A Web of Silk

by FIONA BUCKLEY

  I saw it happen and, although at the time I didn’t realize what I was seeing, I nevertheless remembered it, and later on I understood. Looking back, yes, I saw it happen. I saw the moment when Martin Taverner, master glassmaker in the City of London, and Jane Frost, daughter of courtier, minor landowner and possibly traitor Giles Frost, looked at each other, light-brown eyes meeting greenish hazel ones, and fell in love.

  It can be like that. I have heard it variously described. Some say that it is like being struck by lightning or knocked over by a runaway wagon. Some say it is like falling down a well but falling towards light and not into darkness. For others, it is like coming indoors out of a snowstorm to find a bright fire on the hearth and a friend there waiting.

  It was something like that between me and my last husband, Hugh, though that was gradual, not instantaneous. But I have known the lightning too – known what it is to be knocked off your feet. That is how it was the first time I set eyes on my first husband, Gerald Blanchard, when he was introduced to me as my cousin Mary’s betrothed. It was mutual. And so was this.

  It was also interesting, or so I have since thought, that the personable and authoritative Taverner gave his heart not to the stronger-minded Joyce, with her dashing near-auburn looks, but to the gentler, less colourful Jane. But give his heart he did, and immediately. In that moment, the lachrymose Eleanor lost her chance with Martin Taverner for ever.

  Brockley was muttering something in my ear. I turned and looked at him, blinking. Because of the confusion that had reigned since the moment we entered the great hall, and because my own fear and anger had muddled my mind, I had let myself be distracted from something obvious. But Brockley had not and was reminding me.

  ‘Joyce and Jane,’ I said, ‘Where is your maid Susie?’

  ‘We left her in our room,’ said Jane, ‘brushing things.’

  ‘A pity you didn’t let her dress you properly,’ said Frost acidly. ‘You look as if you scrambled into your clothes more or less by yourselves.’

  ‘We did,’ said Joyce. ‘We heard footsteps going by, a lot of people going downstairs, and then raised voices from down here, and Mistress Stannard’s voice … We had to know!’

  I raised my voice again. ‘Will you summon Susie and bring her here? I have something to ask her.’

  NINETEEN

  Bringing Up the Artillery

  The twins turned at once and went out together. As they closed the door behind them, I said to Master Taverner: ‘When you have heard what the maid Susie has to say, it may make a considerable difference. But if …’

  ‘What is all this? What can Susie possibly have to say that is to the point?’ demanded Frost. ‘She is a silly little thing who imagines herself in love with me, and a great embarrassment it is. She will tell any foolish lie to hurt me because I have rejected her. She …’

  ‘If you will forgive the interruption,’ said Taverner, in a tone which strongly implied that he didn’t care in the least whether he was forgiven or not, ‘I would like to hear the rest. I have to say that I am in something of a daze. There appears to be no doubt that Mistress Stannard and her manservant were found trying to get a chest of silverware out of this house, but her own explanation was interrupted, partly by me – for which, my apologies, Mistress Stannard. It ought to be heard, and in view of Mistress Stannard’s standing, her relationship to Her Majesty the queen and her past reputation, of which I know a good deal, I feel that we should consider the matter more fully.’

  ‘Indeed, yes!’ said Brockley. ‘It is time our side was given a hearing!’

  In a patient voice, I repeated: ‘Susie may make a difference.’ I turned to Taverner. ‘Sir, if this matter can’t be cleared up quickly, I would wish someone to take the news of what is happening to me to my people at Hawkswood, where I live. It is only nine miles away. Will you do it? My steward Adam Wilder needs to know and so does my stud groom, Laurence Miller. I would also be glad if you could give Adam Wilder a message from me. I wish him to tell Christopher Spelton what has happened to me. He is an old friend, I want him to know.’

  Taverner looked relieved by such a reasonable request. ‘Naturally your people should know,’ he said. ‘I will take your message to your steward with pleasure.’

  ‘Who’s Christopher Spelton?’ demanded Stagg in a loud, suspicious voice.

  ‘He is a friend of Mistress Stannard,’ said Frost. ‘As she has just said. Naturally she will wish to inform such people. Whether they remain her friends for long, we shall see.’

  I ignored this and said: ‘Thank you,’ to Taverner.

  It was the best I could do. My friend, a Queen’s Messenger and occasional secret agent, Christopher Spelton might be able to help. He would certainly try. He would surely send a report on the matter to both Cecil and Walsingham. So would Miller. They might come to the rescue. Unless Susie did.

  Susie appeared only a few moments later, brought by the twins, who urged her into the hall ahead of them, then followed her in and stood resolutely behind her, obviously intending to block her way out. Their father looked at them with annoyance. Fearing that he was about to order Susie out, I spoke first.

  ‘Susie,’ I said, ‘last night, you were about to tell us what Master Stagg’s real name is. Will you do so now? It is important.’

  Frost drew a hissing breath and Stagg went crimson. He glared at me and opened his mouth. And then shut it again and glared at Susie instead. The twins looked bewildered. Susie’s eyes were resentful, and when she glanced at Sybil I read hatred in them. Then she said stonily: ‘Dunno what you mean. He’s Master Julius Stagg, that’s who. That’s all.’

  ‘That’s not what you said, or began to say, last night,’ said Brockley sternly.

  ‘And Master Frost stopped you,’ I said.

  ‘I just wanted to stop the whole silly rigmarole!’ Frost barked. ‘You had been caught stealing a valuable chest, and what Julius’s surname is or was could hardly have had less importance.’

  ‘I think it could be of great importance,’ I said, in my silkiest tone. ‘Susie …’

  ‘Susie behaved very foolishly last night and talked wildly,’ said Frost. ‘Susie, you know very well that though I am no angel I would wish to recognize and support a child of my own getting. At least, provided that the baby’s mother was discreet and made no trouble.’

  He turned to Sybil. ‘I am sorry. As I said, I am no angel. I have had my affairs and Susie is one of them. But my feelings for you are of a different nature and I still hope I can persuade you to look upon me favourably.’

  Sybil said nothing. And I felt bitter. I knew what I had just heard: Giles Frost had bribed Susie. Her mouth was now firmly closed. He had promised to support her child, and presumably Susie herself, as long as she made no trouble. She would not now betray Julius Stagg’s real name. I was as sure as I could be that he was Anthony Hunt, but I had no proof.

  ‘Lock them up while I go to see Heron,’ said Stagg to Frost. ‘That’s my advice.’

  ‘And I will be on my way to Hawkswood,’ said Taverner. As he made towards the door, Eleanor stepped towards him, reaching out a hand, but he did not look at her and her hand dropped. Seeing her gazing forlornly after him as he went out, I felt a trace of pity for her. She had been extremely foolish; even if she was, as I suspected, a niece of Simeon Wilmot as well as a niece of Julius Stagg, and even if she was really fond of both her uncles, she should have had more sense than to let herself be entangled in this. However, she was very young and perhaps she really was in love with Taverner.

  But I couldn’t spare much time or energy over feeling sorry for Eleanor. It looked as if Frost did not intend to accuse Sybil or Dale. But Brockley and I were in great danger. We were standing close to each other, side by side. Softly, so that no one else could hear, I said to him: ‘Brockley, I’m so sorry. This is my fault.’

  ‘I knew I was right when I said your loyal servants should lock you up until you came to your senses,’ Brockley muttered back. ‘The trou
ble is,’ he added, ‘I was quite enjoying the challenge. Until now.’

  No censure. Only a declaration of partnership. Dear Brockley!

  This time, we were all incarcerated together, in my room, the larger of the two. ‘You can wait here,’ said Frost, before he closed the door on us, ‘until Master Stagg gets back from seeing Sir Edward Heron. He may bring Sir Edward with him. That one of you is unfortunately half-sister to the queen does make things awkward. What a way for a queen’s sister to behave!’

  ‘We have to rely on Laurence Miller and Christopher Spelton now,’ I said to the others as the key turned in the lock. ‘They will inform Cecil and Walsingham. They may help us. Perhaps!’

  ‘But they didn’t instruct you to smuggle any chests full of silverware out of Knoll House, did they?’ said Sybil. ‘Walsingham sent you here to tell lies about shipyards.’

  ‘They know perfectly well that I wouldn’t steal,’ I said.

  ‘But they can’t override the law at will,’ Sybil said. ‘Maybe even the queen can’t … or wouldn’t. It would set a bad precedent. Oh, why have things had to go so horribly wrong?’

  We had all been standing about in the room, too unsettled to sit down or make ourselves comfortable in any way. But now Sybil did sit down, on the side of the bed, and burst into a flood of tears which almost outdid Eleanor’s. Dale went to her and put a kind arm round her shoulders. ‘Oh, don’t cry so. It will be all right. You’ll see. Mistress Stannard will manage, I know she will. Oh, please …’ She produced a handkerchief. ‘Mistress Jester, dry your eyes on this. It will be all right, I tell you!’

  But the swift glance that Dale gave me, from blue eyes more protuberant than usual because of anxiety, expressed only hope. There was no certainty.

  ‘I’m sorry!’ Sybil gasped. ‘I’m sorry. I don’t understand myself! But except to help you, Ursula, I’d never marry a man who’s been selling secrets to Spain. I’d never marry a man who is threatening you! I’d never, never do that. Never!’

  ‘But Sybil, dear Sybil, whoever thought you would?’ I too went to her. ‘It’s not your fault that Giles Frost has pursued you. No one blames you for that.’

  ‘I know, but I blame myself. It’s no use and I would never give way to it but …’

  ‘You find him attractive,’ I said. ‘You have told me so. I do understand.’

  ‘It’s worse than that! I dream of him at night,’ Sybil said miserably. ‘I long for him. I crave for him. I … I love him. I have prayed; pleaded with God to take this unholy love away from me, but He hasn’t answered me. I love him. It isn’t simply lust. You must finish with me, Ursula. When we’re out of this, you must send me away; I’ll go to my daughter in Edinburgh. Perhaps there I will be able to forget, in time. I will get over it. I know too well what a bad marriage is and once you’re wed, if things go wrong there’s no going back, you are trapped. Even now, when I’m mad with love, I don’t think I could force myself to go through a wedding ceremony, knowing the power I would be putting in a man’s hands. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m not making sense but …’

  I said firmly: ‘When I was married for the second time, to Matthew de la Roche, I was passionately in love with him but we were never happy because he was Elizabeth’s enemy. Just as Frost is. I know exactly what you are going through, because I’ve been through it too. There’s no need to be sorry and of course I wouldn’t send you away. Dale is right. You must dry your eyes and we will all sit together and try to think of ways to get ourselves out of this. Come along, Sybil. No more of this mea culpa! You’re a woman like other women and suddenly you’ve been reminded of it. That’s all.’

  ‘I’ve been thinking that I am going mad …’

  ‘No, my dear, you are not.’ I handed her a second handkerchief. ‘Come, try to calm yourself …’

  ‘Mistress Jester isn’t the only one who has been doubting her own sanity,’ said Brockley, startling us all. ‘I have been thinking of something that is tying my mind into knots.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ I asked.

  ‘Frost and his associates murdered my son Philip. I am sure of it. But how can I bring them to justice? I can’t see a way, but – he was my son!’ said Brockley, his voice harsh in a way I had never heard from him before. It sounded as though it were made from pieces of iron that were being dragged over a bed of flint, grating and grinding and striking sparks.

  ‘We will do it,’ I said. ‘I hadn’t forgotten. We will do it somehow.’

  ‘I can’t see how,’ said Brockley, still in that curious, harsh voice. ‘I’ve been thinking and thinking and tying my brain in knots and can’t see a way. But whatever happens to me, I pray I will see them dead, both Frost and Hunt, before I die myself!’

  ‘I understand,’ I said. But then added: ‘I would be happier if the only deaths were theirs, not ours. What can we do to save ourselves?’

  Unknown to us, Martin Taverner was doing it.

  We were left to ourselves for the rest of the day. Food and drink, in the shape of cold meat, bread and small ale, was served to us twice. That night, we three women squeezed into the bed, while Brockley found a truckle bed underneath our own and slept on that. I used my picklocks to fetch him some bedcovers from his rightful room next door. Early next morning, I quietly returned them. None of us had slept well, anyway.

  Breakfast was cold lamb chops, yesterday’s bread and more small ale. A couple of hours went by. And then, in the distance, we heard hooves and voices and we were fetched to the great hall. There we found the sheriff in person, Sir Edward Heron, with a couple of his men, awaiting us.

  I never learned the names of the two men. They were not the ones who had come when Philip was killed, though both pairs of men wore helmets and carried swords. Of these two, one was hefty and sandy with a pugnacious face; the other was short and wiry, with fair curly hair, round blue eyes and a deceptively angelic air. I privately named them Pug and Saint. They stood a respectful two paces behind their master, and he, of course, I knew. Sir Edward Heron was a tall, thin man with cold eyes and a long nose of a faintly yellow tint. In fact, he did actually look something like his name. He didn’t like me and showed it immediately.

  ‘Ah, Mistress Stannard. Once more I find you embroiled in violent and questionable events. You would be so much happier if you would confine yourself to your still-room and your needlework, as a lady should.’

  ‘Sir Edward,’ I said, making him a curtsey. ‘Good day. I assure you that I have been staying at Knoll House only to instruct Master Frost’s daughters in embroidery.’

  Sir Edward raised his arched eyebrows half an inch or so higher and said: ‘I am glad to hear it.’ On the occasion when I successfully obliged him to withdraw a charge of witchcraft, I knew he had felt defeated. He had wanted me to be guilty because he disliked the kind of woman that I was. Like Walsingham, he did not consider that it was a woman’s business to undertake secret missions for the queen.

  But he had his virtues. Sir Edward Heron might dislike me, might indeed be biased against me, but no one had ever accused him of dishonesty. He was a man of integrity. If the evidence cleared me, he would not try to falsify any facts.

  The trouble was that Stagg and Frost, and probably Eleanor too, would falsify facts with a will. Yes, the danger was real. The ghost of Simeon Wilmot was in the room with us.

  Sybil was invited to sit down and Dale was told to stand at her side. Brockley and I were left standing in the middle of the floor. The table had been pushed back to make room. Heron, Stagg, Frost and Eleanor were seated on a bench, facing us. Dr Lambert was present this time and he, along with Barney Vaughan and Susie, all standing, were ranged on one side of the bench. Heron’s men stood watchfully upon the other. Eleanor had reddened eyes, as though she had been crying again, which was no surprise. Lambert didn’t look happy, either.

  Frost called on Dr Lambert to open the proceedings with a prayer for guidance and the discovery of the truth. Under his breath, I heard Brockley growl: ‘Hypocrite!
’ The prayer was short and exceptionally nasal, as if Lambert was reciting the words but could put no heart into them. Did Lambert have a bad conscience? I wondered. How much did he know? Anything? Nothing? Or all?

  The proceedings began. It was not a trial, of course, but a preliminary enquiry. Heron wanted to know the facts before he actually invoked the law. He tried to conduct things in a dignified and official manner, calling on first one and then another to speak, and silencing interruptions. But the enquiry never really got under way. We were still listening to Stagg explaining, outrageously, how his suspicions had been aroused by the cost of the window I had ordered and what he called my covetous expression when I saw the chest while visiting his premises, and what he claimed to have heard Brockley and me whispering to each other, when there was an interruption.

  It began with the sound of hoofs and the rumble of wheels and Heron called a halt while he sent Pug to ask who had arrived and why. Pug returned looking astonished, and he was followed by Taverner, leading a small procession. First came Christopher Spelton, pushing a wheeled chair in which Eleanor’s stepfather Daniel Johns was seated. After him came Dr Joynings and behind him, glowering and clumping along on her stick …

  ‘God’s Teeth!’ muttered Brockley. ‘They’ve brought the artillery!’

  Last in the procession was Gladys.

  Taverner and Johns between them managed to present a most authoritative front. Politely, having removed their hats and bowed to Sir Edward and then collectively to everyone else, they presented their companions in formal fashion. Johns stated that he had decided to leave his valet, who usually pushed his chair, at home, since Master Spelton was willing to assist and the matter in hand was so delicate. He then announced that he and Master Taverner had a favour to ask. Taverner did the actual asking. In the least humble voice imaginable, he said that he humbly begged that Mistress Stannard should be allowed to put her side of the story. They had brought witnesses who might be able to bear some of it out, and it would shorten the proceedings if it were possible to go straight ahead with this.