The Doublet Affair (Ursula Blanchard Mysteries) (3 page)

My ten minutes were up. I must put on a calm face and make haste to attend upon the Queen. I would not wish to irritate her by any lack of promptness. Without her consent, I could not leave the country or take my daughter out of it. I needed her goodwill.

• • •

Elizabeth had been to a council meeting and had as usual retired to her private rooms afterwards, to deal
with any matters of business arising from the council. As a Lady of the Presence Chamber, I held a privileged position, but I was still not one of the high-ranking Ladies of the Privy Chamber and the Bedchamber, who attended on her in private. I could only pass through the private door by special invitation. Now, I merely joined the throng who were waiting for her to emerge into the public anteroom.

I was just in time. Barely had I taken up my position, when the Queen’s door opened, the trumpeters blew their fanfare, and out swept Elizabeth, amid a cloud of ladies, including Kat Ashley, and a bevy of favoured gallants. Sir Robin Dudley, the Master of Horse, splendid in a red doublet slashed with gold-embroidered azure, his gipsy good looks polished by expert barbering, was at her side and she was saying something to him with laughter in her voice.

In that year of 1561, I was still young and so was Elizabeth, for we were near in age. I have seen her change greatly over the years but one thing has never changed in the least, and that is the impact she makes whenever she comes into view. It is colossal, even on people who are used to her.

But it isn’t always the same impact. Her mood goes ahead of her like the bow wave of a ship, and her moods change. You never know beforehand which version of Elizabeth is about to burst upon you. She may be majesty personified, or wrath incarnate; she may be all merriment, or all pensive sadness, or all mischief.

This time, it was mischief. I saw instantly that my queen and liege lady was as dangerously playful as a cat when its fur is full of sparks and it is ready to pounce
on anything that moves, from a mouse to a piece of trailed cord to an incautious human hand, and stick all its claws in. Her eyes sparkled in her pale, shield-shaped face; even the pearls in her hair and the silver embroidery on her white satin dress seemed to have an extra glitter. I curtsied, along with the other ladies, and stood up again, with a sense of misgiving. I must arrange my interview soon, and the royal mind was not in its most favourable condition.

Elizabeth’s bright gaze collected us all up. “We are bound for the River Chamber to give a private audience,” she informed us. “An English craftsman wishes to make us a gift of a clever device, his own creation, or so my good Cecil tells me. We understand the man is already here and waiting, so it behoves us not to be late ourselves. Come!”

Away we went, crowding in the royal wake, heralded at every turn by the trumpeters, surging through a series of galleries, collecting more people on the way, among them the Spanish ambassador, Bishop de Quadra. Elizabeth set the pace, walking as fast as anyone well could without breaking into a run. The Queen had moments of exhaustion, but the rest of the time did not scruple to wear us all out with dancing and walking and riding (frequently at a headlong gallop, in all weathers. Several of her ladies pretended that they couldn’t ride except on a pillion, simply to avoid what they considered a suicidal form of exercise). Her notions of dancing and walking were no less energetic. We reached the River Chamber in a remarkably short space of time.

The River Chamber was long and light, with tall windows overlooking the Thames, and a polished oak
floor. On a dais at one end was a high-backed chair with a soft fur rug thrown over it, and a little table alongside. In the hearth halfway along the room, a wood fire burned, giving off a sweet smell.

Elizabeth settled herself in the chair, and Lady Katherine Knollys, who was related to the Queen and was one of her favourite attendants, arranged her wide skirts for her. Kat Ashley placed the rug over her knees. The crowd of courtiers clustered on either side of the dais and straggled down the sides of the room. Dudley and de Quadra, and some of the ladies including myself, had places on the dais, near the queen. Pages hovered, ready to undertake errands. Elizabeth pointed a jewelled forefinger at one of them and despatched him to tell Sir William Cecil that she was ready.

While we waited, I saw de Quadra edging towards me. He paused a moment to ask politely after the health of one of the other ladies, Jane Seymour, who had recently been ill and still looked wan, but then stepped quietly to my side. He was not very tall, and our eyes were almost on a level. We were not friends (one does not search the document cases of one’s friends), but we did enjoy a kind of mutual respect. I murmured a greeting.

“Your daughter is well, Mistress Blanchard?” he enquired in French, which we used as a common language. “I heard that you had placed her with friends of Lady Cecil.”

“Yes, the Hendersons. They live at Thamesbank, by the river near Hampton. How kind of you to ask. She seems happy there. Her old nurse, Bridget Lemmon, is with her. I’m glad to see her settled in a house where
she can be brought up as a young lady, but where people are good natured.”

De Quadra nodded. “I know you found it hard to support your daughter on your stipend, but the Cecils have come generously to your rescue. In gratitude for your services to the Queen last year, I imagine?”

“Quite so,” I said, stifling a laugh. De Quadra was obviously fishing. The stipend had most certainly been inadequate, since it was never meant for ladies who had no other means of subsistence, and the death of my first husband Gerald had left me with no other means whatsoever. De Quadra had undoubtedly guessed that my services to the Queen were ongoing, and were the solution to my financial problems (not much happened at court without the Spanish ambassador having some inkling of it); this was no time to confirm his suspicions, however. Not just after my discovery in that document case.

“I am not sure if Bridget is quite as happy as Meg,” I said lightly. “Mistress Henderson is the soul of gentleness, but all her servants must wash themselves all over once each week, except in the severest winter weather, and Bridget thinks it unhealthy.”

“Poor Bridget,” said de Quadra, amused, and Robin Dudley glanced round at us and grinned.

“You are much blessed, having a child to remember your husband by,” de Quadra said to me. Elizabeth half-turned her head in order to look at him, and a grave smile lit his olive-skinned face. “Is it not so, madam?” he asked.

“I’ve never seen Ursula’s daughter,” said Elizabeth, also using French. “Cecil tells me she is a charming child.
She shall come to court when she is older, Ursula. But for now, quiet. Here comes Cecil with my craftsman.”

Sir William Cecil entered the room in his usual businesslike fashion, the folds of his formal mulberry velvet gown swinging to his stride. His companion was a short man, whose amber velvet doublet and breeches spoke of prosperity, but whose air was timid. He had an insignificant face, with small features and a blob of a nose and he seemed overwhelmed by his surroundings. He walked two paces in the rear, glancing about him and up at the high, painted ceiling, as though impressed by the size of the room and the costly clothes of the people in it. Another two paces behind him was an oxlike young man, presumably a servant or assistant of some kind, although with those massive shoulders, which were putting his plain dark doublet under strain, he would have made an excellent bodyguard. He was in charge of a cloth-wrapped bundle, which he carried in ceremonious fashion.

Cecil was brisk, as usual. He was a busy man and his days were always overcrowded. The line between his light eyes was clearly marked, probably with impatience, and within his fair beard, his mouth was set in a straight line.

“Your Majesty,” he said, as all three of them bowed, “I wish to present to you Barnabas Mew, Master Clockmaker of Windsor, and his assistant Joseph Wylie. Mr. Mew has brought the gift of which I spoke to you some days ago.”

The two men straightened up while Cecil moved aside. Wylie came up beside his master, and handed him the bundle. Mr. Mew then stood looking from the
sparkling young queen on the dais to the bundle in his hands, apparently wondering what to do next.

Cecil clicked his tongue irritably and took the bundle from him. “This device needs to be demonstrated. May we step on to the dais?”

“By all means,” said Elizabeth, and Cecil, pushing Master Mew ahead of him, stepped up beside her.

Cecil unwrapped the cloth and revealed a gilded box, which he placed on the table. The box measured perhaps a foot each way, and was about six inches deep. A delicate pattern was engraved all over it, and the letters E and R were set into the lid in what I thought were moonstones. It was evidently lockable, for it had a little key. After my instruction sessions with Master Bone, I had become observant about such things and noticed that the lock was unusual in that it was placed not at the front of the box, but in the side.

“A pretty toy,” said Elizabeth. “A device, you call it? Is it a clock? But how does it tell the time? There is some mystery here. Come, don’t be so afraid of us, Master Mew. It requires to be demonstrated, according to Sir William. Well then, demonstrate it.”

“May it please Your Majesty . . .” said Mew, his voice was thin and nervous. “It is most gracious of you to allow me to . . . I am only a plain man, although I hope I have some skill in these poor fingers . . .”

“No need for so many words, Master Mew! Show us how the thing works.”

Master Mew, accordingly, gave up trying to explain, took hold of the casket and began to turn the key. I realised that he was not operating a lock but winding up a mechanism of some kind. Then, as he finished
winding, the box began, in little tinkling notes, to play a tune that we all recognised.

“Why, that is a song my father wrote,” Elizabeth exclaimed. “It’s ‘Greensleeves’!”

“May it please Your Majesty,” said Master Mew, in agreement.

“It pleases us well,” Elizabeth said.

Oddly enough, this was probably true. I say “oddly” because, as all the court was well aware, the song had been written by King Henry when he was courting Elizabeth’s mother, Anne Boleyn. “Alas, my love, you do me wrong to cast me off discourteously,” were the first words of the lyric. In the end, however, it was Henry, not Anne, who had done the casting off, and by the most discourteous method imaginable, for he had had her executed, and although Elizabeth scarcely ever mentioned her mother, she was known to grieve for her.

Paradoxically, Elizabeth had admired her father, too. She might justly have loathed the melody of “Greensleeves” because of its bitter associations, but she did not. She had never explained why, but perhaps the song spoke to her of King Henry’s cultured, gifted, romantic side. At any rate, “Greensleeves” was played and sung quite freely about the court and even used sometimes in masques.

Now, the Queen said, “We are always interested in fine craftsmanship and new mechanisms. Our master craftsmen are among the glories of our realm. Is it possible to see how this mechanism works, Master Mew?”

“Indeed, Your Majesty.” Gaining a little confidence, he lifted the lid, and all who were near enough craned
to see. The music was still playing, and we could see that inside the box was a gilded cylinder set with an irregular pattern of tiny pins, which looked like steel. The cylinder was turning slowly, and as it did so, the pins struck the teeth of a steel comb and gave off musical notes. The teeth were hinged in some way, for each, as it made its tinkling sound, lifted against the pressure of the pin and so let the cylinder continue to revolve.

“The teeth are tuned to give the different notes,” explained Master Mew, sounding quite self-assured now, as though having his hands on his invention had comforted him. “Each turn of the cylinder goes once through the tune. It goes round three times before it stops. The mechanism which turns it is here, in this compartment.” He lifted an inner lid to show the springs and cogwheels within. “But there is more, Your Majesty. You see, the cylinder can be taken out.” He lifted another inner lid, this one extending along the back of the casket. “And here within are two more cylinders which will play other melodies. Will Your Majesty hear them?”

Her Majesty would. She beckoned us all to gather round more closely still and we listened with interest while it played “Summer is Icumen In” and then, by way of a change of mood, “Lully Lullay,” the sad old Christmas carol about Herod’s massacre of the innocents.

When it was over, Master Mew put all the cylinders back in their original places and closed the casket.

Elizabeth, smiling, observed that it was a most ingenious invention. “We applaud it, Master Mew. You must have spent many preoccupied hours in its planning
and its making. Your wife is evidently a patient woman.”

“Alas, Your Majesty, my wife passed away some years ago, during an outbreak of the sweat, and I have found none to replace her.”

“Indeed? We are sorry to learn of it. Have you children, Master Mew?”

“No, Your Majesty. We had not been married long.”

“That is sad. My good Cecil and indeed all my council often urge me towards matrimony,” Elizabeth remarked, “but it seems as likely to lead to sorrow as to happiness.”

“It’s commonly thought to be a happy estate,” said Dudley, boldly.

Dudley’s own young wife had been neglected and unhappy before she finally and mysteriously died. Elizabeth knew, as I did, that whatever gossip might say, he had not actually murdered her, and the whole world could see that the Queen was shaken to the depths by Dudley’s swarthy handsomeness and his hot dark eyes. Now, however, the sidelong glance she gave him glinted not only with amusement but with malice.

“Happy?” Her tone was lightly cynical. “Not always. As Master Mew can testify, wives can die. So can husbands. Or, a husband might stray and what can a poor woman do then? She is supposed to be his subject, after all. Perhaps I would be wiser to keep my maiden state and rule my subjects rather than become one.”

There was a pause. Mew and Wylie both seemed bewildered, as though the Queen had started to talk in Greek or Turkish. Elizabeth gave a trill of laughter.