P. Chisholm - An Air of Treason

Another long pause.

“She did love her husband, you see,” creaked the old voice sadly, “In spite of everything. She loved him. She knew he didn’t love her, never really had, and she knew he was completely enchanted by the Queen but…she still loved him.”

Carey was tense as he sat, poised. Cumberland had to admire his patience and wondered where he’d got it.

“As for going to the fair…” The old creaky voice was far back in the past. “The youngsters were all for it, I wasn’t. I liked peace and quiet then. Go to Our Lady Fair at Abingdon on that Sunday…No! I don’t think so. Only the ungodly would go to a fair on a Sunday. There was to be a football match as well and why should I watch something so boring and unseemly?”

To Cumberland’s surprise, Carey didn’t explain to her what fun football was-but then no woman could possibly understand such things. Even his wife thought football was a waste of time.

“I refused to go and we had an argument about it. Mrs. Owens was going to stay with her but Mrs. Owens was deaf as a post and not too firm in her wits. Amy screamed at me that I would spoil everything, but I held fast and then finally she told me…She was meeting two courtiers. She would not say why but the meeting was vitally important. So I offered to help her dress for it and at last she said I could stay so long as I never moved from the parlour, on my honour.” There was a long creaking sigh. “And I never did, till it was too late.”

“Do you know who were…”

“The two courtiers? One was your father, Henry Carey, the other one of the Queen’s women. I didn’t know them, of course.”

“Did you see them?”

Mrs. Odingsells nodded. “Through the window of the parlour, through the glass so I couldn’t make out the faces. I saw Amy curtsey low to them, call the man my lord Hunsdon. He helped the lady-in-waiting down from her horse and they went up to the Long Gallery to speak.

“I played cards with Mrs. Owens, trying not to listen. I didn’t leave the parlour as I had promised.”

“What did you hear?”

A heavy frown and her lips puckered, a movement deeply carved into her mouth and chin.

“I heard nothing, they must have been talking quietly. Then doors opening and then a sound…a crack. A cry. Feet. Something like a cook splitting a cabbage. Then a woman’s voice crying, screaming “No! Oh no!” Scraping, thudding. A man’s shout. Running feet. Then a long pause and I looked at Mrs. Owens who hadn’t heard a thing and said, “What was that?” and she shrugged and bet me a shilling that the next card would be low.

“Then I heard nothing more and as there were no more cries and I was annoyed at losing four shillings to Mrs. Owens who was not a good player, I didn’t do anything until I heard the hooves galloping away.”

“What did you see of the lady-in-waiting?”

“She was wearing forest green with a brown velvet gard along the kirtle hem, I think. Quite a plain hunting dress. She had a headtire and a linen cap on her head and under it black hair as far as I could tell. She had…she was very pale.

“And you didn’t know her?”

“Neither of them, they were blurred by the glass. I only knew your father because of Amy greeting him by name.”

Carey rubbed his temples. “Mrs. Odingsells,” he said very softly, “did you ever find out who the lady-in-waiting was?”

Another long pause. “I guessed eventually. After the inquest.”

“And?”

“I will die before I tell you or anybody. That’s what I said to the evil black-haired bastard that came and tried to bully me in 1566 and I say it to you. So now.”

Carey took breath to speak, to argue with her.

“I’m an old woman,” shouted Mrs. Odingsells, partly sitting up in bed. “I’m old but I know you, Mr. Topcliffe, I’ve lived too long but anything you try with me will kill me anyway so you can do as you like and be damned to you!”

There was spittle on her lips. Carey stayed where he was.

“Mistress, I’m not Richard Topcliffe.”

“Get out and be damned…! You’re not?”

“No, mistress. Sir Robert Carey.”

“Oh.”

“What did Topcliffe do?”

“He was here before, the last time the Queen was at Oxford, when I was still young and could still see. He came and questioned me and he asked the same questions as you, but when I wouldn’t answer, he shouted and roared and threatened. Nothing came of his threats however, and he didn’t get what he came for. Oh no.”

Carey was leaning forward, his elbows on his knees, squinting at Mrs. Odingsells who had her hands clasped to her breast. As far as Cumberland could make out in the dimness, Carey was pale.

“What were the courtiers discussing with Lady Dudley?”

The bony old shoulders lifted and dropped. “They didn’t tell me.”

Carey’s eyes narrowed. “But you know?”

Mrs. Odingsells said nothing. Cumberland listened to her breathing as Carey let the silence stretch, but Mrs. Odingsells was too old to be worried by it and simply glared back at him.

At last Carey tilted his head in acknowledgement. “Is there anything else, anything at all you can tell me of that day?”

“It was a nightmare after we found her, I couldn’t believe she was…There were people all over the place, coming and going, messengers to the Court, to Sir Anthony, to my lord of Leicester. The undertaker came from Oxford with his best hearse to pick up Amy and most of the village was there gawking and getting in the way, trampling about in the gardens and orchard and stealing apples and quinces. Dreadful. They buried her in one of the colleges of Oxford and the inquest spent a year debating what had happened. Pah!”

“That’s a very long time for an inquest?”

“Well the foreman of the jury was one of the Queen’s own men so you couldn’t expect them to come up with anything other than they did, but the rest of the jury was decent solid men from this county. And then…” She paused and looked as if she was about to add something else but whatever it was, she shook her head again and shut her eyes.

“I’m tired now, Mr. Top…Carey, please leave.”

“Yes ma’am,” said Carey with surprising meekness, stood up and went to the door. Cumberland followed him. “Thank you for speaking to me. If there is anything more you want to say…”

“Yes. Tell your father that I would like something tidied up. I cannot control what will happen to my possessions when I die, which will be soon, please God. Be sure you tell him to come here himself as I will speak to none other, not even you. Good-bye.”

As Carey made a Court bow to the old lady, Cumberland could make out the milky eyes, wide open, staring hard at him, assessing.

Once back in the corridor and the bedchamber door shut, Carey went along the corridor to the carved door at the end, opened it. There was the long gallery, seen from the other end, their own footsteps in the dust. Carey shut it again, felt his way back with his eyes squeezed shut in the light from the small windows along the courtyard side.

Then he stood, staring down the great stairs for what seemed an hour. Cumberland had no idea what was going on in his friend’s head except it seemed to be making him absentminded.

“Do you know who was the lady-in-waiting with your father?” he asked, more to break the silence than anything else. Carey started slightly and squinted at him.

“I’m not sure.”

“But you suspect…?”

“There’s a family story. My father’s sister, my Aunt Katherine, was one of the Queen’s senior ladies-in-waiting, and there was a story about a green hunting kirtle of hers being somehow damaged a month or two after I was born.”

“You think it was your aunt?”