him to betray his country. ‘Really, Brockley! You haven’t married him!’
‘I know. I’m sorry, madam. It’s just that this feels like saying goodbye to him.’
‘He’ll be there at home when we get back,’ I said firmly.
We saw Firefly bestowed and then went indoors, to be at once caught up in a strange new atmosphere. The palace seemed to be full of people chatting in corners and looking secretive, and we could hear musicians rehearsing; the sound of musical instruments, often repeating phrases over and over, seemed to penetrate everywhere.
Then, looking out of a window, I saw the Master of the Revels alighting from a barge, and a number of porters carrying oddly shaped packages from it, and realized that all this to-do was concerned with the masque that the queen had mentioned to me. The Master of the Revels was bringing props from where they were stored at the Tower.
I accosted a page and discovered that the promised masque was to take place that very evening, after an early supper. Apparently, the queen had had a couple of ambassadors to dine and wished them to share the entertainment. One of them was due to set out for home leave the following day, so the event had been brought forward.
When everyone entered the hall where the performance was to take place, dusk was falling, though there was light in plenty, just as there had been at Alençon’s reception. Banks of candles and tall candle stands were everywhere, and more stands encircled the space that the actors would use. The audience would have a clear view.
The ladies, including the women servants, who were allowed to watch from one end of the hall, had all dressed in their best for the occasion and so had Elizabeth, who was a glittering figure in peach and gold, seated on a dais with steps up to it, on which chosen ladies and courtiers could sit. The dais was draped in blue velvet which made sitting on the steps reasonably comfortable.
The two ambassadors, and also Walsingham and Cecil, all in long, formal gowns, were on the dais itself, two on each side of Elizabeth, and various other people had lesser seats set on the floor of the hall, to either side of the dais. An usher showed me to one of these, and directed the Brockleys to a bench just behind.
I found myself beside Antoine de Lacey, who was wearing a beautiful blue outfit, the doublet shoulders dramatically puffed, the sleeves slashed with silver silk. De Simier must pay him very well, I thought, judging by the way he dressed. He greeted me courteously, expressing pleasure that I had fully recovered from the food poisoning. I thanked him politely.
The masque took the form of a highly moral drama, mostly played by men and boys of the court, though there were some hired musicians and singers and also some professional performers such as tumblers, conjurors and clowns. Virtue, played by a fair-haired young page, who made quite a convincing maiden (and would no doubt be mercilessly teased by his fellow pages later on), was pursued by the Seven Deadly Sins, one after the other. Sometimes, she saved herself, sometimes she was rescued from danger by a character called (according to the Master of the Revels, who had a powerful voice and acted as a Greek chorus), an Honest Farmhand, who wore a leather jerkin and short hose and was armed with a pitchfork.
At the start of the performance, the Sins paraded together, wrangling over which of them was most likely to overcome Virtue’s resistance, and then agreeing that each should try his luck in turn.
Pride was a tall, swaggering fellow with a sword too big for him, which he drew and brandished, before tripping over it. I hoped for his sake that it was blunt. Greed was skinny and prowled about, grabbing purses from the rest. Lust was large and handsome, stripped to the waist and given to rippling his muscles, Envy small and skulking, staring hungrily at the others. Gluttony was fat – I think with the help of cushions – and was seated behind a table where there was food which he kept pretending to guzzle. Wrath was enormous and flourished a great big club; Sloth was flopped on a bed and said his lines languidly from a supine position.
Then the Honest Farmhand stepped forward and promised to protect Virtue with his life and his pitchfork, and after that, he and the Sins withdrew behind a curtain and Virtue, sweet and innocent, took the stage and to an accompaniment from a lute-player, sang a suitably sweet and innocent song about gathering flowers.
One by one, the Sins appeared and attempted to seduce the maiden, and Virtue, with witty lines and coquettish retreats behind some bushes and statues, which had been set round the stage in between the candle stands, routed them all, helped by the Farmhand. The musicians had a tune and a song to go with each of them, and at suitable moments the hired entertainers did their turns. The clowns, for instance, followed Pride, making fun of him and his antics with his sword.
By that time, the performance had begun to spread off the stage area and spill into the body of the hall. Lust’s courtship followed Pride’s and he, amid much laughter (and from some young gallants, regrettable cries of encouragement), energetically chased Virtue all over the hall. The Farmhand saw him off with the aid of the pitchfork, and in the process bounced round the hall so vigorously that a number of people got up and retreated in genuine alarm.
As the Farmhand finally chased Lust away, he stuck his pitchfork enthusiastically into Lust’s rear end. This was startlingly realistic and I hoped that the apparent blood was only red ink. Lust turned a somersault on his way out, whereupon the tumblers ran on and did their turn, while Virtue gratefully thanked her rescuer, who gave her a chaste kiss on the cheek and then withdrew. This part of the proceedings gave rise to more whistles and cries of encouragement from some parts of the audience, and then to loud booings as the Farmhand failed to seize the opportunity to go further.
The whole performance was becoming more and more lively. Wrath danced a war dance, which also carried him out into the hall and caused several ladies to shriek and shrink back. He threatened the trembling Virtue with his club, and was routed, not this time by the Farmhand, but by Virtue herself, kneeling humbly in an attitude of prayer.
‘The soft answer turneth away Wrath,’ declared the Master of the Revels, but as soon as Wrath, head bowed and club drooping, had gone, on came a conjuror, accompanied by a young assistant.
The conjuror began with some remarkable tricks with a length of rope, causing de Lacey, who was watching intently, to wonder aloud how he did them. ‘I dabble in conjuring tricks but I’ve never learned that one!’
‘How did you come to dabble in conjuring?’ I asked him. The conjuror was now performing some less exciting card tricks and for a moment I let myself be distracted.
‘Oh, my grandfather was a travelling entertainer – singing, juggling, conjuring. He was eventually taken on as a permanent entertainer at a chateau. While he was there, he helped the bailiff, as you would call him, with the estate management; he had a flair for it. He married the bailiff’s daughter and their first son was brought up to take over from his father one day. I was not the first son, however,’ said de Lacey, wryly. ‘I was the fourth! I had to find my own path. I was given an education. I made myself into a secretary, got into the employ of Jean de Simier. But juggling and tricks were a family tradition, you see, though I am not so very skilled in them. My brothers are all more gifted than I. So is this fellow. He’s a real magician.’
The card tricks were followed by some amusing japes, during which the magician took a jewelled brooch from under a lady’s hood – the lady squealed and then squealed even louder when she discovered that the brooch was one that had been on her shoulder a moment before but was there no longer – and then the assistant handed his master a flambeau, which the conjuror lit from a bank of candles. He then gave a demonstration of fire-eating. At this point, the increasing rumbustiousness of the masque caused an accident.
The magician made a great drama of the business, prancing round the hall, scaring the audience by now and then thrusting the torch at them, declaring that he must prove that the fire was real. On his third circuit, he came close to where Antoine and I were sitting, and he thrust too hard. The tip of the flame caught the puffed shoulder of Antoine’s blue doublet and for one horrible moment, a flame leapt up beside his ear. He sprang up with a yell, and Brockley leapt forward, snatching up a fold of the velvet that draped the dais beside him, and clamping it over Antoine’s shoulder.
The fire-eater reeled backwards, looking appalled and babbling apologies. The moment passed. Antoine sank down again, clutching at his ear and the side of his face, where he had been momentarily scorched, and spluttering terrified exclamations in a foreign language.
An usher pushed through the shouting, gesticulating crowd, took him by the arm and led him away, declaring over his shoulder that the scorch would be treated and please would the ladies and gentlemen sit down again: all would be well. Meanwhile, the fire-eater had prostrated himself before the royal dais, begging for forgiveness, pleading that it was an accident, just an accident. He hoped with all his heart that the gentleman was not much hurt. His poor heart, indeed, was broken and …’
A page appeared and murmured into Elizabeth’s ear. The queen announced, in clear, ringing tones, that happily, the gentleman’s injury was not grave. ‘Those around him were quick to come to his aid.’ She held out a hand to the fire-eater. ‘You are forgiven.’ Her voice was sharp; these days, Elizabeth was so often sharp. But she said the right things. ‘Come, rise, and kiss my hand.’
The unfortunate magician got shakily up from his knees, stepped up on to the dais and kissed the slender white hand. Then he ran from the hall. The queen signalled to the Master of Revels to proceed once more and the drama went on, more soberly, until the end, when Virtue thanked the Honest Farmhand for the help he had given her and accepted his offer of marriage, whereupon he revealed himself as not a farmhand at all, but a prince in disguise, who had long desired to marry, but wished for a bride who did not covet wealth and power.
Amid the cheering and applause that followed all this, I sat silent. For the foreign language in which Antoine de Lacey had expressed his terror should by rights have been French, but it was not. It had been a frantic babble but one word had emerged from it very clearly, for he had cried it out twice. Quemar! I knew that word. I knew what it meant and I knew what language it belonged to. I had been in Spain and while I was there, I had heard that word a number of times. It meant to burn.
Antoine, under the stimulus of great fear, had let out one very careless word. In Spanish.