A Traitor's Tears (2 page)

I felt my resistance falter. I couldn't refuse the queen. I would have to go to Tower Hill and watch Norfolk's execution, and that was that.

The door of the parlour opened and our little gathering was increased by one. Gladys Morgan had joined us, uninvited, but that was typical. Gladys was an aged Welshwoman who had attached herself to my household years ago, after we had rescued her from a charge of witchcraft. We had had to do it again since, for Gladys was just the kind to attract that sort of suspicion.

I had long since insisted that she should wash with reasonable regularity, but she detested it and in any case, she seemed to have a body odour whether she washed or not. Her teeth consisted of a few brown fangs, her laugh was a disagreeable cackle and her temper was short. She had a repertoire of blasphemous curses which in days gone by she had regularly hurled at people who annoyed her. She had done that much less since it nearly brought her to the scaffold, but it could still happen occasionally. She was also very skilled with herbal medicines, and nothing irritates a physician more than a woman who concocts more efficient potions than he does. Vicars and doctors had been among her accusers the last time she was arrested for witchcraft.

But Gladys had been part of our lives for a long time and we were used to her ways. That she should walk without knocking into the midst of our discussion neither surprised or annoyed us.

‘This is to do with that letter from the court, ain't it?' she said, hobbling across the room and seating herself in a patch of sunlight. She had become very lame that year. ‘Saw the seal, I did. From Lord Burghley. He wants you for something, mistress?'

‘The queen wants me,' I said. ‘To witness Norfolk's death on her behalf.'

‘And told Lord Burghley to summon you on
her
behalf,' said Gladys, and snorted. ‘Lord Burghley. Same man as he was when he was just Sir William Cecil. All these fancy titles! Folk don't change their natures. Whenever Cecil wanted you for anything in the past, or the queen either, it always led to trouble. Didn't it, now?'

‘Not this time,' I said. ‘Why should it? I don't want to go though I'm beginning to think that I'll have to. But it won't be anything worse than unpleasant.'

‘You wait and see,' said Gladys ominously.

‘No,' I said. ‘This time
you'll
see.'

We were both right, in a way. Trouble did follow, but for once it wasn't because of any ulterior motive on the part of either Cecil or the queen. Quite by accident, they placed me where I would witness the beginning of the disaster, without at that time understanding what I had seen.

Gladys said, ‘Don't want me to come along, do you? Don't feel like travelling, these days.'

‘I shouldn't think you ever want to see London again,' I said, remembering her narrow escape at Tyburn. ‘Very well! I'll do as the queen bids me. I'll take Sybil with me, and Dale and Brockley, of course. But I'll only ask Brockley to come with me to Tower Hill. If you will, Brockley. You've been a soldier.'

‘Of course, madam,' said Brockley.

It was several hours' ride from Hawkswood in west Surrey to London, allowing for refreshment breaks at inns, for us and the horses. We set out early. There were five of us: myself, Sybil, Brockley, with Dale – who was no keen horsewoman – on his pillion, and John Ryder, the courier who had carried Lord Burghley's summons to me. He had not heard my protests and near rebellion because at the time, thirsty after his ride, he had been taking a tankard of ale with my steward, Adam Wilder. It was just as well. Ryder, grey-bearded and fatherly, was an old friend but I knew he would have sided with the others. He and Brockley had known each other long ago, when both of them were soldiers. It was bad enough to have Brockley looking at me as though I were a tiresome little girl; I wouldn't have liked to have John Ryder doing the same thing. I had immense respect for him. He had joined us on our last adventure, which had taken us into dangerous Spain. But for him, we might not have got out safely.

Not that he didn't understand what a sad business this execution was. He said as much to me as we journeyed. ‘There'll be tears shed for that foolish man Thomas Howard of Norfolk tomorrow. I understand that because his family pleaded for him, he's been given a decent lodging in the Tower; he's not in a dungeon. There hasn't been an execution on Tower Hill for so long that the old scaffold wasn't fit for use when they went to make it ready, and it had to be rebuilt. It's a shame it's for Thomas Howard. He's been more silly than wicked, in my view.'

The queen was at Whitehall. I had seen all the queen's palaces in my thirty-eight years and Whitehall wasn't my favourite; it was too confusing. It was not so much a coherent building as a small-scale town, with numerous separate or nearly separate buildings, amid a maze of courtyards and little enclosed gardens. However, we were expected. Ryder was passed straight in to announce our arrival and we only had a short wait before one of the senior officials known as White Staves, with the white stick that was his badge of office under his arm, appeared to greet us, followed by three menservants and two grooms. Our horses were led away except for Ryder's. He belonged to Cecil's household and intended to return there for the night, since it wasn't far away.

Brockley, whose past career included being a groom as well as a soldier, would normally have gone to see for himself that our horses were properly cared for, but at court, he knew he need not worry. He came with Dale and me as we followed the White Stave to our own quarters.

Our lodging turned out to be three rooms at the top of a building that I remembered from the past as guest accommodation. They were comfortable if small, and there were attendants to bring us hot washing water and towels. Supper would be in three hours' time, we learned, and would be taken in the main dining hall across an open courtyard. At Whitehall, guests sometimes had to brave bad weather if they wanted to eat.

At dinner, the Brockleys were directed to a lower place but Sybil and I were together close to the top table. My position at court was never closely defined, even though court protocol was always stiff and over the years had grown stiffer. I had once been a Lady of the Bedchamber but was not so any longer; I was the queen's half-sister but not openly acknowledged; I had also at times been an espionage agent for her, but few people were supposed to know that. I had no claim to a place at the top table; nor could I be thrust down towards the salt, let alone below it. Every time I came to court, whoever planned the seating must have to worry over where, exactly, to put me. It amused me.

The queen was absent, presumably taking supper in private. Looking towards a table parallel with the one where Sybil and I were placed, I saw, in an equivalent position to ourselves, someone I knew. It was Anthony Cobbold's friend Roland Wyse, who was now one of Cecil's assistants, though I didn't know why, since he had originally been attached to Francis Walsingham. It puzzled me that he was not in France, where Walsingham now was.

I knew Wyse fairly well, since we had met last year during the process of unravelling the plot which tomorrow would bring Norfolk to the block. He had errands in Surrey sometimes and he usually seized the chance of calling both on Anthony Cobbold and myself. I rather wished he wouldn't for he was much given to boastful accounts of life at court, and would talk at length about his ambitions and his hopes for future advancement, and I found this tedious.

He was capable of charity; I had seen him giving alms to somebody in need which was a point in his favour, yet I could not like him and neither could Brockley. Wyse had sandy hair and a snub-nosed face that at first sight looked boyish, until you noticed his pugnacious jawline and the coldness of his stone-coloured eyes. Brockley had once said that Wyse looked like an assassin. He noticed me and bowed in my direction. I bowed back.

Seated at the top table were a number of dignitaries, and among them, to my surprise, was Sir Robert Dudley, Earl of Leicester, who I knew usually took meals in his own apartments. He was a man for rich and colourful clothing but today, though his velvet doublet was rich enough, if rather too hot for a June evening, it was dark blue.

I realized suddenly how muted was the atmosphere in the dining hall. It was usually lively with talk and very often musicians would play while the diners ate, but not this evening. Voices were quiet and not only Leicester had chosen a sombre outfit. I myself had instinctively chosen a dark brown dress, lightened only by a cream kirtle, while Sybil was in black and white. The impending execution was affecting everyone, I thought, and perhaps Dudley was here because in such circumstances, people draw together.

I could understand it. Norfolk was in his prime, and he had been popular. He had been married three times, though none of his wives were long-lived. His marriages had brought him three sons and two daughters, and three stepdaughters to whom I knew he had been a conscientious guardian. His third wife had died five years ago and it was after that that his romantic fantasies about Mary Stuart had begun. John Ryder had been right, I thought, to call him foolish rather than wicked.

His death was timed for the morrow, at eight o'clock in the morning. We rose shortly after daybreak. John Ryder was coming to escort me, but as I had said, back in Hawkswood, Brockley would come with me as well. Dale and Sybil would stay in our lodgings.

As I prepared to set out, I looked at myself in a mirror and noticed how the years were changing me. My hair was still dark and glossy, but my eyes, which were hazel, had little lines round them and a wary expression. This morning, they also looked large and dark, and my face – it was triangular, not unlike the queen's in shape – was pale. Sybil, coming into the room to see if I were ready to go to breakfast, said: ‘Ursula, you look tired. Did you sleep badly?'

‘Not too well,' I admitted, ‘though I wanted to sleep. The long ride yesterday was tiring. I don't think I've quite regained my strength after having Harry, even though it was much easier than I expected.' I had had trouble in childbirth on previous occasions, and until Harry arrived, my married daughter Meg was my only surviving offspring.

‘You hate all this,' Sybil said. ‘We all do. But one
can't
refuse the queen.'

‘No, I know. I hate being back at court, too,' I told her.

Sybil, who rather enjoyed the contact with glamour that such visits brought, looked surprised. ‘You hate being at court? But why?'

I thought about it, visualizing Hawkswood, that quiet, grey stone manor house with its big, light hall, its two pleasant parlours, its terrace and the rose garden that Hugh had so much loved, and wishing myself back there, with all my heart. Life at Hawkswood was …

‘At home,' I said, ‘life is simple. Everyone knows who they are and what they have to do each day. We're like a family, even if most of us aren't related to each other. At court, everyone's watching everyone else. They're sensitive about where they're seated in the dining hall, or who goes first and who goes last when coming into the queen's presence. They eye each other, wondering if so and so, who smiles at them so nicely, is really scheming to oust them from whatever position they're in. Roland Wyse aches to be granted a title and appointed to the Privy Council; I know he does. I've heard him say so. People at court become subtle, cunning, suspicious, and when I'm here for any length of time, I find myself beginning to think like them, seeing the world through their eyes and I don't like it.'

‘I never thought of it that way!' said Sybil, much astonished.

‘No, you just see the dresses and the jewellery and the sunshine on the River Thames!'

‘Not today,' said Sybil gravely.

John Ryder arrived to accompany us when we set out but in fact, it was a big group that left Whitehall. We rode, as it was some distance to Tower Hill. Roland Wyse was there, on a showy chestnut gelding. Robert Dudley of Leicester was not, and there was no sign either of Lord Burghley. Neither, I knew, greatly cared for gruesome spectacles. There were, however, many ladies and gallants who had chosen to attend, though they were surely not obliged to do so. Some would have come to sorrow, perhaps to give Norfolk some kind of support. But others, those who didn't know him well, were probably just there to gawp at the scene. I shivered, thinking about it. My stomach was churning.

To keep my mind off the immediate future, I brought my horse alongside John Ryder and asked him why Roland Wyse was in London with Lord Burghley and not in Paris with Walsingham. Since Ryder himself belonged to Burghley's entourage, he was likely to know.

He did, and laughed. ‘He's still officially one of Walsingham's assistants but he's been seconded to Burghley till Walsingham comes home for good. Rumour has it that Walsingham wants a rest from Wyse's pushy ways. I think he lends Wyse to other departments, or sends him on errands away from the court whenever he gets the chance!'

I nodded. I knew all about Wyse's pushy ways.

‘My lord Burghley uses him sometimes for the courier work I used to do,' Ryder said. ‘I still do some short journeys but the longer ones are too wearing nowadays. I'm getting older! Wyse is welcome to those.'

‘Does he mind?' I asked. ‘Being sent back to England to run errands for Lord Burghley?'

Ryder shrugged. ‘Can't tell. But one impression I do have is that if Walsingham doesn't really like him, he doesn't like Walsingham, either.'

I had some sympathy with that. I knew that Walsingham was a valuable and most loyal servant to the queen, but he was also a stark, stern man who on the few occasions when I had met him had made me ill at ease. I had even heard rumours that the queen herself didn't care for him either, though she trusted him. The two things aren't the same.

As we rode through London we noticed that many people, on foot, were going in the same direction. ‘By the look of things, half the city means to be in at the death,' Brockley muttered, coming up on my other side.