To seize a queen, p.1
To Seize a Queen, page 1
Contents
Cover
Also by Fiona Buckley
Title Page
Copyright
Praise for the Ursula Blanchard mysteries
About the author
Dedication
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
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 *
SHADOW OF SPAIN *
GOLDEN CARGOES *
THE NET OF STEEL *
* available from Severn House
TO SEIZE A QUEEN
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 and the USA in 2024
by Severn House, an imprint of Canongate Books Ltd,
14 High Street, Edinburgh EH1 1TE.
This eBook edition first published in 2024 by Severn House Digital
an imprint of Severn House Publishers Limited
severnhouse.com
Copyright © Fiona Buckley, 2024
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: 978-1-4483-1356-3 (cased)
ISBN-13: 978-1-4483-1357-0 (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.
Praise for the Ursula Blanchard mysteries
“A lively story with excellent historical detail and atmosphere”
Booklist on Golden Cargoes
“Plenty of action”
Kirkus Reviews on The Net of Steel
“Lovers of Tudor fiction will enjoy the carefully researched details of daily life woven into the suspense … Highly entertaining”
Publishers Weekly on The Net of Steel
“Buckley’s vivid portrayal of the resourceful, clever, and devious Ursula carries the plot. Readers will hope to continue seeing more of her”
Publishers Weekly on Golden Cargoes
“The queen of Elizabethan historicals”
Publishers Weekly on The Scent of Danger
About the author
Fiona Buckley is the author of twenty-two previous Ursula Blanchard mysteries including Forest of Secrets, Shadow of Spain, Golden Cargoes and, most recently, The Net of Steel. Under her real name, Valerie Anand, she is the author of numerous historical novels including the much-loved Bridges Over Time series. Brought up in London, she now lives in Surrey.
For Renee
In memory of the good days at ERT
Prologue
1594 AD, Constantinople
The Constantinople quayside was busy and also noisy. Ships were loading and unloading while passengers, often laden with bundles, hurried to board or disembark. A family who had just come ashore and were apparently waiting to be met, had brought snacks with them to eat while they waited and seagulls swooped and cried, hoping for scraps, their white wings flashing in the sun. Half a dozen languages criss-crossed in the air. Overseers shouted at the sweating porters; on the decks, orders were shouted at toiling sailors.
On the Mary Pengelly, an English merchant vessel, sails were being unfurled and the rowers, on the little tugs that would ease her away from the quayside, were in their places. A few last crates of lemons were being taken aboard, watched intently by Captain Tredgold, who was standing on the quay.
Captain Tredgold was a stocky Cornishman with slate blue eyes and a short temper. His ship was bound for Bristol as usual, and he was anxious to be sure that his cargo would arrive there intact. As usual he meant to call in at Penzance on the way to visit his kinsfolk and stock the galley with fresh fish. When someone behind him called his name, he turned round in an irritable fashion. A tall, thin, Turkish gentleman, with a bushy grey beard and sparklingly clean white robes was hurrying towards him.
In passable English, the gentleman said, ‘Captain Tredgold, Master Mustafa is anxious to be sure that the lemon crates are stacked securely this time. He understands that when the last consignment reached Bristol, about half of it had come adrift, with the lemons spilt, most of them damaged or rotten. These consignments are paid for in advance. He has received the payment for this one, but minus the value of the spoilt goods last time. This is not satisfactory. I have orders to go aboard and see for myself that the stacking has been properly done.’
‘It has, and so it was last time. We met bad weather. It happens at sea. If you want to inspect, you’ll have to hurry,’ said Tredgold in surly tones. ‘We’ll be off in half an hour.’
From a newly arrived vessel further along, a line of new slaves, men and women, roped together, were being disembarked. A sense of misery wafted from them; a young man in the middle of the string had a face full of the bitterest anger. Poor sod, Tredgold thought.
‘If you would lead the way …’ said the Turkish gentleman, with gentle but determined persistence.
Captain Tredgold took his irritating visitor aboard but not to the hold. Instead, he led the way to his own cabin. On entering, his visitor observed that although the cabin was tidy enough, the valuable rug with its rich blue and crimson pattern had been moved from its place in front of the beautifully carved walnut armchair and replaced by a sheet, as if to protect the floor in some way. Behind the chair stood a red-haired seaman with a gap-toothed and wicked grin.
He was stropping a razor.
ONE
Call To Duty
The morning was misty but it was going to lift. The sun was out, albeit in a hazy fashion, and would soon burn those vapours away. It was the second of May. Yesterday, there had been May Day celebrations in the village down in the valley, with a maypole and dancing, to rejoice in the final departure of winter and the burgeoning all round us of new life, as the crops sprouted and young animals were born. May Day was always a happy occasion.
I was standing, as I so often did, at my bedchamber window in Faldene House, overlooking Faldene valley. The house faced south and beyond the valley, between Faldene and the sea, were the rolling downs of Sussex. Sometimes, though, the wind carried the tang of the sea even this far inland.
Faldene was the property that had been left to me after the deaths of my Uncle Herbert and my Aunt Tabitha. It was also the house in which they had brought me up, not always kindly but, because my goodhearted grandfather was then still alive and insisted, very adequately.
My mother, sister to Uncle Herbert, had promised to be an ornament to the family when she became a lady-in-waiting to Queen Anne Boleyn, but, when she was dismissed and sent home, pregnant with a child whose father she wouldn’t name, she was an ornament no longer but a disgrace. The child she bore was myself and from the day I was born I was a cuckoo in the nest. The truth about my paternity didn’t emerge until years later. If my uncle and aunt had known from the first that my father was King Henry the Eighth, their attitude might have been different.
As it was, because of my tolerant grandfather, my mother and I were fed, clothed and housed and I was allowed to share my cousins’ tutor. There were limits to my grandfather’s power – or knowledge – and I was often harshly treated, but I did have an education. My poor mother was always treated coldly and after my grandfather’s death, she was made to work in the house as though she were a servant. When I was sixteen, she died. I really believe her death was due to sheer unhappiness.
Four years later, when my cousin Mary became betrothed to a young man called Gerald Blanchard, he fell in love with me instead and I with him, and one summer night I crept out of my bedchamber window, slid down a low roof, scrambled down some ivy into his arms and we ran away to be married. Later on, I sometimes wondered whether a desire to avenge my mother, and maybe to pay for the unjust birching I had received as a child, had something to do with that.
But whatever my secret motives, I really did love Gerald and he loved me, and we were happy, until the smallpox came and took him from me. I still had our daughter Meg, however. Now, I was approaching my sixtieth birthday and Meg has long since married and is living in Buckinghamshire with her family, but over the years, much had also happened to me. I too became a lady-in-waiting to a queen – this time to a queen regnant, Queen Elizabeth – and a desire to augment my stipend in order to support Meg had led me into undertaking unusual duties for Elizabeth. I had become one of her secret agents, sometimes going into danger on her behalf. I had married again, twice, and had borne a son, Harry, who was now grown up and married in his turn and was living at Hawkswood, the house I inherited from my third husband, Hugh Stannard.
And, as though life had turned in a circle, I had returned to Withysham, now as its mistress. I had of course brought my personal servants with me. The Brockleys, husband and wife, had been my good companions for a good thirty years. Roger Brockley had started out in life as a groom and then a soldier and was now my right hand. We had been in danger together and struggled out of it together; we had once come near to being lovers and though it didn’t happen and now never would, there was a bond that never broke between us.
His wife Frances was my tirewoman and my companion. Her original surname was Dale and I still called her that, out of habit. I couldn’t imagine life without either of them. Also with us – brought from Hawkswood after Harry’s marriage to our neighbours’ daughter, Margaret Blake – were Eddie Hale, who was an excellent groom and had also shared some of my moments of danger, and the maidservant Bess – formerly Hethercott and now Mrs Hale and expecting their first child.
I hoped the marriage would be a success, for at Hawkswood Eddie had been something of a philanderer and already had two children in the village there. Here, the village of Faldene was well away from the house, which stood high above it on a hillside. I hoped there would be less temptation for Eddie and I kept an eye on him myself.
Though for the next six weeks I wouldn’t be keeping an eye on anything or anyone at Faldene. Today, as I had to do twice a year, I must set off for the royal court to attend on my half-sister, the queen. She didn’t always summon me to her at the same times of year, but the calls always came. Now, as I watched the mist rise and swirl and dissolve in the soft blue sky I realized, wryly, that three years ago, when I first left Hawkswood to live here, I hadn’t wanted to come. Now, I didn’t want to leave.
I would call at Hawkswood on the way to the court, of course, to see Harry and Margaret and their two-year-old daughter Helen, but I wouldn’t want to go back there to live. It was a different house from the one I had left. For one thing, there were now far more servants, who in my opinion didn’t have enough to do, although Harry maintained that a place as dignified as Hawkswood should have a good-sized staff and ‘not the stingy one you always insisted on, Mother’.
I had reminded him several times that the reason for my apparent parsimony was because Hugh had once lost a great deal of money in a trading venture when a laden ship sank, and that life had surprising twists and one should always be prepared for them, but he shook his head and said he didn’t go in for seagoing ventures. Well, Hawkswood was Harry’s now and he would do as he pleased. In his last letter he had said that Margaret was enceinte again and they hoped for a son. I had a gift for her. But I would linger just for one night, and no more. Hawkswood was no longer home.
The mist was almost gone. I had stood at this very window, looking into mist, on the morning of Uncle Herbert’s burial. It seemed a long time ago. I turned away and called for Dale. We still had some packing to do.
At Hawkswood I found all in good order. The steward Ben Atbrigge, a former ward of mine, was still young but had been well trained, while Margaret and her personal companion, Katherine Fitzjohn, both knew how to run a good household. There was nothing slapdash about this one. I had feared, of course, being old enough now to make the mistake of underrating the young; I should have known better.
I stayed longer than the one night I had planned, because on the very day of my arrival, Margaret went into labour. She hadn’t indulged in any prolonged lying-in but had been visibly blooming and going about her normal tasks. We were at supper and my daughter-in-law was presiding at the table and inviting me to take some more roasted duckling in a sharp sauce that the cook, John Hawthorn, had invented that very day, when her eyes widened and she sat down suddenly, saying, ‘Oooh!’
After that, things moved fast. The oldest member of the household, Gladys Morgan, a Welshwoman who had attached herself to me after Brockley and I, years ago, saved her from a charge of witchcraft, for once did not prophesy disaster. In any crisis, one could usually rely on her to croak foreknowledge of calamity like a pessimistic raven. This time she merely brewed a pain-relieving herbal drink, which Margaret swallowed willingly, saying that it tasted rather nice.
Meanwhile, Harry sent a messenger to Cobbold House, a few miles away, where Margaret’s parents lived, to summon his mother-in-law to her daughter’s bedside. But, by the time Mistress Blake arrived and all but fell off her hard-ridden horse at our door, her grandson and mine had come into the world, with the gentle and practised assistance of Katherine Fitzjohn. He could hardly have come more easily.
‘I told you I was good at this,’ Margaret said chirpily, sitting up in bed and addressing her mother and an exhausted and anxious Harry. ‘Please thank Gladys for that warm drink she brewed for me; it helped. I think I can hear Helen crying. I expect she’s frightened of all the disturbance, poor little lass. Tell her that all is well and she has a new brother. Bring her here and I’ll introduce him to her. And tell Hawthorn to make a careful note of the recipe for that new sauce of his. I think it may have miraculous powers!’
At that moment we heard a clatter of hooves in the courtyard below and the voice of Arthur Watts, Hawkswood’s now aged head groom, loudly welcoming someone. I went downstairs to see who it was and met Ben coming up, with two well-known people behind him.
The Speltons, who lived a few miles away on a farm called West Leys, had been part of my life for years. Christopher Spelton, who had formerly been a Queen’s Messenger and sometimes one of her agents, had once asked me to marry him and I probably would have done except that while I was dithering, he met another of my former wards, Kate Lake, fell in love with her instead, and lived in a state of hopeless adoration until, in most unhappy circumstances, she was widowed. He let a little time go by and then began to court her. They married and were happy until Kate died, in childbed. Since then, he had married Mildred Atbrigge, the widowed stepmother of my young steward, Ben Atbrigge. The Speltons had known all about the impending happy event at Hawkswood.
‘We rode over to wish her well,’ said Mildred, ‘knowing that she must be near her time, but according to Ben we’re too late! How is Margaret?’
‘Come and see,’ I said and led the way back upstairs. As we emerged into the light at the top of the stairs, I turned and hugged them both. Christopher’s head was nearly bald by now but his nice brown eyes were as friendly as they always were, and I knew that he had been happier with Kate and Mildred than he would ever have been with me. Mildred who as a girl had been so awkward and difficult, was now a calm and sensible woman, who had known trouble and danger, had survived them and learned wisdom from them. She was a wife any man might value.
