Thwarted Queen (50 page)

I shiver with fear. The fire had gone down in my room, so I rang my bell. A nun appeared I did not know. This was not unusual; the sisters often take in new women as candidates to the religious life. I indicated the nearly dead fire, and she fed the flames. But I was struck by how clumsy and slow her movements were, as if she were not used to lighting a fire.

“Is that all, madam?”

“Yes, I thank you. You may go now.” I went back to my writing.

After several minutes, I raised my head. She was standing beside me, reading what I had just written:

This is for my great-grandchild
Henry Pole
, grandson to my darling son George, and the rightful heir to the throne of England. This is the story of why you and your future sons and heirs should be sitting on the throne of England, and not that upstart Tudor, who styles himself “Henry VII, King of England.”

As soon as our eyes met, the nun made a perfunctory curtsey and disappeared, letting the door bang behind her.

Who was she?

I hid my memoirs in my fur wrap.

Half an hour later, the door to my chamber banged open, letting in a burst of cold air. I jerked my head up and my eyes met those of the new nun.

“What are you doing here?” I demanded.

“I brought these for you, madam,” she replied, putting a goblet of red wine, one of my magnificent gold cups, and a platter of cheese wafers on the table.

I eyed these refreshments warily while she poked at the fire.

After banging around with tongs and poker, she sat down, drew out a ball of yarn and some needles, and started to knit.

I glared at her. “I don’t remember asking you to stay, or even inviting you in.”

“But your ladyship requires my company.”

“I do?”

“Of course you do,” she said smoothly. “A lady of your position and years needs someone to sit with her.”

“I manage very well by myself. And now I wish you to take that tray of food with you and go.”

She continued to knit.

I glared at her.

She ignored me.

I rang my silver hand-bell.

She got up, rolled up her yarn and knitting needles into her bag, picked up the tray of food. As she passed my chair she put my silver bell on the tray, then paused in the doorway. “I don’t think you’ll need that,” she remarked, before leaving.

I felt the leather cover of my memoirs and smiled.

I fell into a light slumber. A blast of cold air made me sit up with a start. The door opened to Sister Ghislaine, cautiously poking her head around the door. “My lady?”

I moved slowly, for I was chilled to the bone and my muscles were cramping.

“I am cold and famished,” I said. “This fire needs to be attended to, and I haven’t not had anything or seen anyone for hours.”

Sister Ghislaine’s eyes widened in shock. “My lady. How dreadful.”

As she poked the fire, bringing it to life again, I fumbled with my fur wrap. Thank heavens, my book was still there. “Where is everyone?” I asked.

“Everyone is here. Nothing out of the ordinary has happened. We didn’t disturb you because Sister Dangereuse―”

“Dangereuse.” I interrupted. “You mean the new nun?”

“Yes, my lady.”

“What a strange name,” I murmured. “Did you know Queen Alainor of Aquitaine had a grandmother named Dangereuse?” I snapped back into the present. “And what did Sister Dangereuse tell you?”

“She told us you were busy with your writing and had expressly commanded no one to disturb you.”

Half an hour passed. I’d slumbered again when Sister Ghislaine knocked on my door.

“My lady, I have a tray of food for you, a light repast, and another poultice for your aching wrist.”

She wound a tansy poultice around my wrist to ease the aching from all the writing I have done this day, then poured some hot spiced wine into one of my gold cups. She arranged dishes of pigeon pastries, lentils, and wafers on a small table. She stoked up the fire, for the room had become cold again. Finally, she put the silver bell back on my table.

“I thank you,” I said, smiling at her.

Sister Ghislaine and I had become dear friends over the years, ever since my arrival here in the midst of a sleet storm in March 1469, twenty-six years ago. Ghislaine was a child of twelve, left at the house of Ashridge when both her parents died. Now she had taken her vows and was known for her skill in illuminating manuscripts.

There was a knock at the door. It was Mother Avisa, the Mother Superior who managed our Benedictine cell. Now a plump woman in her fifties with square, capable hands, she sank into a deep curtsey, then sat in the chair I indicated.

“Where is the new nun?”

Mother Avisa sighed and looked at Sister Ghislaine.

“I have searched for her but can find her nowhere.”

I picked up the leather book made to look like a prayer book and secreted it in my fur wrapper.

“Very wise, my lady Abbess,” remarked Mother Avisa. She cleared her throat and coughed. “I do not know who Dangereuse is, but I can tell you that I accepted her because she came with very good references. As you know, since Sister Matilda’s death, we have needed someone who is a skilled herbalist.”

“Who recommended her?”

“Her letter of introduction was signed by Archbishop Morton himself.”

I gazed into her face.
Archbishop John Morton
was the new Archbishop of Canterbury and extremely popular with Tudor the Usurper. His popularity was due to a diabolically clever idea of collecting fines, known as
Morton’s Fork
. Under this scheme, you either paid the original fine whether it was fair or not, or if you did not pay, then you paid another fine for not paying the original fine. Needless to say, Tudor loved this idea, for he was the most grasping, the most avaricious, the most penny-pinching monarch ever to sit on the Throne of England.

“Archbishop Morton is Tudor’s henchman.” I said slowly. “That plot against Tudor in which
Lambert Simnel
impersonated my grandson, the Earl of Warwick, was supported by my daughter Margaret. And we know that Tudor’s policy is to destroy anyone who might have a legitimate claim to the throne.”

“Whereas my lady of Burgundy’s is to annoy Tudor as much as possible,” murmured Ghislaine.

I smiled. “She now has at her court another promising young man, this time someone known as
Perkin Warbeck
. It is possible that he could be one of Edward’s bastards, dating from that time he had to take refuge in Burgundy more than twenty years ago.”

“My lady of Burgundy also says he’s another of your grandsons, the Duke of York,” said Ghislaine.

I was silent. If that were true, it would mean that the Serpent had smuggled her younger son out before Richard disturbed her sanctuary. Could she really have done that? She was cunning enough, and desperate. I put that thought away, for a headache threatened. “Perhaps he is,” I murmured.

“My lady, they’ve arrived.” Someone was shaking me.

I sat up slowly in my chair and blinked to adjust my eyes to the light of the candle.

Ghislaine was bending over me. “I’m sorry to disturb you, my lady, but they thought it best to arrive under cover of night.”

“Whom do you mean?” I asked, my thoughts blurry from sleep.

“The party of nuns from Burgundy, my lady.”

I sat bolt upright. “What hour is it?”

“Nigh unto matins.”

Avisa bustled into the room. “It’s quite a large party,” she announced, rising from her curtsey. “Twenty men-at-arms, ten archers, a priest, three nuns, and the abbess herself. I have found places for everyone. There is someone who would like to meet privately with you now.”

I looked up as a figure swept me a low bow.

“Olivier de Blay at your service.”

I looked at the figure before me, but couldn’t see his face, hidden by shadow. I motioned him forward.

He bowed again.

Something familiar echoed. It was almost as if I were seeing Edward again. But how could that be true, for Edward had been dead these twelve years? Had my daughter of Burgundy sent me her latest protégé? What was his name? Oh yes, Lambert something.

“What did you say your name was?”

“Olivier de Blay.”

“You seem familiar.”

“I’m told I look exactly like my grandfather. Though I never met him.”

He was dressed in a tunic of wine-colored velvet embroidered in silver. His stockings were a russet color. Of course. He had Blaybourne’s build, nut-colored hair, long expressive face and shapely legs. But whereas Blaybourne’s eyes had been hazel, this young man’s were grey. I looked at his hand and saw a blue glint.

“Let me see your ring.”

He drew from his finger a sapphire ring set in silver.

I took my sapphire ring from my finger and put both rings together. My ring nestled into the cutout shape of his sapphire, just as I had once nestled into Blaybourne’s arms. My vision blurred and I fumbled for my handkerchief.

The young man hovered nearby and handed me a glass of wine.

“After all these years, I have so many questions.” I indicated a seat, and the young man sat in the carved chair opposite mine, stretching his long legs out towards the fire.

“My grandfather was humbly born. His father was a blacksmith.”

“He told me that,” I said, “but where?”

“In the village of Blay, near Bayeux in Normandy.

I frowned. “His name was not Blaybourne?”

“Being so humble, my grandfather did not have a last name. But when he arrived at the monastery in Caen, the monks asked him where he was from, and so called him Pierre de Blay.”

I smiled. What would Tudor say if he knew his wife had such peasant blood? I cleared my throat. “When last I saw him, he was dressed as a nobleman, and he had an entourage of pages, knights, and men-at-arms. That day, he gave his name as Philippe de Savoy, Count of Geneva.”

“There was a gentleman of that name,” replied Olivier de Blay. “He was the youngest son of Duke Amadeus of Savoy.”

“But wasn’t it dangerous for your grandfather to impersonate a nobleman?”

“He chose minor members of the nobility, and was careful in his choices. After all, the Count of Geneva never came to Rouen.”

“I’ve always wanted to know more about him. I had so little time.”