To Ruin A Queen: An Ursula Blanchard Mystery at Queen Elizabeth I's Court by Fiona Buckley Page B

me to the hall,” said Pugh, “Sir Philip and Lady Mortimer are waiting to receive you.”
    I was gazing wistfully after Meg, but guests cannot refuse to be introduced to their hosts and besides, I was here on a mission. I was about to meet the man I had come to investigate. As my daughter disappeared into the curious keep-cum-timbered-house, I obediently accompanied Rob and Pugh toward the hall. Our red-faced escort came too, bird droppings and all.
    There was a gabled porch and then a massive, studded door which led straight into the hall, the heart of the castle. First impressions were of great size, gloomy grandeur, and domestic confusion, all at once. The place was forty feet long at least, hung with tapestries, most of which looked old and faded. There were numerous cushioned settles and a wide hearth with an intricately carved stone surround. A fire burned there, and for some reason, an untidy heap of fur rugs lay in front of it. Beside it, a man in russet doublet and hose, slashed with yellow, was reading.
    Opposite him, a lady in blue was working at embroidery and a pale, quietly dressed woman was spinning. Servants were hurrying about, setting out trestle tables, presumably for supper, and at some distance from the hearth, an unprepossessing crone, with hanks of gray hair trailing from beneath a grubby shawl, sat on a stool with a pail of milk beside her and a small lamb on her lap. She was dipping a cloth in the milk and squeezing it into the lamb’s mouth.
    As we came in, the draft from the porch door set the hearth fire smoking, and the heap of furs suddenly moved and dissolved into two shaggy sheepdogs, two greyhounds, and a huge mastiff, which got onto their score of feet and began barking and baying. The lamb on the crone’s lap bleated. Pugh had to raise his voice to make himself heard.
    “Mistress Ursula Blanchard and Master Robert Henderson!”
    Some of the servants had stopped work to look at us and someone recalled them to their task with a sharp order in a language I had already heard a few peoplespeak in the Ledbury inn, and now recognized as Welsh. The man in russet stood up, shouting at the dogs to be quiet. The woman in blue laid down her stitchery, came gracefully to her feet, and swept toward us, hands outstretched and azure skirts rustling over the rushes, though the gracious air was slightly damaged as she shot out a daintily slippered foot in order to kick a barking greyhound out of her way.
    “For the love of heaven, what a din! These are friends, you silly animals. Did you bring our guests over from the gatehouse, Evans? My thanks. I am so sorry for the noise, Pugh. We so often keep you from doing your office with proper dignity.”
    The bespattered Evans and the dignified Pugh both denied being inconvenienced in any way, and looked at her as though they adored her. They withdrew, bowing. The lady patted the affronted greyhound, which subsided onto the mat, presumably not much hurt, and the man in russet, who had by now quieted the other dogs, came forward to meet us. The lady, turning a smile of great charm onto us all, offered me her right hand while drawing the man to her side with the other.
    “Welcome. I am Lady Thomasine and this is my son, Sir Philip Mortimer. I apologize for first speaking to Pugh and Evans but they are the most devoted of servants and I care for them as they care for me. They were born to my father’s service here at Vetch.”
    “We are delighted to see you,” said Sir Philip. “We had a courier from Sir William Cecil, who told us that you might arrive today but, in fact, we had given you up—or we would have made sure you had a quieter welcome. You must be tired. Please be seated.”
    We let ourselves be led to a long settle, and the pale woman, who was evidently Lady Thomasine’s maid, fetched some extra cushions. “I believe,” Lady Thomasine said to me, “that your present married name is really de la Roche but that in England you still use the name