Rescue for a queen, p.5
Rescue for a Queen, page 5
part #11 of An Ursula Blanchard Mystery Series
‘It’s Lent,’ I said. ‘Is it usual here for marriages to be allowed during Lent? The feast will have to be rather austere, won’t it?’
‘Signor Ridolfi has obtained a dispensation. He wrote to Rome for it the moment he received my letter telling him I was to be married. The feast won’t be a fast,’ said van Weede, beaming. ‘For that one day, we shall be allowed all the meat we can eat. We can set off for Brussels tomorrow, if that is agreeable to everyone.’
‘How exciting!’ said Margaret.
‘Indeed,’ I echoed, and sent forth a silent prayer that Cecil really had made sure that Ridolfi knew nothing of my part in wrecking the schemes he had laid in England. In the folds of my skirt, I secretly crossed my fingers as well. A sadly pagan practice, no doubt, but in the circumstances, I preferred to placate as many powers as possible.
In the process of crossing my fingers, I felt the outlines of things that, as was my long-established custom, I carried in a pouch stitched inside the skirt of my black overdress. All my gowns were divided, to reveal elegant kirtles below, and I had stitched pouches inside the split skirts, to carry things that I might suddenly need. I would never have undertaken a journey to a place like the Netherlands, infested with such dangers as Anne Percy and a branch of the Inquisition, without those useful items to hand. They included a set of picklocks, a small but very sharp dagger in a leather sheath and some gold and silver coins in a little velvet drawstring bag.
And this time, in case of emergency, I had one more secret item about my person, not in the pouch, but in a sheath that I wore inside my clothes, on the left-hand side, under the edge of my buckram stomacher. It was a very small, very sharp knife. If unfriendly hands discovered my pouch and took away my dagger, the knife was small enough, perhaps, to escape notice long enough for me to use it. I had made sure, before we set out, that I knew exactly where my heart was, and could find it instantly. I had made sure that both of the Brockleys carried such knives, as well.
I hoped we would never need them but I was glad to have them there. I feared the inquisition more than I feared Anne Percy.
Pieter had departed, to take our wagon and horses back to their stables, but van Weede had wagons and horses of his own. Next day, Margaret, myself, the Brockleys, van Weede’s valet and the luggage were all stowed into a stout four-horse vehicle with a weatherproof covering, and with van Weede riding alongside on his roan, we set off.
Ridolfi’s rented house was in the Upper Town of Brussels, and was a tall, imposing place, with an arched gateway leading into a spacious courtyard. I learned later that it was one of several owned by the Duke of Alva who rented them out to visiting dignitaries, and no doubt made a useful extra income from them.
We drove straight into the courtyard and as I climbed down from the wagon, I saw two familiar figures at the top of the steps up to the front door of the house. Short, dark Roberto Ridolfi, with his smooth olive-tinged skin and his pleasant smile, looked much as he had when I last saw him, except that he had put on a little weight and now had a decidedly plump midriff. Beside him, his young brown-haired wife Donna was as sweet of face and as elegantly dressed as I remembered. I would have known them anywhere.
Van Weede was already out of his saddle, handing his reins to a groom, and striding towards the steps. While Brockley and Dale and van Weede’s valet coped with the luggage, I helped Margaret down. We followed Antonio up the steps and he at once plunged into introductions, in French.
‘Cousin Roberto, Cousin Donna, meet my future bride, Mademoiselle Margaret Emory. And here to represent her mother, is Madame Ursula Blanchard.’
‘They are very welcome,’ said Ridolfi, also in French. Just as Donna, with a glad cry, leapt forward, seized me in her arms, and exclaimed: ‘Ursula, dear Ursula! How wonderful to see you again! But why are you Madame Blanchard now? Surely you used to be called Stannard!’
‘Dear Donna!’ I said, hugging her back and not answering the question. There was no immediate need, anyway, since mild confusion had overtaken our arrival. Ridolfi was greeting Margaret with a kiss and simultaneously trying to steer us in through the door, just as a number of his servants were coming out of it to help with the luggage, and in the courtyard, a head groom was shouting instructions to his minions about unhitching the wagon horses and putting the wagon away.
Somehow, on a tide of talk and laughter and orders and exclamations and people bumping into each other, we were swept inside. In the flagged entrance hall, where there was a life-size statue of Our Lady, a table with flowers on it and a growing stack of hampers as Ridolfi’s servants brought the baggage in, Ridolfi presented his butler to us. He was not the same man that I had met in London, but a younger and leaner individual whose name, we were told, was Giorgio Bruno, and who was also, when required, Ridolfi’s secretary.
Then, to my surprise, Ridolfi beckoned a young man out of the busy flock of attendants and said: ‘This is Timothy Kingham, who assists Bruno in his work as a butler, though not as a secretary. His French and Italian are not of the necessary standard. But as he is English and can talk to you in your own language, I have told him to devote himself to my English guests and to serve you in any way that you need.’
‘I shall be very happy to do all I can,’ said Kingham, bowing graciously. He was a lanky fellow, long both in arms and legs, with bony wrists sticking out beyond his shirtsleeves, and a long chin to match, and mousy hair that to my mind was in need of trimming. But he had a smile that was in his light brown eyes as well as on his mouth. ‘I’ll begin by getting your belongings to your rooms,’ he said. ‘I will then return to escort you to them. Will that suit?’
I said: ‘Of course,’ and smiled back at him. Ridolfi, meanwhile, was saying to van Weede: ‘Antonio, you never told me that your guests were old acquaintances of mine.’
‘I only found that out the other day, myself,’ said van Weede. ‘An odd coincidence.’
‘A small world!’ said Ridolfi. Timothy Kingham had rounded up some assistance and our bags and hampers were already disappearing up the stairs. Ridolfi observed this with approval and then turned a beaming face to me. I had never exactly disliked him, despite his conspiracies. If anyone had asked me to sum him up, I would have said he was devout but naive. And I certainly hadn’t disliked Donna, who was lovable, if somewhat clinging and not unduly intelligent.
But here came the dangerous question, once again, this time from the Signor himself. ‘But why have you changed your name? I heard Donna ask you but I don’t think you replied. Have you been widowed and married again? But you are dressed in black?’ It was a question rather than a statement.
I had shied away from answering Donna but I would have to answer now. I had anticipated the question, of course and invented what I hoped was a convincing explanation.
‘It’s a complicated tale,’ I said. ‘You may remember, Signor Ridolfi, that when I stayed in your house in London, I told you that I had been brought up in a Catholic household, but in adult life, had chosen to attend Anglican services as law-abiding citizens were and are expected to do, and as my Anglican husband expected, too.’
‘Yes, indeed. A cruel dilemma if at heart you wished to worship as a Catholic,’ Ridolfi agreed.
‘Quite. Well, recently, my dear husband Hugh did pass away and yes, I am in mourning. But I have found myself troubled at the thought of still using his name. You see, I was married to him by Anglican rites and I am not sure that the true Church would recognize them as valid. In that case, I was not truly entitled to use Hugh’s name and now that he is gone – well, I have decided to revert to the name of my first husband, Gerald Blanchard, for I have no doubts about the validity of my marriage to him.
My marriage to Gerald had been a runaway match, and the ceremony was conducted not only by an Anglican vicar, but also very secretively. It was far more dubious in Catholic eyes than my wedding to Hugh. But with a little luck, Ridolfi would never find that out.
He was smiling more broadly than ever. ‘So you now regard yourself as a Catholic?’
‘Yes, indeed. As is Margaret here, and, I am happy to say, as my two good servants, Roger and Frances Brockley. They have followed me into the fold.’ Dale bit her lip. Dale loathed all things Catholic and for very good reasons. But she had agreed to the pretence and would not betray us. I would have to remind her to genuflect to that statue of Our Lady.
‘This is the most delightful news,’ Ridolfi exclaimed. ‘We are all of one mind, happy brothers and sisters in the true body of Christ. I will have a Mass said in the chapel here tomorrow morning before we break our fast. Ah, here is Kingham. He will show you to your rooms and see that hot washing water and mulled wine are served to you. How I hate this cold grey weather. It makes me homesick for Florence, it does indeed.’
I was given a room to myself. Brockley and Dale had an adjoining one, which had probably been meant as a dressing room for whoever occupied mine, since it was much smaller, and there was a connecting door. Their room was also plain, while mine was elaborate, its walls panelled in glossy light-coloured wood, its ceiling beams carved with leaves and fruits. There were fur rugs and padded stools and a couple of small tables as well as a wide bed with a coverlet of bronze-coloured moleskins, and a washing stand topped with a slab of greenish marble. In one corner stood a prie-dieu of white marble with a gilded crucifix hanging above it and a softly padded kneeler to make praying comfortable. The casement looked out on a wintry garden, but crocuses were showing. Spring was not far away.
A fire was laid and a maidservant came to put a taper to it. Dale did some unpacking for me, poured the washing water and then helped me to change into a fresh gown as the one I had on was creased from travelling. When she was done and I was alone, I set quietly about transferring my picklocks, dagger, money and knife to my new ensemble. Then, on impulse, I knelt down at the prie-dieu. I have never known whether I actually believe in God or not. I have seen little evidence of any deity’s existence. But conformity offers safety and there were times when one longed to feel that somewhere, somehow, there was a power one could call on for help.
So I knelt there and prayed for protection and guidance and then I rose to my feet and stood looking round the beautiful room.
I had often known danger, but this time it seemed to be worse than ever before. I was in hostile territory, for here there were Inquisitors whose greatest joy in life was discovering and destroying heretics like me, and who would be doubly delighted to catch one masquerading as a Catholic. The Netherlands also contained an implacable personal enemy who would very much like to get her hands on me. And I seemed to be committed to a task about which I knew nothing. Cecil, I was sure, had steered me into contact with Roberto Ridolfi but for what purpose? If Ridolfi was plotting against England again, how was I supposed to find out? I needed help, if anyone ever did.
I also needed courage. In the past, I had been a prisoner, more than once, locked in a cellar or a cell, and very much afraid. Here, I was surrounded by luxury but I was as frightened now as I had ever been.
SIX
Other People’s Conversations
When my daughter Meg was married the previous summer, it was a homely ceremony in the Hawkswood parish church, a pretty enough place but modest in size, with no gilding or Popish statues.
The Brussels church where Margaret Emory was married on that cold day at the end of March was as lofty and spacious as a cathedral, with golden images to proclaim that it was dedicated to the Archangel St Michael, the patron saint of Brussels, and to St Gudule, a female saint who had lived in the seventh century. An immense and very beautiful stained glass window depicting the Last Judgement threw a pattern of rich red and sky blue and warm amber over the interior, imparting colour to the pale stone of walls and pillars; even gleaming on the cream silk of Margaret’s gown.
Margaret was not plain but I would not, hitherto, have called her beautiful. Her sandy hair was fashionable, because Queen Elizabeth had pale red hair as well, but Margaret’s needed a great deal of washing and brushing to make it shine, and she was sadly freckled and had white eyelashes, though she had learned how to darken them. Only her big grey-green eyes were really striking. But today, glowing with pleasure at being the centre of so much good-hearted attention, and clad in a gown which suited her perfectly, she did have beauty. Van Weede evidently thought so; he kept on looking at her in a way that exuded admiration.
The church was nearly full, as Signor Ridolfi apparently had a wide acquaintance in the town and had invited everyone. Most of the gowns I had packed were of black wool, but knowing that if the marriage ceremony took place, I would replace Margaret’s mother, I had a couple of better gowns as well, and was in lavender and silver brocade, with a lavender silk kirtle. I had a place at the front, while Dale, acting as a matron of honour and dressed in a pale blue that echoed but did not challenge the deeper blue of Margaret’s kirtle, carried the bride’s train. Brockley, suave in a suit of black velvet that I thought he must have bought just before we left home, had indeed been granted the duty of giving the bride away, and with a great air of ceremony, he once more laid Margaret’s hand in that of van Weede.
The service began early but it was long and was followed by a Mass that seemed even longer, and though the day was bright, it was also cold. I was relieved to get back to the Ridolfi house for the reception. The great hall there was warmed by a good fire and a long table had been spread with white damask and laden with food and silverware. Polished dish-covers and the facets of a vast and elaborate silver salt reflected the ceiling paintings of cherubs and saints, and the dancing flames of the fire. Seats and small tables were scattered everywhere; this was to be a buffet meal that would let people move about and talk to whom they would.
The food was inviting. Signor Ridolfi had made good use of his dispensation, and there were beef and chicken dishes, though beaver meat was on the table, as well, no doubt for those who didn’t wish to break the fast. Beaver, being a water-dweller, was often classified as fish and during the long weeks of Lent could provide a blessed escape from eels and cod. I could remember Aunt Tabitha and Uncle Herbert making use of it. Dale considered the spread with awe.
‘The Ridolfis have only been here a few days. However did they arrange all this so quickly?’
‘Brussels is a town full of merchants anxious to outdo each other,’ I told her. ‘At times, by holding feasts too big for their own cooks to manage. So they hire help from catering businesses. It’s expensive, but a wealthy man like the Signor need only snap his fingers and it’s done.’
The bridal pair had led the procession from the church and, together with Signor Ridolfi and Donna, were at the hall door to receive their guests. I and the Brockleys had been invited to join them but I had said graciously that four would be enough, and that we would rather subside into being ordinary guests. I wasn’t eager to be too prominent.
Looking about me as the Brockleys and I made our way towards the table, I thought that this was without doubt a brilliant occasion. The guests were all beautifully dressed and the air was fragrant with perfume and appetizing food. The guests’ jewellery, like the silverware, picked up points of light. Timothy Kingham, very elegant in blue velvet and a ruff edged with Spanish black-work, was performing introductions and shepherding the guests towards the food and there was a happy hum of talk and laughter.
So why, I wondered, was Ridolfi casting so many anxious glances past the arriving guests as though searching for someone who wasn’t there, and why did Donna keep on watching him with such a worried air?
Brockley had noticed, too. ‘Who is it our host is expecting?’ he said, as the three of us helped ourselves to glasses of white wine, and to warm white bread, hot game pie and cold gilded chicken quarters. ‘Someone who wasn’t in church? I thought most of Brussels was there!’
Dale cocked her head. ‘I think someone important’s arriving now. Listen.’
She was right. Outside in the street, hooves were clattering and orders were being barked; the typical sounds of a mounted escort being brought to a halt. Then the butler appeared in the hall doorway and pounded on the floor with his staff.
‘His Excellency Duke Fernando Alvarez de Toledo, Governor of the Netherlands!’
Watching, we saw relief replace the anxiety on Ridolfi’s face, while at his side, Donna smiled and looked shy. The Duke of Alva stepped past the butler and bowed to her and to Margaret. Because of the press of people, I couldn’t see him clearly, and received an impression only of a tall man dressed in black. But I knew that he controlled the Netherlands on behalf of King Philip of Spain, wielding virtually royal power. I remembered suddenly that van Weede had said that the duke might call in at the reception and wondered why. After all, this wedding party was for a very ordinary couple. Probably, money lay at the bottom of it. Roberto Ridolfi was, after all, a banker and Spain was known to have financial problems.
But in that case, why should Ridolfi look worried until Alva appeared?
Across the room, Margaret caught my eye and made a beckoning signal. With slight reluctance, I set down my wine and my plate of food on the nearest small table and went to her.
‘Ah, Mistress Blanchard!’ Ridolfi beamed. ‘My lord duke, may I present the lady who has accompanied the bride from her home, and taken the place of her mother on this happy day. It was her manservant who gave the bride away. Margaret’s parents are not accustomed to foreign travel.’
He was using French and I replied in the same language. I could see Alva properly now. He was indeed very tall and also lean, with a long, olive-skinned face and although he was smiling amiably, his black outfit gave him an ominous air. It was relieved only by his white ruff and the flash of his jewels. His hair was jet black, his dark eyes hawklike. He reminded me of Francis Walsingham and had the same effect on me, which was to make me nervous.
