Shadow of spain, p.1
Shadow of Spain, page 1
Contents
Cover
Also by Fiona Buckley
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Prologue
Chapter One: Disturbance at an Unofficial Council
Chapter Two: The Last Resort
Chapter Three: A Bowl of Ink
Chapter Four: West Leys
Chapter Five: One of our Own
Chapter Six: The Deepening Shadow
Chapter Seven: Turning One’s Back
Chapter Eight: Pursuit
Chapter Nine: Mildred Speaks
Chapter Ten: Leaving the Past Behind
Chapter Eleven: The Shadow in the Night
Chapter Twelve: No Turning Back
Chapter Thirteen: A Stranger in a Strange Palace
Chapter Fourteen: No Time to Breathe
Chapter Fifteen: The Nightmare Truth
Chapter Sixteen: Mounting Impatience
Chapter Seventeen: Five’s a Crowd
Chapter Eighteen: Dangerous Secrets
Chapter Nineteen: Against Time
Chapter Twenty: The Summons
Chapter Twenty-One: The Heart of a King
Chapter Twenty-Two: End and Beginning
Also by Fiona Buckley
The Ursula Blanchard mysteries
THE ROBSART MYSTERY
THE DOUBLET AFFAIR
QUEEN’S RANSOM
TO RUIN A QUEEN
QUEEN OF AMBITION
A PAWN FOR THE QUEEN
THE FUGITIVE QUEEN
THE SIREN QUEEN
QUEEN WITHOUT A CROWN *
QUEEN’S BOUNTY *
A RESCUE FOR A QUEEN *
A TRAITOR’S TEARS *
A PERILOUS ALLIANCE *
THE HERETIC’S CREED *
A DEADLY BETROTHAL *
THE RELUCTANT ASSASSIN *
A WEB OF SILK *
THE SCENT OF DANGER *
FOREST OF SECRETS*
* available from Severn House
SHADOW OF SPAIN
Fiona Buckley
This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.
First world edition published in Great Britain in 2021 and the USA in 2022
by Severn House, an imprint of Canongate Books Ltd,
14 High Street, Edinburgh EH1 1TE.
Trade paperback edition first published in Great Britain and the USA in 2023
by Severn House, an imprint of Canongate Books Ltd.
This eBook edition first published in 2021 by Severn House,
an imprint of Canongate Books Ltd.
severnhouse.com
Copyright © Fiona Buckley, 2021
All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. The right of Fiona Buckley to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988.
British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data
A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.
ISBN-13: 978-0-7278-5086-7 (cased)
ISBN-13: 978-1-4483-0627-5 (trade paper)
ISBN-13: 978-1-4483-0626-8 (e-book)
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Except where actual historical events and characters are being described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is purely coincidental.
This eBook produced by
Palimpsest Book Production Limited,
Falkirk, Stirlingshire, Scotland
For Susan and Jean,
my friends for more than half a century
and also
for my cousin Godfrey,
experienced seaman and historian of the Norfolk coastline
PROLOGUE
Hertfordshire, March 1588
‘Where’s Watkin got to?’ said Will Thomson breathlessly, dodging aside as the elm tree that he and his son were felling creaked and began to fall. ‘Did ought to be here as well … steady … out of the way, young Tom!’
They both stepped back quickly as the tree crashed into the grass of the field behind them. The fall of the elm sent a flock of rooks cawing into the skies, spelling ruin to several nests and the first eggs of the season. Will, indifferent to the plight of the rooks, which regularly followed the wheat-sowers and gobbled up half the strewn seed, stepped round the great tree where it lay awaiting the mammoth business of chopping it up to provide fuel for their employer’s hearth, and peered into the narrow belt of trees beyond. ‘Where is Watkin? Thought he went into the trees for a pee but it don’t take that long!’
‘Here he is!’ said Tom, as their missing colleague burst out of the trees. ‘’Bout time, too … Christ, what’s up with him? Watkin! What is it?’
‘Easy, boy,’ said Will, as Watkin arrived beside them, ashen-faced and almost speechless. ‘Watkin, lad, what’s happened?’
‘Murder’s happened!’ gasped Watkin, almost in tears. He was only eighteen, and had seen nothing worse in his life than the slaughter of a sheep, and that had been done with speed and efficiency. ‘On the road! I saw it!’
Will and his son, two sturdy figures with identical flaxen heads and identical sleeveless leather jerkins, finally persuaded a shaken and reluctant Watkin to lead them back through the trees and show them what had happened.
‘I were just here,’ Watkin said nervously, coming to a halt in the middle of the tree belt, halfway between the field and the road that ran past the further edge of the trees. He was thinner than the other two, a skinny brown-haired youth in patched breeches and a calfskin jerkin too big for him, both of them handed down from an elder brother. He was trembling, shocked, glad to be in the company of the others. ‘Just here I were, and I heard voices and one of them sounded frightened, pleading, and I didn’t like it so I crept toward the road and peeped from behind that tree there, that great old oak’ – he pointed – ‘and there was a fellow standing holding a horse and another one on foot, facing him, with a crossbow …!’
His voice at that point shot up several points. ‘Take your time,’ said Will.
‘The one with the horse … he was doing the shouting and pleading. I couldn’t make out no words but he was pulling at his belt pouch, as if he wanted to offer money … but the other one was saying something but I couldn’t make him out either and then … then …’ Poor Watkin gulped. ‘He used the crossbow. Got the fellow in the chest. He’s there lying in the road. Him with the bow, he just vanished into the trees on t’other side of the track. Had a horse hidden there, maybe. I dunno what he looked like; I weren’t near enough for that. The … the dead man’s horse he just left. It’s loose somewhere …’
He led the way. They emerged from the trees at the side of the track and halted. ‘There,’ said Watkin.
He had no need to point. The dead man lay on his back in the middle of the track and the bolt that had killed him jutted from his chest. Will went forward and knelt beside him. He was quite dead; the bolt had clearly struck him in the heart. Will stared at him, wondering what sort of man he was. He didn’t look that young for there was some grey in his beard and there were a few lines on his face. He was dark, in a way that was not quite English. His belt pouch was open and a purse had been half-pulled from it but when Will felt the pouch, his fingers at once discovered coins, and something crackled, too, like paper.
He stood up. The others were watching him fearfully from the side of the track. A little further along, a horse with a saddle and trailing reins was grazing on the verge.
‘We got to tell the master,’ Will said. ‘Catch that horse if you can, Tom; if you can’t, get a cap full of oats from the stable store and see if that will tempt him. Watkin, come with me. We’ll see the steward, and explain and he’ll surely let us see Master Harman, and meantime we’ll ask him to send some men out with a bier of some sort. Dear God! What a thing to happen!’
ONE
Disturbance at an Unofficial Council
It was early in 1588 that an intimate and shockingly disturbed gathering took place in the palace of St James’. It was almost exactly four years after the time when my royal half-sister Queen Elizabeth nearly lost her life at the hands of a demented Catholic called Dr William Parry. He hid in the gardens of Richmond Palace with a knife in his sleeve and when Elizabeth came out to take the air was for a few moments close enough to her to kill. And might well have killed her except that, according to Parry when he was arrested, he was so daunted by her majestic presence, which had reminded him powerfully of her father King Henry the Eighth, that he lost his nerve.
I could believe it, for in public, Elizabeth always was majestic. Of late years, she had acquired a liking for economy but it didn’t apply to her gowns. Her farthingales were immense, often spanning the full width of the paths she walked on; her ruffs stood out behind her head as though they were there to shield it. Ropes of pearls, emerald or ruby pendants, diamond earrings set her glittering in even the cloudiest light. Elizabeth in her majesty was a daunting sight. If she was coming towards you, you felt as though you stood in the path of an oncoming and possibly vengeful goddess.
But even Elizabeth couldn’t maintain such a presence for every hour of every day. Alone with her ladies, she would put off her mighty farthingales and ruffs, don loose robes and velvet slippers, and become like any other rather tired woman in middle years. When I attended at court, which I did once or twice a year, I was among her bedchamber ladies and I saw her like that many times.
There were other occasions, though, when she would don a dignified but less intimidating mode of dress, with moderate farthingales and ruffs, in order to talk informally with her closest associates in the business of ruling the realm. These little gatherings usually took place at times when there was much business on hand. They were unofficial and informal in style but they were recognized as useful. For one thing, they were a way of helping Sir Francis Walsingham, who was Elizabeth’s Secretary of State, and Sir William Cecil, otherwise Lord Burghley, the Lord Treasurer, to assemble the agenda for the next full Council meeting.
The gathering at St James’ Palace in the March of 1588 was just such an event. I had rarely seen St James’ before, although Elizabeth was fond of it. It was small as palaces go and it was away from the Thames and the noisy shouts of bargees and ferrymen and the river smells. Its gatehouse was imposing enough, flanked by tall towers, but the slender proportions of the towers and the warm red brick of their walls had a friendly air. King Henry the Eighth, Elizabeth’s and my mutual father, had had it built as a retreat from the formalities of the court, a private home where he could as it were take off his crown, put on his slippers and play with his spaniels. Elizabeth too used it as a retreat. It was a natural place for the kind of informal meeting I attended on that March day.
It wasn’t, of course, informal to the point of having no guards on duty. There were guards at the door of Elizabeth’s innermost suite, where we were gathered, and entrance was forbidden to anyone else. Two of her ladies were quietly sewing in a corner of the room, but they were there for propriety since so many men were present. The true members of the gathering consisted of the queen herself, Sir William Cecil, Sir Francis Walsingham, Sir Robert Dudley, otherwise the Earl of Leicester (also known as the queen’s Sweet Robin), and me, Mistress Ursula Stannard. I did not know why my presence had been requested, for it was hardly usual. True, I was half-sister to Elizabeth, the result of an adventure on the part of King Henry during Queen Anne Boleyn’s decline. I was also one of Her Majesty’s secret agents. Elizabeth sometimes did ask my opinion on this or that. We were of one blood; we had a rapport. But she usually did that in private. I was female, not a candidate for a seat on the Council. Now, I was nervous.
Elizabeth had a throne-like seat, of course, set upon a dais. She was still the queen and the hands that lay in the lap of her semi-formal gown were clasped over a small jewelled gavel. The rest of us were seated in ordinary settles or in my case on one of the steps up to her dais. Like the queen, I was in semi-formal dress and I remember that my stays were sticking into me. With the years, my midriff had thickened somewhat. I was no longer the lithe being that I used to be, though there was no grey as yet in my dark hair, and no dullness in my eyes, which remained their own clear hazel.
In a way, we were an ill-assorted company. Robin Dudley wasn’t much liked by the others. He had been Elizabeth’s favourite for too long and at one time had tainted her with scandal. He was still handsome, though of late years he had put on weight and had his doublets cut to conceal his bulging stomach. Walsingham and Cecil were eyeing him askance, just as they always had, and of us all, he was probably the least well informed about the subject in hand.
Walsingham, so dark of hair, eye and skin that the queen called him her Old Moor, was as usual dressed in black from head to foot. Unlike Robin, he was far from being a favourite. In fact, Elizabeth disliked him so much that she had at times thrown things at him. But she also trusted him, as much as anything because her gravest enemies were the Catholics, who regarded her as illegitimate and therefore a usurper on the throne, while Walsingham was a Puritan who detested the Catholics and what he called their flamboyant Popish rites. He saw them as a threat not only to Elizabeth but to all England. What he really thought of Elizabeth herself, no one knew.
I knew what he thought of me, though. He disapproved of me because he didn’t consider that a woman ought to be a secret agent. He had however often found me useful and being both ruthless and pragmatic he hadn’t scrupled to use me, even if it meant sending me into danger. Though on these occasions, he usually implored me not to take risks. I think I annoyed him as much as anything because he couldn’t help worrying about me. When I came into the room behind the queen, and he realized that I was not there just to play propriety, he positively glowered at me.
I think Cecil had been told beforehand that I would be there, for he smiled as I came in. It was Cecil, I am sure, who was the rampart at Elizabeth’s back. She did not love him, nor did she dislike him. But she relied on him always to be there, with her best interests at heart, and he had never failed her.
We were here because the next Council agenda would have to deal with alarming matters and there was a curious reluctance to begin. I think we all shared a feeling that to talk openly about certain things was to make them real – as though they weren’t in fact entirely real and desperately dangerous. I know I felt like that, anyway, and I had few responsibilities compared to the others.
The proceedings therefore began in a mannerly fashion, with refreshments. There were small tables dotted about, laden with goblets, jugs of Canary wine, dishes of raisins dusted with nutmeg and cinnamon, platters of small almond cakes, gingerbread biscuits and slices of cold meat pie. But on the table nearest to Cecil there was a businesslike leather folder, and on top of it lay a pair of eyeglasses. Cecil, like all of us, was growing older. While we nibbled the refreshments, sipped the wine and talked of anodyne things, we all kept stealing glances at the folder and the eyeglasses.
It was a beautiful day. Beyond the windows, birds were winging across a blue sky and though the trees were still bare, the leaf buds were bulging, subtly changing the shapes of their parent twigs. So we began by enjoying the pie and the biscuits, licking cinnamon and nutmeg dust off our fingers and talking about the warmth of the sun, the fine display of crocuses in the grounds and the like.
What lay behind these platitudes was the unspoken knowledge that it was little more than a year since the queen’s cousin, Mary Stuart, formerly queen of Scotland, had been beheaded in the great hall of Fotheringhay Castle. It had been necessary, but we all knew that under Elizabeth’s dignified surface lay both guilt and anger. The final decision had been taken without her knowledge or consent. Walsingham had decided to act without them. It was another reason for being careful what we said.
The queen eventually called us to order. Abruptly, just as Cecil finished making a harmless comment about spring flowers, she lifted her gavel and rapped on the arm of her chair. We all turned towards her.
‘Enough pleasantries,’ she said. ‘We are an informal meeting but we are a meeting just the same.’ She was using the royal we which indicated that she meant business. She said: ‘We have no doubt that there is an unwritten agenda in Sir Francis’ head. However, before we begin, there is something that we wish to know, that Mistress Stannard here can perhaps tell us. That is why she is present. Ursula, of all of us here, you are closest to the common people. You are the mistress of two good houses, Hawkswood and Withysham, and you are also the owner and leaseholder of a third, by name Evergreens. You personally employ or dismiss your servants; you personally inspect their work; you regard your two closest servants, Roger and Frances Brockley, as friends and they dine at your table.
‘You visit markets in person; you decide what is to be bought for your household and what produce of your farms should be sold. Everyone in the land must of course know by now that we are threatened with an invasion from Spain. They could hardly not know, with the hammers ringing like tolling bells in every shipyard, with commanders seeking volunteers for our army and our navy, with every seagoing merchant coming home full of foreign gossip and spreading it about in every market he attends. So we have had the danger proclaimed publicly and warned our people to prepare themselves, to be ready to fight. Ursula, tell us, what do our people feel? Are most of them afraid or are most of them angry? When they gather in taverns what do they say to each other about this situation? Are many of them planning to abandon their homes and flee to the hills of Wales or Scotland? No, don’t stand up. Stay where you are, and say what you know.’
