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Authors: Fiona Buckley
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hoops. Dudley was in shirtsleeves above his puffed breeches. Elizabeth half-turned her head and gave him a nod and it was he who began the talking, and not about Matthew.
He wasted no time on preamble. “Mistress Blanchard, I imagine you have heard that I have a wife, who is ill.”
I said yes, I had heard this. Looking from one face to the other, I saw that Dudley’s mien was unusually grave and that Elizabeth seemed, for once, to be tired, almost haggard. It struck me that she was too intelligent not to realise that she was giving rise to damaging talk. No matter how much she wanted Dudley, she must know that a queen could not dally with a married man, and that a queen should, in any case, choose a husband with exceptional care, to please her council and her people as well as herself. And that Dudley, even without a wife, wouldn’t please them at all. If she were in love with him, as we all believed, then she must be at war with herself.
What Dudley felt was much harder to guess. Did he still have affection for his ailing wife or did he simply long for her to depart from the world and leave him free? I could tell nothing from that hard, dark face. Dudley had immense male magnetism but I could not imagine falling in love with him. I could not love where there was no kindness.
I valued kindness. Gerald had been kind, at least to me, if not to his hapless band of reluctant spies. That used to puzzle me, and once I asked him if he ever felt sorry for the officials he victimised into collaborating with him. He said yes, often; that many of them were pathetic rather than wicked but his duty was to Gresham, and beyond Gresham, the queen; and to me and Meg because we were the family he loved and must support. I supposed, doubtfully, that he was right. At least, in Gerald, the kindness was there. I thought Matthew had it, too, but in Dudley I could sense no kindness, no softness, whatsoever.
“It is also being said,” he informed me now, “that my wife’s illness is due to poison. In fact, that I am trying to get rid of her in order . . . to marry elsewhere.” The hard eyes fastened on my face. “Have you heard that, too?”
The whole court had heard it. There was little point in looking horrified and declaring that no one had ever suggested such a thing. “Yes, sir,” I said.
“And do you believe it?”
I wondered if he seriously expected me, if I did believe it, to say so to his face. I spoke carefully.
“It would be a very terrible thing to do and it could place you in danger, sir. I find it very hard to credit,” I said.
Dudley’s genial smile revealed the amazing depth of charm which he had at his command. He glanced at Elizabeth. “Mistress Blanchard has a remarkable grasp of the situation.”
“Proceed,” said Elizabeth.
“I will be frank,” said Dudley. “You are short of money, are you not, Mistress Blanchard? I heard you say so to Matthew de la Roche, not so long ago, in a quite forceful manner.”
“That is true, sir,” I said. What in the world was all this leading up to?
“We cannot offer you a bigger stipend than that of the other ladies of your rank,” put in Elizabeth, “but we are willing to lend you, as it were, to undertake an honourable task, suitable to your condition, for extra pay. You would continue to receive your stipend. Dudley is fully informed about you and has our permission to say what he is about to say.”
Dudley bowed. Then he turned back to me.
“Lady Dudley—she is still often known by her girlhood name of Amy Robsart—is genuinely ill, Mistress Blanchard. Sir William Cecil, who called on her on his way back from Edinburgh, says he saw nothing wrong with her but she puts on a show for visitors. The truth is that she has a growth in one of her breasts and the doctors doubt if she will see next Christmas. She has also heard the rumours that I mean her harm. We have been estranged for some years. Ours was an impulsive marriage and it didn’t prosper, but
He wasted no time on preamble. “Mistress Blanchard, I imagine you have heard that I have a wife, who is ill.”
I said yes, I had heard this. Looking from one face to the other, I saw that Dudley’s mien was unusually grave and that Elizabeth seemed, for once, to be tired, almost haggard. It struck me that she was too intelligent not to realise that she was giving rise to damaging talk. No matter how much she wanted Dudley, she must know that a queen could not dally with a married man, and that a queen should, in any case, choose a husband with exceptional care, to please her council and her people as well as herself. And that Dudley, even without a wife, wouldn’t please them at all. If she were in love with him, as we all believed, then she must be at war with herself.
What Dudley felt was much harder to guess. Did he still have affection for his ailing wife or did he simply long for her to depart from the world and leave him free? I could tell nothing from that hard, dark face. Dudley had immense male magnetism but I could not imagine falling in love with him. I could not love where there was no kindness.
I valued kindness. Gerald had been kind, at least to me, if not to his hapless band of reluctant spies. That used to puzzle me, and once I asked him if he ever felt sorry for the officials he victimised into collaborating with him. He said yes, often; that many of them were pathetic rather than wicked but his duty was to Gresham, and beyond Gresham, the queen; and to me and Meg because we were the family he loved and must support. I supposed, doubtfully, that he was right. At least, in Gerald, the kindness was there. I thought Matthew had it, too, but in Dudley I could sense no kindness, no softness, whatsoever.
“It is also being said,” he informed me now, “that my wife’s illness is due to poison. In fact, that I am trying to get rid of her in order . . . to marry elsewhere.” The hard eyes fastened on my face. “Have you heard that, too?”
The whole court had heard it. There was little point in looking horrified and declaring that no one had ever suggested such a thing. “Yes, sir,” I said.
“And do you believe it?”
I wondered if he seriously expected me, if I did believe it, to say so to his face. I spoke carefully.
“It would be a very terrible thing to do and it could place you in danger, sir. I find it very hard to credit,” I said.
Dudley’s genial smile revealed the amazing depth of charm which he had at his command. He glanced at Elizabeth. “Mistress Blanchard has a remarkable grasp of the situation.”
“Proceed,” said Elizabeth.
“I will be frank,” said Dudley. “You are short of money, are you not, Mistress Blanchard? I heard you say so to Matthew de la Roche, not so long ago, in a quite forceful manner.”
“That is true, sir,” I said. What in the world was all this leading up to?
“We cannot offer you a bigger stipend than that of the other ladies of your rank,” put in Elizabeth, “but we are willing to lend you, as it were, to undertake an honourable task, suitable to your condition, for extra pay. You would continue to receive your stipend. Dudley is fully informed about you and has our permission to say what he is about to say.”
Dudley bowed. Then he turned back to me.
“Lady Dudley—she is still often known by her girlhood name of Amy Robsart—is genuinely ill, Mistress Blanchard. Sir William Cecil, who called on her on his way back from Edinburgh, says he saw nothing wrong with her but she puts on a show for visitors. The truth is that she has a growth in one of her breasts and the doctors doubt if she will see next Christmas. She has also heard the rumours that I mean her harm. We have been estranged for some years. Ours was an impulsive marriage and it didn’t prosper, but
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