“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?”
Carey paused. “Yes, I do. But not my Aunt Katherine.”
For a moment Cumberland couldn’t work out the inference and when he did he sucked in his breath as if he’d been punched in the stomach. Only not with surprise because, after all, there had to be something like that going on.
Carey’s father, Henry’s by-blow and the Queen’s half-brother, had brought Elizabeth Tudor to Cumnor Place, disguised in her half-sister’s plain hunting kirtle, probably wearing a black wig. The Queen had been at Cumnor Place on the morning of the 8th September 1560, the day her rival Amy Robsart had been killed.
Carey found he was gripping the banisters with his left hand, the fingers of his other pressed hard into his temples to try and ease the headache. Something inside him was fighting to be heard. After a moment he breathed deeply and relaxed because this still wasn’t the answer.
How could the Queen possibly benefit if her lover’s wife was killed by a crossbow bolt, especially if she was actually present? The Queen was the sharpest, most intelligent woman he had ever met, apart from Elizabeth Widdrington. Would she set an assassin with a crossbow to kill Amy Robsart and actually be there to watch? The idea was ridiculous.
He shook his head again and groped his way slowly down the stairs, followed by a silent Cumberland. As they went into the courtyard and he tied the scarf on again, pulled the brim of his hat down against the sunlight, he said quietly,
“I don’t need to tell you to keep quiet about this, my lord.”
“Christ, no!” said Cumberland with feeling, offering Carey his arm again. “I’ve forgotten already. You deal with it. I’d rather take on three Dutch sea-beggar fighting ships in a rowing boat.”
“Thank you, my lord.”
“Please don’t mention it again.” Cumberland said firmly and beckoned for Kielder to bring up the horses. Carey called Ross over and the swordmaster went over to the stairwell where Amy had died, came back with a heavy sack.