Queen's Ransom (24 page)

“Item, a silver salt, with a fluted pattern and a chased pattern of birds and leaves around the rim. There is a hinged lid in the likeness of a scallop shell, beneath which are four salt containers that may be lifted out.Value approximately three thousand pounds . . .”

On the verge of adding the last item, concerning the sundry small costly ornaments, total value approximately seven hundred pounds, I checked myself. Fetching all this would involve considerable expense. The small costly ornaments could be useful and any that happened to be leftover could be offered when the time came, as an extra sweetener, like a drift of sugar over a cake.

“Allowing for the approximations . . .” I had a rough and ready knowledge of the equivalents between pounds and crowns “. . . it could be a total value of over between eighty-seven and eighty-eight thousand crowns.”

Royal personages are very good at keeping their faces blank, no matter what their thoughts may be, but Catherine’s eyes widened as soon as I embarked on the discription of that golden salt. “This is golden conversation indeed,” she said, and her voice was impressed. “And the items are obviously most beautiful. Exquisite. Surely we would like to see them, and if we were to sell them, we would hope that their new owners would cherish them and not melt them down. But can you, Madame Ursula Blanchard, truly lay your hands on this treasure?”

“I think so, ma’am, although I would have to make a journey to fetch it.”

“Where is it?”

Silently, I blessed Sir Robin Dudley, whose perfidious antics had caused Elizabeth to display her treasure to the Spanish ambassador. Without that, I would never have remembered what resources Gerald had left hidden, their whereabouts known only to me.

“Under the floor of a warehouse in Antwerp,” I said.

“You are insane,” said my father-in-law. He looked completely panic-stricken. “You can’t go to Antwerp and dig up treasure, just like that! What does it consist of, anyway?”

“Gold and silver plate, of various kinds,” I said evasively. Catherine de Médicis’s expression when I started reciting the details of that golden salt had warned me to be careful what I said. Gold inspires quite enough lust on its own, and gold in the shape of exquisite artifacts arouses lust in an extra dimension. Gerald had told me that once and now I saw that he was right. “I never actually saw it,” I said mendaciously. “But Gerald read me the inventory. There were plates and goblets, I think. But it was valuable enough to interest Queen Catherine.”

“But you can’t just—just pick it up and transport it back here!” Poor Master Blanchard, six feet tall with an intimidating eagle profile, was clucking like a hen. “It will be heavy, bulky! Besides, it ought either to go back to the Netherlands treasury or onward to the Tower. It isn’t yours! You’re stealing—either from Antwerp or Elizabeth, I’m not sure which—but stealing all the same. Whatever this treasure consists of, it’s obviously worth a great deal. A queen’s ransom for a tire-woman!” snorted Master Blanchard. “Hah! Very appropriate, since Elizabeth would no doubt say that she, the queen, was paying it! You could end up in the Tower for this!”

I had maintained the truce with Blanchard very successfully so far, especially since I saw him weep for Searle, but now I blazed at him. “And where will Dale end up if someone doesn’t pay it?” I demanded. Brockley had waited in the suite for me to come back and I saw his face blanch. “I have no alternative,” I said harshly. “I have to use that treasure. Dear heaven, do you think I
want
any of this?” Outside, the wind was getting up. It whined round the fortress like someone weeping. Like Dale. “I’d far rather go home and see my daughter,” I said, and at that moment I was in no doubt that home meant England. “The last thing I want to do is go all the way to Antwerp and all the way back. But I must. I shall use the treasure in the service of the queen, as Sir Thomas Gresham and Gerald intended, and if saving one of Her Majesty’s subjects from an unjust and horrible death doesn’t count as that, then it’s time it did! I will tell Queen Elizabeth afterward what I’ve done, but not until I’ve done it!”

“But how can you get there? This is absurd!”

“You and Helene can take a ship to England. Helene must do without female company.”

“No, madame. I will go with her.” From the corner of our sitting room, Jeanne spoke quietly. “On the journey from Douceaix, I saw and heard such things . . . I am prepared now to leave France. I will go with my young mistress.”

“Will you? Thank you, Jeanne,” I said. “Very well. You will all go to England. I will find a ship to take me to Antwerp.” I quietened my manner and spoke persuasively to Blanchard. “Perhaps, Father-in-law, you would let a couple of your men come with me? I suggest Mark Sweetapple and Hugh Arnold.”

The quiet Hugh Arnold and Blanchard’s other man, Tom Clarkson, had somewhat mellowed toward me in the last few days, perhaps because they saw I was genuinely shocked by Searle’s death. Arnold, though, struck me as the more able of the two, which was why I asked for him.

“I want to leave Ryder here if he’ll agree to that,” I said, “because Brockley, of course, must stay behind, to be near his wife, and he should have someone with him, another man, for moral support. He and Ryder are friends.”

Brockley nodded speechlessly. “Brockley,” I said, “we will get her out. We will! The queen mother has said she shall be moved to a better cell and you will be allowed to see her each day.”

“Thank you, madam. I know you’re doing all you can,” he said listlessly.

I had been bold in asking for those extra stipulations but Queen Catherine, thoughtfully picking fragments of sweetmeat out of her teeth, had suddenly given me that engaging smile of hers and said that driving bargains amused her and yes, she would agree.

“How long will it take to bring the treasure from Antwerp?” Brockley asked.

“I don’t know. But I shall move as fast as I can.”

“I should come with you,” he said. “I know that. But Fran . . .”

“Needs you to be near her. You will stay, Brockley. That’s an order.”

“Can the rest of us not go to Antwerp?” said Helene. “Should not Madame Blanchard have moral support, too?” I glanced at her in surprise and she turned faintly pink. “It would be only right,” she said defensively.

“No,” said my father-in-law in alarm. “It is my duty to take you home to England as soon as possible, and out of all this . . . all this danger. This is a mad enterprise; I say it again. I couldn’t possibly agree to come to Antwerp. I will send Sweetapple and Arnold with you if you wish, Ursula. I have no power to constrain you, and I certainly want you to be safe. We will go down to the town at daybreak tomorrow to explain matters to the men. Helene, you will stay here with Jeanne tomorrow and wait for us. You may as well begin packing.”

I had a bad night. I lay awake until just before dawn, listening to the wind. It was growing worse. I got up once, and went to the window. Opening it, I heard the forest to the north creaking and swishing as the gale raced over it. There was another sound, too, faint, far off, but still enough to make the gooseflesh rise on my forearms. Somewhere in that forest, wolves were howling. There were no wolves now in England, but here in France, the deer were still hunted by creatures other than man. Compared to France, England was small and tame. Once more, I longed with all my heart to be back there.

I returned to my bed and lay thinking of Dale, wondering if she had yet been moved, and whether she was asleep, or lying wakeful and crying with fear and loneliness.

That night, Brockley shared the second bedchamber with my father-in-law and Harvey, but from the look of him the next morning, he hadn’t slept either. We broke our fast to the sound of rain squalls being driven against the window, and as soon as we had eaten, he went to see if he could visit Dale again. The rest of us left Jeanne and Helene folding clothes and filling hampers, put on cloaks and stout footwear, and made our way to the town below the fortress to talk to the others of our party. They were already aware of the crisis, because William Harvey had visited them the previous evening and told them. We found them all at Anthony Jenkinson’s lodging. A further crisis had broken.

“Two men have been inquiring for me,” Jenkinson said. “I actually saw them, coming out of an inn down the road. One was of Turkish appearance and the other, from the cut of his cloak, was Venetian. Astronomers,” he added, “are interested in unusual conjunctions of planets, and just now, I’m interested in that particular conjunction of nationalities.”

He was, of course, grinning cheerfully. The idea of being pursued across continents by homicidal commercial rivals really did seem to stimulate him. “When they were out of sight,” he said, “I went into the inn, adopted a harmless manner, gave a false name—another false name, I mean; I called myself Drury, after a friend of mine in England—and said I was trying to trace a couple of contacts. My arrangements to meet them had gone amiss, I said. Were the well-dressed gentlemen I had glimpsed from a distance looking for me? The innkeeper said no, they were seeking news of a man called Van Weede. I don’t think they’d described me, because he didn’t seem to connect me with Van Weede at all. But I think I’ve been traced, as I feared I would be. The second set of Lions have caught up.”

“Then you’ll be glad to sail as soon as possible,” Luke Blanchard said. “So will we all. Well, we have our passages to England and no one has threatened to hinder us, thank God. We now have to find a ship to take Mistress Blanchard here to Antwerp.”

“Ships?” said Jenkinson. “You’ll be very, very fortunate.”

“But we already have passages for England. You know that. We do have to find a vessel for Antwerp, but—”

“You landlubber!” said Jenkinson. “Haven’t you noticed the weather?”

Hard Riding

Most sailors claim that they can foretell the weather and most are no better at it than anyone else. However, some older seamen do have a way of being right. A lifetime of seeing the patterns of weather, of being dependent on them, has its effect. When four experienced sailors out of six all say the same thing, you may as well listen.

Harvey and Sweetapple, heavily cloaked against the wind and rain, which was growing worse, went down to the quay to ask questions. They came back to report that no ships were leaving their moorings today. They also reported that the consensus among the sailors to whom they had spoken was that the weather wouldn’t improve much for at least two days and possibly not then. If the wind eased a little, we might get a vessel down to the mouth of the Seine, but it would have to ease a lot before we could hope to travel a yard farther.

“Oh no!” My father-in-law was ready to bang his head on the wall. “I have never wanted to get away from anywhere as much as I want to get away from France! How long will we be marooned here?”

“Who can say?” Jenkinson was philosophical. “Even if it improves tomorrow, we must still travel all the way down the Seine to the sea, with no guarantee of fair winds when we do get there. The journey either to England or to Antwerp could be slow. That’s sea travel for you. The same trip can take two days or two weeks, or more, depending on wind and weather.”

“I once said you ought to be called Daniel,” I remarked. “I begin to think that Jeremiah would be better!”

“I’m not a Jeremiah,” said Jenkinson firmly. “Just a realist. I have a further suggestion. Crossing to England means a sea trip, of course. There’s no avoiding that. But one can go overland to Antwerp. Now, Mistress Blanchard here wants to get to Antwerp; Master Blanchard clearly has a distaste for France, and just now, so have I. I certainly don’t wish to be kept here with Lions sniffing round in the very same town! Overland, it’s a good two hundred miles to Antwerp, maybe a bit more, but it can be done in a week, by someone willing to ride hard and change mounts often. Going by land, you can reasonably rely on getting there within a certain time. And by the time we get to Antwerp,” he added, “the weather might be better and those of us who want to go to England at once might find it easy enough. Plenty of shipping in Antwerp.”

“Are you suggesting,” demanded Blanchard, “that we all go to Antwerp, and sail from there? Except for Mistress Blanchard, who will of course have to come back to France?”

“I am suggesting just that,” said Jenkinson. “I have been to Paris and St. Germain before, and I know who will hire us good horses. We could set out today.”

So that, in the end, was what we did. Jenkinson set about arranging for the horses, while those of us who had belongings in the palace went back to collect them, and to collect Helene and Jeanne as well. Jeanne was waiting for us, passing the time in embroidery, but Helene, she said, had gone to the palace chapel to pray for Dale. “I escorted her there and said I would return for her in an hour. The hour wants only ten minutes. I will fetch her now.”

I remember muttering crossly at the delay but Jeanne was back with Helene in a very short time and Helene apologized nicely for holding us up, though she rather spoiled the effect a moment later by pulling a face when I told her that the hampers and most of their contents would have to be left with Brockley and Ryder, to be brought on to England by ship after I had got back from Antwerp.

“We can’t take packhorses,” I said. “We can only carry what will go into our saddlebags or into satchels slung on our shoulders. We bought some satchels on the way here. Here’s yours. It’s no use looking sulky. Now, sort out the things you really need and make haste.”

Helene obeyed me, but with obvious disgust. As I stuffed my own satchel with clothes and linen, I wondered where Brockley was, but he appeared before I had finished, and said that he had seen Dale and that she was in her new cell.

“Ground level, madam, with some daylight, and they’ve given her a proper pallet to sleep on. She’s calmer.”

We gave him the news that we were setting out on horseback forthwith. “I hope we won’t take too long over it,” I said. “My husband had a lease on that warehouse that is still in force—at least, he paid for five years in advance, so I suppose it is. At any rate, he had a key to it that is on my key ring now. I can get us into the place, and I’ll get those floorboards up somehow. Coming back will be slower. It’s true that the treasure will be bulky to carry. It’ll mean a ship or else pack mules. But we’ll make all the haste we can. Keep your heart up, Brockley, and try to keep Dale’s up, as well. I would visit her again, but there’s no time. You’d rather I set out quickly, I imagine.”