The Siren Queen: An Ursula Blanchard Mystery at Queen Elizabeth I's Page 10

  “Call myself the best in London for this but even I find that a tree sometimes has a mind of its own. Can’t always get exactly what you want out of ’em!” he called.

  “Oh, I think you’ve made a fair shot at the target,” Hugh told him dryly, causing the old man to emit an evil chuckle. The path led on from the archway, and leaving Johnson behind, we followed it. Farther in, the trees were carved into complete bird and animal shapes in interesting attitudes, and in the very heart of the garden, where another path crossed the first, we found a wooden bench.

  “Very thoughtful,” said Hugh, sitting down on it. “Somewhere to rest while contemplating all this sculptured vegetation. Johnson’s a craftsman. It looks as though that rearing horse is about to come down on the back of the horse next to it, and those geese are superb. If they are geese—they’re something of that kind, anyway, whatever they are. I’d say they were geese, wouldn’t you? It must have been difficult to get the foliage into those long-necked shapes. They seem to be—er . . . ”

  “I think they have goslings in mind,” I said solemnly. “Ultimately.”

  We looked at each other and began laughing all over again. We were echoed by an outbreak of tittering on the far side of the garden. Others besides ourselves were roaming amid the topiary. A movement near at hand caught our attention and as we turned, an elderly gentleman strolled out from behind the romantically inclined geese.

  “Ah! A seat. I’ve been gazing about me, thunderstruck. One could call this place a glimpse of the underside of the human imagination,” he remarked gravely, though his eyes were twinkling.

  He was surely over seventy, with iron gray hair, thick though tidily trimmed, and an intellectual air. His forehead was high and he had a thoughtful, somewhat furrowed face with heavy brows and a small pointed beard. He was dressed as a scholar might be, in a long, dark robe and he wore no ruff, only a voile collar. He bowed politely.

  “Master Harry Scrivener, at your service,” he said. “You are also guests of Signor Ridolfi, I take it?”

  We introduced ourselves, explaining that we had been generously included in the invitation to Norfolk, though Ridolfi had never met us before and—because we regarded ourselves as here to gather whatever information we could, of any kind—we inquired politely about Master Scrivener’s acquaintance with Ridolfi.

  We tried not to sound inquisitive, but Scrivener looked as though he could recognize curiosity when he met it. Ours seemed to amuse him, however.

  “I met Signor Ridolfi two years ago in Florence, when I traveled there,” he said, “accompanying a nephew round Italy. I had just retired from the secretariat of Sir William Cecil and while I was working for him, I made the acquaintance of some Florentines who were visiting London. They offered their hospitality when I went to their country. They knew Ridolfi. I must have made an impression on him. When he came to London, he discovered by chance that I was making a stay in the City, took the trouble to seek me out, and graciously invited me to dine. But let me see—surely . . . ?”

  Alert gray eyes, deep-set under heavy eyebrows, were studying me thoughtfully. He then seemed to connect me with an item from some private filing system in his head.

  “Mistress Ursula Stannard? Formerly Mistress Blanchard, I believe? Were you not once wed to Gerald Blanchard? I met both of you, I am sure, in Antwerp, ten years ago, in the house of Sir Thomas Gresham, one of Queen Elizabeth’s financiers. I was seconded to Gresham for a short time, in 1558. Some of my skills were useful to him.”

  “We were indeed in Antwerp with Gresham at that time,” I agreed. I studied him in return and a memory stirred. An image came into my mind, of Gresham’s courtyard, on a summer day. I had been showing three-year-old Meg how to feed the fish in the pool, and Gerald had been in conversation with a man who had the air of a scholar, just as this man had, except that . . .

  “I think I recall you,” I said. “Though you didn’t look quite . . . ”

  “I probably still had dark hair at the time,” said Scrivener, again visibly amused. “Yes. I talked with your husband, Gerald Blanchard, on several occasions. He picked my brains.”

  I was going to ask him what Gerald had picked his brains about and what the skills were that were so useful to Gresham, but Signor Ridolfi chose that moment to saunter into view along the path from the house. He was with another man, and even before I saw his face, I knew from the richness of his long, fur-trimmed gown who the second man must be. They saw me look at them, and came over to us.

  “May I introduce Don Guerau de Spes, the present ambassador from Spain? Your Excellency, this is . . . ”

  Amid the new flurry of introductions, I forgot about Harry Scrivener for the moment and studied de Spes instead, interested to see at close quarters this man who had quarreled with the queen and had only recently been freed from house arrest. His face was hard to read. His eyes seemed to dance with a secret laughter behind the shelter of the high cheekbones, and I could not tell whether the contented contours of the mouth meant the happiness and confidence proper to a successful man, or whether they were merely complacent.

  Hugh and Scrivener were making conventional conversation with Ridolfi and the ambassador. Hugh remarked that the day was warm. Scrivener said that he hoped the topiary garden had not scandalized His Excellency too much. “It is not Signor Ridolfi’s fault.”

  “He has explained.” De Spes spoke good English, in a light, cool voice. “But I am not so easily offended.” He waved a casual hand. “I can appreciate a work of imagination, even when it is not—shall we say—of the most virtuous nature. I find this amusing.” He turned to me. “Signor Ridolfi has been telling me of my fellow guests. You are Mistress Stannard, but formerly you were Madame de la Roche, were you not? I have heard of you. You come of a Catholic family, I believe. I am sure that if we come to know each other better, we shall be friends.”

  “Indeed?” said Hugh.

  “In the most innocent manner, I promise you, Master Stannard,” said de Spes. “I see myself as a knight at arms, fighting in the cause of the true faith wherever I go, and a knight must be pure in heart, must he not?”

  “Indeed, he must,” said Hugh, in a faintly acid tone, from which I gathered that in my husband’s opinion, Ridolfi’s topiary garden was an unfortunate place in which to boast of one’s pure-heartedness. I didn’t look at Hugh, but caught Scrivener’s glinting eye instead, and realized that he too had noticed the acid, although neither Ridolfi nor de Spes seemed to have done so.

  I said: “To fight for the true faith sounds admirable, but it could bring terrible bloodshed. People may not agree on what the true faith is.”

  De Spes smiled at me. It was the smile of a knowledgeable adult at a simple child. “There is one God, one church, one truth. There can be no disagreement, only willful disobedience. And if that leads to bloodshed—it cannot be helped. That is as God wills. But now, if you will forgive us . . . ” He tapped Ridolfi’s arm. “Signor, we have things to discuss.”

  “Yes, indeed. Not that business should disturb a social occasion too much, but perhaps, before the trumpet sounds for dinner, we could have a few private words. Excuse us, please!”

  We all assured them that they were excused and watched them move off along the path leading to the river. Before they were out of sight, they were talking hard, with de Spes, who was taller, leaning his head down toward his companion, as if to make sure that he would be heard clearly without raising his voice.

  “Interesting,” Scrivener remarked. “I wonder what they’re so earnestly discussing?”

  “Money, perhaps,” I said, “since Ridolfi’s a banker.”

  Hugh, with a snort, said: “Maybe de Spes spent all his substance during his house arrest, sending out for romantic literature!”

  A lively fanfare on a trumpet sounded from the house. The three of us left the bench and walked toward the arch at the far end of the garden. As we did so, Hugh embarked on the inquiries I had omitted to make, asking Harry Scrivener what hi
s speciality had been, which had sent him to Antwerp. “You have financial abilities, perhaps?”

  “I’d have worked in the Treasury if I had,” Scrivener said. “No. My special interest is in codes and ciphers. Sir Thomas Gresham sometimes found it useful to correspond in cipher with his contacts in England. I showed him various ways of doing so and I also did the same for Master Gerald Blanchard, your then-husband, Mistress Stannard. He worked so closely with Gresham.”

  “I never knew that Gerald understood ciphering!” I said involuntarily.

  “Well, he only knew about mine. I created my own. Now that I’m retired, I’m working on it further, refining it. I hope one day to perfect an unbreakable code. It is quite a challenge, but such a thing is sorely needed.”

  “By whom?” Hugh asked. “Conspirators might find it rather more useful than honest men could wish.”

  “And honest men might protect themselves from conspirators, if they could communicate in ways that were secure from enemies of the state,” said Scrivener. He added: “I have no high opinion of conspirators. They are often very foolish. You have read the book Utopia? It was written by an Englishman named Sir Thomas More.”

  “Yes. About an ideal state,” said Hugh.

  “There will never be such a thing,” said Scrivener with certainty. “A state can only be as perfect as the human beings in it and when were human beings ever perfect? But where you have conspirators you are apt to find among them men who believe that the ideal state can be brought into being. That is what I mean by foolishness. It is a kind of innocence. Alas, that doesn’t mean that they aren’t dangerous. These men are so often ready to do terrible things to make their hopeless dreams come true.”

  I felt a jab of recognition under my breastbone. I had loved Matthew de la Roche so much, and I had, for a time, let myself be enthralled by Mary Stuart. They both believed that England could be returned to what they called the one true faith, without a bitter civil war; without bloodshed. It was impossible to convince either of them that they were wrong. It suddenly struck me that this was probably the key to de Spes as well. He was of the same kidney. They all had the innocence of which Scrivener was speaking. In Matthew and in Mary Stuart (though not in the Spanish ambassador), the innocence had charm. But Scrivener was right. It also made them dangerous.

  “It’s my belief,” he said, as we passed under the archway out of the topiary garden, “that if a code is hard to break, it may also be hard to use, and innocent dreamers may find such a thing troublesome, and prefer something easier. Such dreamers often don’t put the full weight of their minds behind their schemes. They believe that God is on their side and will do the hard work for them. They are mistaken. They may still do great harm, but mercifully, in the end, the advantage usually lies with honest men. Provided they keep their castle walls in good repair, as it were. Can you say they should not improve their defenses in case the enemy steals their ideas? Most inventions can be used for good or ill, alas. Think of gunpowder!”

  I thought of Mary Stuart’s first husband, Henry Darnley, who had been the victim of a plot that involved planting gunpowder in the cellar of the house where he was sleeping. “True enough,” I said, rather grimly.

  We joined a stream of people moving into the house and up a curving flight of stairs. There seemed to be a great many guests. At the top of the stairs, we entered the dining chamber and ushers tried to lead Hugh and myself one way and show Scrivener to a seat elsewhere.

  Scrivener, however, said he wished to sit with us. “We are in the middle of an interesting conversation,” he told the ushers firmly. This caused a certain amount of confusion, but a few minutes later, we had all been seated together.

  The dining chamber was lofty and beautiful, with tall leaded windows on two sides, pouring light in on us. Ridolfi appeared, with his wife on his arm and de Spes on the other side of him. They took their places, Ridolfi between Donna and the ambassador, with Norfolk on the other side of de Spes. Ridolfi anounced that grace would said by his chaplain, Father Fernando. When this was over, a procession of servants appeared bearing dishes. In a minstrels’ gallery at one end of the room, music began. Norfolk, I saw, was quickly in animated conversation with de Spes.

  In a quiet voice, Scrivener remarked: “Signor Ridolfi is well known in court and diplomatic circles in France and Spain as well as in Italy. He has arranged loans for eminent men in all three countries.”

  “He mixes with the highest, evidently,” I said.

  “Indeed he does.” Servants came to help us to various dishes, and Scrivener for a moment fell silent. I saw him glance at the man on the other side of him, who was, however, deep in talk with the lady who was his farther neighbor. As soon as the servants moved on, Scrivener turned to me. In a low voice he said: “Mistress Stannard, I know a good deal about you. Far more, I fancy, than either Ridolfi or de Spes or even Norfolk. I bear no title and though I have a small manor in Hampshire, I have no town house. I am not among the great. All the same, I did at one time work very closely with Sir William Cecil, who will vouch for me if you ask him. Catholic family or not, you are of the Anglican faith and loyal to the queen. Am I not right?”

  “You are right,” said Hugh, answering quietly across me.

  “I also know that you have undertaken—private work—for the queen, and as far as possible kept it a secret. It is not a total secret, however. I know of it because Cecil himself told me. I admire you greatly. If you are engaged on any such task just now, and I can be of any assistance, I beg you to call on me. I am lodging in Bishopsgate, in the City—in a house with the pretty name of Sweetplum House, from the plum trees that grow in its garden. I expect to be there until September—I am spending the summer in London. The widow Edison, a most respectable woman, is my landlady and you may apply to Sir William Cecil for a character reference. Or, if you wish, to Sir Thomas Gresham, who is currently in England.”

  In an equally low voice, I said: “Thank you, sir.”

  10

  The Parents of the Groom

  “. . . and here,” said Norfolk, arriving beside us just as the dinner was ending, I bring you Master and Mistress Dean, the parents of my secretary Edmund. My friends, these are the Stannards, whose daughter is being considered as Edmund’s future wife, though she is too young for marriage as yet.”

  “We are overjoyed to meet you,” said Master Dean. “We were late in arriving, or we would have greeted you before we all sat down. A matter of business delayed me. These days, no merchant can afford to put off anyone who wishes to see him and might have a useful proposition.”

  The dinner had gone on for a long time. We and Scrivener had abandoned low-voiced conversation and discussed uncontentious subjects with each other and our respective neighbors. Now, however, the prolonged meal had reached the stage when people began to get up and wander about to talk to friends who were too far away for conversation while all remained seated. The couple on the other side of Hugh had already moved away and now Scrivener, noting that we needed to talk privately to the Deans, murmured that he had glimpsed an old acquaintance and went off to talk to him. The Deans sat down beside us.

  “I’ll keep Edmund occupied,” Norfolk said. “When parents discuss the marriages of their offspring, it is often better if the offspring aren’t there. Also, even dukes sometimes find business intruding on pleasure. This morning I dictated a draft letter to a lawyer about this lawsuit over my stepdaughters’ property but I think the wording could be improved. I must mention it to Edmund before the new wording slips out of my mind. He is an excellent remembrancer.”

  “Is the matter of your stepdaughters proving very difficult?” Master Dean asked.

  “Extremely. The other party is both wrongheaded and damnably obstinate,” said Norfolk and removed himself. Deans and Stannards contemplated each other thoughtfully.

  Edmund was his mother’s son. It was from her, I thought, that he had inherited that sharp-edged bone structure, and those penetrating eyes. In Mistress De
an, the bones were more delicate, but her eyes had the same blue-lightning quality. Master Dean was slightly plump and his expression slightly harried, possibly on account of business cares, but I felt that anyone who had to live with those eyes was very likely to feel harried.

  Meg wasn’t going to live with those eyes, not if I could help it, and I resented the way Norfolk had made the introduction; as if the betrothal were still a virtual certainty. Despite our polite noises about Meg’s youth, most men would have recognized the courteous code for no, thank you. Norfolk was good-hearted in many ways, since he was clearly a conscientious stepfather, but he seemed to have a sadly obtuse streak.

  Hugh was already, smoothly, saying the right things. He was inquiring tactfully into the Deans’ family history and present circumstances, and simultaneously dropping hints to the effect that we had decided against making definite plans for Meg yet awhile.

  “. . . the fact is, that until we brought her to London, we hardly realized how young she really is. She is well educated, but in many ways she is still only a child. I am sure that Edmund will improve his position in life; he seems an able young man. But perhaps he would be wiser to establish himself first and then look for a bride.”

  “His prospects are good,” said Edmund’s father reassuringly, though his rubicund face remained worried. “I’ll be able to help him in due course, I hope. He has told you that, no doubt.”

  “You have other children besides Edmund, I believe?” I said to Mistress Dean. “His Grace has mentioned that Edmund is a younger son.”