– TRADITIONAL ENGLISH BALLAD
CHAPTER 14
OXFORD
THE GROUP SPENT one night at Ruthin Castle in North Wales, where they attended the regular Friday night medieval banquet, learning to eat soup with their fingers and gaining a new appreciation for the beauty of Welsh singing. Since they had to leave at ten the next morning (“Before the shops even opened!”), they were unable to form much of an opinion of Wales. Frances noted that bad carpeting seemed to be endemic among the ancient castles of Britain, but otherwise the company found it a pleasant and picturesque place. It did not have the aura of a thirteenth-century castle, though. Centuries of renovations probably accounted for that. It seemed no older nor more impressive than Moretonhampstead, nine hundred years its junior.
Rowan Rover, who was not well-versed in Welsh law, decided to refrain from any questionable activity until the party again crossed the border into England.
Another long drive on Saturday took them south again, with a stop to tour Powys Castle, and finally to the Shropshire town of Shrewsbury, where Frances would at last walk in the footsteps of the fictional Brother Cadfael. Rowan Rover had the weekend off, as was his custom, and he bade them farewell at the train station, promising to see them Monday morning for the journey to Oxford.
They checked into the Lion Hotel, an old coaching inn on the summit of the town’s old street, Wyle Cop. Former guests at the seven-hundred-year-old establishment had included Charles Dickens, and Jenny Lind, the Swedish Nightingale. Such real celebrities, however, paled beside Shrewsbury’s true celebrity: Brother Cadfael, who never existed at all. In his way, though, he was as much a local dignitary as was Jack the Ripper in the East End. The bookstores and curio shops sold Brother Cadfael dolls and hand-drawn maps, and the Abbey Church of Saint Peter and Saint Paul, his erstwhile home, featured an entire rack of Brother Cadfael paperbacks in the back of the sanctuary itself.
Susan was extremely amused by that. “That’s great!” she said with a laugh. “Ellis Peters has become a local industry. Boy, I’ll bet Joan Hess wishes they’d sell her books in the Baptist Church in Fayetteville, Arkansas! Wait till I tell the fans back home.”
Elizabeth, whose interest in fictional crime was minimal, had to have all this explained to her twice, but she went along uncomplainingly on the one-hour Cadfael walk, provided Sunday morning by a knowledgeable city guide. (The shops were all closed, of course.) Susan, who had read all of Ellis Peters’ work several times, was being her usual tiresome self, embellishing all the guide’s remarks with plot summaries of each of the books. At one point Alice MacKenzie was heard to murmur that a reenactment of a Brother Cadfael murder wouldn’t come amiss. She was looking pointedly in Susan’s direction at the time.
That afternoon, many of the group took walks of their own along the Meole Brooke (now called the Rea Brook) or up to the castle overlooking the River Severn. The weather was still more warm and fair than anyone had a right to expect in an English autumn. By now they were quite spoiled by their good fortune and were taking it for granted.
Elizabeth spent the afternoon writing more letters and examining her map to see what real murder sites lay on tomorrow’s route. She had found Shrewsbury disappointingly peaceful and law-abiding. As she looked over the names on the map, one quite near Oxford struck a familiar chord: Cumnor.
“Amy Robsart!” whispered Elizabeth. In addition to her true crime addiction, she had taken to reading the novels of Sir Walter Scott, as an homage to her newly adopted homeland. In
Amy Robsart, the only heir of the Duke of Norfolk, fell in love with Robert Dudley, third son of the Earl of Leicester, and in 1550, at the age of eighteen, she married him in a grand wedding attended by the boy king Edward VI.
The young couple lived together in the country, seemingly happy, and certainly wealthy. At the death of Amy’s father, she inherited his considerable fortune. There was trouble for them, when Dudley was imprisoned for taking part in the Lynn Rebellion, but by and by he was released and they went home to the country once more.
In 1558 Queen Elizabeth ascended the throne, and Robert Dudley was summoned to court. First he was made Master of the Horse, and then a Knight of the Garter. He was constantly in the company of the queen. Amy stayed at home in the country. Soon it was common gossip in the court that the queen
On September 4, 1560, the queen remarked that Lord Robert’s wife was exceedingly ill, and perhaps already dead. In fact, twenty-eight-year-old Amy was in perfect health at Cumnor Hall-but four days later she lay dead at the foot of the main staircase with a broken neck.
“The queen was an accessory before the fact,” murmured Elizabeth. “I wonder what Rowan will say about that?”
Rowan, who was somewhat tired from his morning train ride, and even more preoccupied with more current intrigues, looked completely horrified at his seatmate’s suggestion that Queen Elizabeth was an accessory to murder. “Nonsense! I don’t believe a word of it.”
“But how do you explain the fact that she knew Amy Robsart was going to die four days in advance?”
“Amy Rob-oh!” Rowan reddened.
It was a clear day, with a chill wind making it cooler than usual, as the coach sped eastward out of Shropshire and back toward Oxford, which even in Amy Robsart’s time was considered within commuting distance of London.
“Well?” said Elizabeth. “Was she murdered?”
With considerable effort the guide turned his attention to the conversation. “Who? Oh, Amy Robsart? Yes, of course she was murdered. Wives never fling themselves down staircases just because one has one’s eye on a new bird.” He spoke with heartfelt sincerity. “At least mine never do.”
“I thought her death was rather convenient. Wealthy little Amy dies, leaving her husband with a fortune and with the freedom to marry his sovereign, untainted by the divorce courts.”
“He wasn’t home at the time,” Rowan pointed out.
