The Siren Queen: An Ursula Blanchard Mystery at Queen Elizabeth I's by Fiona Buckley

like this. Let me think about it. You shouldn’t have to shoulder all the responsibility.”
    “Thank you,” I said gratefully. “Hugh . . . ”
    “What is it, my love?”
    “I have the impression that Norfolk is quite serious about proposing marriage to Mary Stuart. From what he said, the queen doesn’t know about it. You think the council are sure to know, but do they? He may talk more freely to us than he does at court. I haven’t been there lately and he may not think of me—or you—as being part of court circles or having the ear, nowadays, of anyone in a high position. He may know who my father was but I doubt if he knows about my—secret work.”
    “He’s a fool to talk freely to anyone, if he doesn’t want the council to find out,” said Hugh.
    I said: “When I was at court, I learned something of his reputation. He is said to be not very clever.”
    There was a sudden silence. An uncomfortable one.
    “Are you saying,” said Hugh after a moment, “that before we go home, we ought to make certain at least that Cecil knows?”
    He dropped his voice as he spoke, and our eyes met.
    “I don’t think anyone’s hiding behind the tapestries,” I said, “but it’s odd. One does have an instinct to speak softly. Look, Hugh, what do you think we should do?”
    Hugh frowned. “We’re not here on any kind of assignment. We’re just guests. It seems hardly proper to go tattling to Cecil that our host is making plans to marry himself to . . . ”
    “Quite,” I said glumly. “To a queen who is also Elizabeth’s rival.”
    “But he really did speak freely. He calls it confidential but it sounded like an open secret to me.”
    “The idea of this marriage came up last year,” I said slowly. “Cecil knew of it then. But . . . ”
    “Was it quelled?”
    “I’m not sure. I never heard exactly what happened about it.” I brightened. “From what Norfolk says, though, he obviously intends to seek the queen’s approval before he goes through with it. Perhaps I’m worrying needlessly and . . . ” I stopped, interrupted by a sudden hubbub in the distance, of raised voices and running feet. “Whatever’s that?”
    Hugh slid off the bed and went to look out of the door. Throwing back the covers, I followed him. Our door opened on a wide passage, lit at night with lamps. In one direction, the passage led to the staircase down to the hall and parlor, and in the other, went past the two bedchambers occupied respectively by the Brockleys and by Sybil and Meg, ending at a flight of stone steps. Downward, these led to the kitchen quarters; upward, to the servants’ dormitories on the floor above. The noises were coming from above. Somebody was crying noisily and somebody else, by the sound of it, was being appallingly sick. The Brockleys,Gladys, Sybil, and Meg now appeared in the other doorways, doing up overgown belts and looking alarmed.
    “I’m going to see what’s happening,” said Hugh. “Brockley!”
    “Sir?”
    “Come with me. The rest of you stay here.”
    They were back before long, grim of face.
    “About three quarters of the servants have been taken ill. They’ve got the gripes and some of them,” Hugh said, “are clearing their systems both ends, if you take my meaning. And”—his eye fell grimly on Gladys, who was still at Dale’s side in the bedchamber doorway—“there’s a hysterical maidservant or two talking about witchcraft and being cursed by . . . er . . . Mistress Morgan that came with the Stannards.”
    “By that old hag, I s’pose you mean,” said Gladys. “You wouldn’t repeat it but that’s what they called me, I don’t doubt.”
    “Witchcraft be damned,” said Brockley. “I’ve been down to the kitchen. There’s four more scullions down there—they sleep there to guard the fire. They’re as sick as dogs but they pointed out a pot of the stew they had at supper. There’s some left. Chicken stew, it is, one of them told me, in