A Pawn for a Queen: An Ursula Blanchard Mystery at Queen Elizabeth I's (Ursula Blanchard Mystery at Queen Elizabeth I's Court) (12 page)

“What do you mean?” I asked him.

“I mean, madam, that one of her servants has been here with a letter for you.” He held it out. “I rather think, from what the man said, that Lady Simone is as anxious to see you as you are to see her.”

I broke the seal and read the letter aloud. The Lady Simone Dougal would be most grateful if Madame de la Roche, widow of Matthew de la Roche, would be kind enough to call on her on the morrow, after dinner, at the hour of three.

I looked at Brockley. “The hand of fate,” I said.

The smile had gone from his face. “I hope not in ambush,” he said.

“Oh, come now, Brockley!”

“As you were reading that letter out, madam, I was thinking of what we saw in Master Faldene’s room. I am not easy about this. I wish we were leaving at once. One of these days, madam,” said Brockley grimly, “you will end up in a dungeon or dead, and us with you!”

Dale looked frightened. “Brockley,” I said, “all three of us have been in dungeons before now, and I grant you that we’ve come near to being dead as well. But I don’t think a social visit to a well-bred Edinburgh lady is likely to have such drastic results.”

“We’ve visited at least one well-bred lady before, with
very
drastic results,” said Brockley grimly.

He was referring, as I well knew, to a journey we had once made to Wales, to a castle with a most remarkable chatelaine.

“I’m quite sure,” I said bracingly, “that there can’t be two Lady Thomasines!”

• • •

It poured with rain that night, turning the streets to quagmires, just as I had feared, with rivulets of water running down every slope. I had spent money on clogs, but if you wish to make a good impression on a lady of title, it isn’t advisable to arrive at her door mud-splashed and clumping along in clogs. I therefore sent Brockley for our horses and we did it in style, in the saddle.

Pieris House was handsome. Built of gray stone, it was tall, as so many buildings in Edinburgh seemed to be; and looked quite modern, with its elegant windows and its ornamental towers and chimneys. It stood behind the protection of a gatehouse and courtyard, but the gate was invitingly open, and when the porter learned who I was, it was only moments before we were shown into the courtyard, where grooms came to take our horses, and a butler, dressed as formally as the provost had been, came down the steps from the main door to escort us inside.

Brockley, as was his habit, went off with the horses, but Dale and I were led up a wide, shallow flight of oaken stairs that rose through three stories, before we were taken through a curtained door into a most delightful parlor. Tall windows, set in deep embrasures with cushioned seats, gave a view out to the sea, and the fire in the hearth smelled of applewood. Underfoot the boards were spread with rushes, as at Bycroft, but sprigs of sweet rosemary were scattered among them to refresh the air, and the walls were hung with tapestries. Rich mulberry velvet curtains kept
drafts from stealing through the doors at each end of the room. There was a shelf of books, several carved settles strewn with more bright cushions, and a table spread with white damask, on which wine and cakes stood waiting.

And on a couch near the fireside, with an embroidery frame in her hands and a glossy rug of dark fur drawn over her, lay the crippled lady who had smiled at us when we were leaving the inquiry.

“You are Lady Simone Dougal?” I said in surprise.

Remembering my manners, I dropped quickly into a curtsy, but our hostess had put her work aside and was stretching out a hand to me. “No formality, if you please.” She spoke good English but her accent was French. “My dear Madame de la Roche, I am glad that you could come. Seat yourself and take some refreshment, yes, and your woman too. This is an hospitable house, I hope!”

She was as delightful as her parlor, a fragile little lady with a white, paper-thin skin, and eyes, which though sunken with time and ill-health, were still a beautiful summer blue. Her white cap was set on the back of her head and the soft hair in front of it was halfway between gold and white. She smiled at me once more.

“Forgive me for not rising. I had an illness some years ago, a fever like so many other fevers, but when I recovered, I found I had lost the use of my legs.”

“I am sorry. Would you prefer it,” I said, “if we talked in French? I speak the language well.”

The blue eyes lit up. “What a pleasure,” she said in her native language. “I would, indeed. I came from
France, you know, a quarter of a century ago, when the present queen’s mother, Mary of Guise, came over to marry the Scottish king. I and one of my cousins were among her maids of honor. We both married here in Scotland, and my cousin’s daughter now serves Queen Mary. Robert and I had no children, alas. If we had, I would have made sure they grew up knowing French. Take some wine, my dear. That too is French, from the vineyards of the Loire Valley, which I believe you know so well.”

“Indeed,” I said, and signed to Dale to pour for us. “Wine for you, Lady Simone?”

“A little, yes. I thank you.” Though she was ailing and well past her youth, she was as fresh and feminine as a primrose. “Chérie,” she said tenderly, “if I may call you so, I asked you here for a reason and not a happy one. But I was so distressed to learn of the shocking death of your cousin Edward Faldene, and it seemed to me, when I went to the inquiry, that perhaps you were not saying all you guessed at. You came to Scotland at the behest of his family, did you not, because they feared he was running into danger. But what kind of danger? Do you know more than you said when you bore witness? Do you have any idea who killed him?”

I regarded her sadly. “Lady Simone,” I said, “if you had not sent for me, I would have come anyway. To ask you the same question.”

We studied each other for several moments, sipping the excellent wine and considering what to say next. At length, I said: “One thing I wished to ask was whether or not Edward came to see you or in any way
got in touch with you before he . . . before he was killed. He was out in the town two evenings before, that much we know.”

Lady Simone shook her head. “No, he did not. How is it, by the way, that you knew, before I wrote to you, that he and I were acquainted?”

“His wife, Helene, gave me your name and said that he meant to call on you,” I said cautiously.

“Did she say why?”

I hesitated. Then I said: “It is true that I was wary when I bore witness at the inquiry. In fact, I believe that he may have had a message for Queen Mary, which he wished to pass to her through you. As well as wishing, very much, to find out who murdered my cousin, I would also like to know whether that message reached its destination safely. You see,” I added confidingly, and with regret, because she was so very sweet and I was deceiving her, “I think it possible that he was carrying the message, whatever it was, on behalf of my husband, Matthew de la Roche. You evidently know that my husband is dead, since your invitation to me described me as his widow. Had you met him?”

“I didn’t know he was dead until the inquiry, when you declared yourself as his widow, chérie. I never met him, but I had heard of Matthew de la Roche, yes, for his name is known at Queen Mary’s court and my young cousin sometimes visits me and talks of court affairs. I must offer you my condolences. My own Robert passed away only two years ago and I have not yet ceased from weeping. You, of course, wish to see that whatever business your husband had in hand was completed. You are a Faldene by birth, I imagine, and
you married De la Roche, so that must make you a Catholic too.”

“But naturally,” I said, and was thankful that as we were speaking in French, Dale probably hadn’t followed this. She spoke a little of the language but not well. If she had understood, she probably wouldn’t have been able to stop herself from looking scandalized.

Lady Simone sighed. “I wish I could help but I cannot. Edward Faldene did not come to me or send any message to me. Was it written down or carried in his head? You found nothing among his belongings?”

“No, nothing. Most certainly, I looked. Lady Simone . . .”

“Yes, my dear?”

“He had another possible contact, a man called Sir Brian Dormbois. I believe he is with the court. If you happen to know anything about him . . .”

“Dormbois? I can’t tell you where he is just now but very likely with the court, yes. He has charge of some of the retainers of the queen’s uncle Rene. The court is on Progress, though expected back in Edinburgh soon—at the end of next week, I believe. They were going to Fife, on the far side of the firth. Let me see . . .
Liz-zie!”
Startlingly, the flowerlike Lady Simone raised her voice and emitted a musical but extremely carrying call, and from beyond the mulberry curtain at the far end of the room a maidservant appeared. Lady Simone rapped out something in very broad Scots and the girl, with a curtsy, disappeared, to return a moment later with a small wooden box. Lady Simone opened it, rummaged in it, and produced a piece of paper.

“My young cousin—Mary Seton, she is called—gave me this in case I should want to write to her while she is away on the Progress. It is a list of the places the queen intends to visit and the dates, as near as possible. The weather may interfere, of course; it often does. Ah, yes. I think the court will be at Wemyss Castle now, on the way back, and yes, should return to Edinburgh on Saturday week. Sir Brian Dormbois will come with it.”

“I think,” I said, “that I would like to present myself at the court when it returns—except, of course, that I am not sure if I’ll be able to enter it. I realize that my husband’s name was known there, but it is a fact, as you will have heard at the inquiry, Lady Simone, that I have also served Queen Elizabeth. Perhaps I would not be permitted entrance.”

“Ah. Now there I can help you. A letter of introduction from me will smooth your way.
Liz-zie!”
The simple device of the handbell was apparently not known at Pieris House, but Lady Simone somehow managed to let out these commanding calls without losing one whit of her grace. The maidservant reappeared and was sent off to fetch writing materials. “And what about clothes?” said Lady Simone. “Did you come provided with dresses suitable for court?”

“I . . . no. I have this black gown, and another which is not in a good state after all my traveling, and that’s all. But if I have a week in hand, something can be done about that.”

“Yes, that would be wise. My dear,” said Lady Simone, “one thing about you confuses me. From what you said when you spoke at the inquiry, it seemed that
you have been living in England, close to your family of birth. But Matthew de la Roche, your husband, was in France, was he not? How did this come about? Were you living apart?”

“No,” I said, relieved that here at least I could tell the truth. “We were both living at his home in France, but I have a daughter by a previous marriage and she was being fostered in England. I left her there during the civil war in France, but last year I came to England to collect her and take her back to France.”

“Ah. But you did not do so?”

“No, because Matthew wrote to me and said that plague had broken out near Blanchepierre, his château, and that I should stay in England till the danger had passed. Then I heard that—it had taken him.”

“And you chose to remain in England? Living where? Actually with your family?”

“No. I . . . I have a house of my own about five miles from theirs,” I said. There was no need to go into how and why Queen Elizabeth had presented it to me. “It’s called Withysham,” I said. “It was once an abbey, as so many houses in England used to be.”

I was speaking casually, making conversation, wishing to appear quite at ease, but Lady Simone pounced, just like a sweet and pretty cat that has seen a careless sparrow.

“And is that a worry to you?” she asked. “In case, one day, our queen should become yours?”

“I have never thought about it,” I said, fairly honestly, since I did not see Mary ever superseding Elizabeth and therefore had had no need to think about Withysham’s future if she did. “But I have met
people who do worry about it, yes.” I was thinking, of course, of the Thursbys.

Unexpectedly, Lady Simone said: “My husband once owned one of those old abbeys—in the English Midlands. It was left to him by an English uncle. Robert sold it just before his own death, though. It was leased to tenants and we never lived there, but he visited it occasionally, to make sure it was kept in good order. On his last visit, he was approached by some emissary or other of Queen Elizabeth and asked if he would give an oath that he would back Elizabeth if ever there should be a war between England and Scotland. They told him that he might lose the former abbey if a Catholic ruler ever took the throne. He didn’t believe that. He said he was sure that our Queen Mary would never reward faithful followers by taking their homes away from them, and that this was nothing but a ploy, a cruel pretense of Elizabeth’s. But he decided that he was not easy in his conscience, owning a house which ought to belong to God, and sold it.”

I wasn’t sure what to say in reply, and after a longish pause, inquired mundanely if Sir Robert had got a good price.

“Oh yes. He gave some of it to the Church,” said Lady Simone. “Though not all. We are all human!” Her smile was enchanting.

The maid came back with the writing materials and the Lady Simone wrote the letter of introduction for me. Then we talked for a while of other, harmless things, such as the winter weather and the embroidery she was doing, until I felt that it was the right moment to leave.

“Chérie,” she said, as I rose, “I am sorry that you could not tell me what I wanted to know, and that in turn I could not help you, either. I am also sorry that a young woman like you should be involved in this unsavory business. Take my advice. It is no doubt a grief to you that Matthew is gone, and it is good of you to attempt to finish his work—but it would be wise to lose no time in marrying again. If you wish me to look about for a suitable
parti
for you, I will gladly do so.”