A Perilous Alliance

by FIONA BUCKLEY

  ‘Many of them I undertook to please him,’ I said. ‘Though it’s true that just now I’m resisting his latest request. He’s trying to marry me off – he’s nearly as bad as your in-laws! Before too long, a French count called Gilbert Renard is likely to visit me here to offer me his hand and heart – for political reasons. I don’t know when he’ll be here, but soon, I fancy.’

  ‘Next week, madam,’ said Adam Wilder, offering me the platter of chicken legs. ‘He has sent word. He won’t be bringing a big entourage – just a groom and a valet, I understand. We can expect him on the Saturday, I believe.’

  ‘What I’m doing,’ said Jerome Billington, the principal Hawkswood forester, ‘is called coppicing. It can’t be done with all trees, but with these here hazels, if you cut them down at the right stage, they’ll sprout again from the stump and you’ll get some good new wood that makes things like hurdles – very useful, very saleable. You can do it with alder and chestnut as well – better stand well back, ma’am. She’ll be coming down any minute now.’

  The two men who were working the saw, stripped to the waist and shiny with sweat even though it was February and the morning, though bright, had started with frost, paused for a moment to look at the tree they were cutting. It had already been stripped of its branches, which lay in a heap some yards away, and it had been cut to weaken it on the side where the woodsmen wanted it to fall. The men spoke briefly to each other and then resumed their work with the saw. The tree swayed and fell, precisely where they had decided that it should. And I had learned a little more about the work of what was now my own woodland.

  In Hugh’s day, I had had little to do with the farm and woodland, and hardly knew Billington. I had had much to learn since Hugh’s death. This morning, I was out in our little wood, where Billington was busy, interesting myself in forestry work and I was there because I was running away from my own feelings. The count was due to arrive today and I was full of an inner rage, which was at least half fear. It burned so fiercely in me that I had come out to the wood straight after breakfast, without even pausing to discuss the day’s meals with John Hawthorn, as I certainly should have done. I was so overstrung that I had snapped unjustly at Dale when she did my hair that morning, and had had to bite back a sharp remark that I nearly made to Sybil. I felt I was hardly fit for polite society.

  I was dreading, so much, the approaching advent of Gilbert Renard.

  I’d been dreading it for days, even while I made prepar-ations for it. I had had rooms made ready for the count and his servants, and since those chambers had not been used since the Yarrow party left Hawkswood the previous summer, I was having fires lit in them every day to disperse the chill of winter. I had overheard Phoebe and Margery, the two maids who had the task of laying, maintaining and clearing the extra fires, grumbling about it when they thought I couldn’t hear them, and from this I knew that they did not relish the prospect of my new marriage any more than I did. They were normally the most willing of servants and had never before complained about anything, in or out of earshot of their employer.

  Phoebe, who was forty, portly and conscientious, had strong opinions on the duty of employees to do as they were told, and Margery, who was only seventeen, was always nervous of giving offence, for she came of a large family and had had to leave home to make way for younger siblings. They must be feeling strongly.

  I didn’t blame them. I felt strongly, too.

  Since returning from Withysham I had also sent John Hawthorn to buy extra supplies so that our hospitality would lack nothing. I had had windows cleaned and rugs brushed and furniture polished and I had written a letter to Cecil, asking him what the legal position really was concerning Ambrosia’s children.

  I had given Simon a rest from travel and let him keep his pregnant wife company while I despatched one of our other grooms, Joseph, to London with it. Arthur Watts, the senior groom, was no longer young enough for long journeys and I considered our newest groom, Eddie, who was only sixteen, to be too young for responsible errands such as this. Joseph, who had been at Hawkswood since he was fourteen, was now a competent twenty-two, fair-haired, stolid, taciturn but good-humoured, and well able for the task. I made sure he had a good horse. ‘You can take Redstart,’ I told him.

  The horse was one of the reasons why I had taken young Eddie on. In Hugh’s later years, we had had some financial problems and had reduced our stable, but this sometimes caused inconvenience and lately I had acquired a couple of horses for general use, and hired an extra groom to look after them. One was a piebald called Magpie, a weight carrier who could if need be cope with Adam Wilder or my cook John Hawthorn. Adam was not fat but he was over six feet tall, while John Hawthorn was a very heavy man indeed. The other was Redstart, a leggy chestnut with a good turn of speed. Joseph should make good time to Cecil. I expected him back at any moment.

  My new purchases hadn’t filled up the stable; as at Withysham, we had plenty of spare stalls, left over from our more prosperous days. I had told Arthur Watts to make them ready. Another of the preparations for the guest I didn’t want.

  Now it was Saturday, just over a week since my return to Hawkswood, and a messenger had brought word yesterday, to confirm that Count Renard would be with me shortly after noon. In an act, I suppose, of rebellion, I had chosen to spend the morning in the woods, dressed for out of doors in February, in a warm, plain wool gown with no ruff or farthingale, and a good thick shawl. However, the morning was slipping away. I could not prowl about in the wood, asking Billington artless questions, any longer.

  While he talked to me, Billington had been watching me thoughtfully. He was a squarely built, flaxen man, rather like an older version of Joseph, though not so silent. He was at the moment respectably dressed in a brown working shirt and old breeches. He had a calm and competent manner and I knew that Hugh had thought highly of him.

  ‘He’s a good man,’ Hugh had said. ‘Good at his work and likes his work. His forebears were mostly foresters just as he is. He’s got a son to follow him, who seems just as happy to fit the same pattern. The Billingtons seem to breed true.’ He had laughed. ‘And there’s nothing subservient about any of them. Billington tells me what needs doing in my woodland and I listen respectfully and give him a free hand.’

  That calm lack of subservience was in Billington’s eyes now, as he nodded to his men to start cutting up the branches and the tree trunk, but kept his gaze on me.

  ‘This be a worrying time for you, ma’am,’ he remarked. He had the same country accent as Brockley, though Brockley’s was far less marked. ‘Is that why you came out here today, to inspect your trees? You’ve not done so before.’

  Taken by surprise, I hardly knew how to answer. He did it for me. ‘I know why, ma’am. You’re worried. We all know, everyone here and at Withysham too, I dare say. And we all think the same. That it’s for you to say. No one else. You can’t be forced.’

  ‘It’s complicated, Billington. More than you realize.’

  ‘Perhaps. But the queen, blessed majesty though she is, can’t dispose of your person at will. It belongs to you.’

  ‘She once ordered the Earl of Leicester to marry Mary Stuart,’ I said.

  ‘But he didn’t obey, did he?’

  ‘No,’ I agreed.

  ‘And he’s still the Earl of Leicester. He ain’t in the Tower – nor headless, either. Ma’am, the queen has many powers but she ain’t a Barbary Corsair. You ain’t her slave.’

  ‘I know. Thank you, Billington. You’re right, of course. In the end, it’s my decision.’

  Only it wasn’t. Not quite. Not if the queen not only wanted me to consent, but needed it.

  But time was passing. I thanked Billington and his men for letting me watch them at work, turned away and set off, slowly, towards Hawkswood House, my home, my place of safety, which was about to be invaded. As I entered the courtyard, I saw Brockley there, looking about him anxiously

  ‘Madam! I wondered where you had got to. I’ve seen
them from an upper window. They’re early. They’re coming now.’

  FOUR

  First Impressions

  I could already hear the approaching hoofbeats. They were coming at speed. Then they were there, a group of riders pounding in through the gate arch. In the lead was the man who was presumably Count Renard, for he was riding a tall bay stallion, a mighty animal with white-ringed eyes and foam round its bit. Its accoutrements were elaborate, a scarlet leather bridle with silver studs and matching scarlet reins, scalloped, with silver edgings. The count pulled his steed to a dramatic halt in the middle of the courtyard and his companions pulled up behind him.

  I had understood that he would be bringing a personal man and a groom. The personal man was probably the one in clerkly black, riding a roan gelding. Behind him, however, was someone Cecil had not mentioned, a self-evident chaplain with a heavy jewelled cross swinging against his chest. Judging by the white hair I could see beneath his cap, he was not young, and perhaps because of this, he had a quiet mount, a steady-looking brown mule. He would be a Catholic chaplain, I supposed. Well, the Floods would like that; no doubt they would want to share any Masses that he said in my house.

  Behind these two came two grooms on sturdy cobs, one of them leading a pack mule. They all remained in their saddles while the count swung himself athletically to the ground. He was of middle height, I saw, elegant in his dress, which consisted of a blue doublet and cap, tawny hose above highly polished boots and a tawny cloak in gleaming velvet. On his right hand he wore a great ring with a square-cut ruby in an ornate gold setting. He pulled off his cap and I saw that his hair was light-coloured, somewhere between brown and fair, and that his eyes were light blue. It was not colouring that appealed to me; I had always preferred dark-haired men. This man’s eyes were also disconcerting in that they were very round and slightly fixed, like the eyes of an owl. Despite his obviously capable horsemanship, he did not have the complexion of an outdoor man, but was fresh-skinned, pink and white with no trace of tanning.

  He said: ‘I seek the lady Mistress Stannard. I believe I am expected.’

  In the plain dress and shawl I had used for roaming through the woods, of course, I didn’t look in the least like the mistress of Hawkswood. Feeling that I was probably not making an ideal first impression, I said: ‘I am Mistress Stannard. I have been outdoors this morning about the business of the estate.’

  ‘Your pardon, madame! I did not realize.’ He swept me a low bow. ‘I trust we are welcome, for we are happy to be here.’ He had a pleasant voice, and his English, though accented, was otherwise excellent.

  I was still conscious of having been taken at a disadvantage, and felt flustered. I looked round. Wilder had come out of the house now, along with Sybil, and Arthur Watts had appeared from the stables. I hurried into speech. ‘Please, everyone, dismount. This is my steward, Wilder. Watts here is my senior groom and will show you where the horses are to be stabled. Brockley is my personal man but he will help with the horses. This is Mistress Sybil Jester, my gentlewoman …’

  I was too voluble but I had no idea at all of how I should welcome this stranger who was in fact so very unwelcome. His companions now got down from their saddles and he made them known to me. The clerkly man was his personal attendant, as I had surmised, but was apparently also something more. ‘This is Pierre Lestrange, my man and also my friend. He is the son of my mother’s steward and we were virtually brought up together. I look on him as a brother.’ He was asking me, or warning me, not simply to dismiss Lestrange to the ser-vants’ quarters. ‘And this is my chaplain, Father Ignatius.’ Both Lestrange and the chaplain bowed to me.

  The count didn’t bother to introduce his grooms, who were in any case already leading their mounts away, accompanied by Watts and Brockley. I said: ‘I am scarcely dressed for receiving visitors. You came before you were expected, sir. Please excuse me for a short time. Wilder, please take our guests to the great hall and provide refreshments. Sybil, please go and change as well, then come to the hall. You and your daughter will dine with us, of course.’

  I made my escape somehow, to dress in a manner that would make me look more like the mistress of the house and to snatch a hasty and belated word with John Hawthorn, who met me as I went in and was reassuring. ‘All is in readiness, madam, have no fear. You went out so early this morning that I had no chance to consult with you but we did talk yesterday, if you recall. I have a leg of mutton on the spit as you wished, and if you can hear agitated noises from the poultry yard, Ben Flood is out there killing a couple of chickens. That speckled hen that seems to have given up laying will do very nicely, chopped up and cooked with pine nuts, and the other one can be served jointed and fried with the pepper sauce you like so much. The bean stew is ready and only needs heating. We haven’t discussed the sweet course, but I suggest bread and butter pudding with saffron, and almond fritters. Master Wilder has already chosen the wines, subject to your approval. Dinner may be later than usual, as I expected your guests to arrive later. But it will be all it should be, I assure you.’

  ‘Dear Hawthorn, you’re a marvel. Now I must dress properly. Where is Dale?’

  ‘Here, madam,’ said Dale, appearing at my side.

  Ambrosia, hurrying down the stairs, smiled at me and said: ‘Do let me help. I’ve been watching from a window. I thought the count looked very handsome! Isn’t it wonderful how people always arrive to catch one unawares? I can brush things and hand things, if Dale doesn’t mind.’

  ‘You can marry the count yourself if the queen doesn’t mind,’ I said sourly. ‘Yes, come upstairs with me, both of you.’

  Ambrosia had her mother’s ability to be useful without being intrusive. In a very short time, she and Dale had me washed and brushed, my hair tidily crimped under the hood with the fresh-water pearl trim, and they were buttoning and tying me into a peach-coloured silk gown over a pale blue kirtle with silver flowers embroidered on the kirtle and on the big peach silk over-sleeves. With all this went a ruff and farthingale wider than I normally preferred, but fashionable. Sometimes, one had to be, and I had suitable items in readiness.

  Sybil looked in just as I had made ready, to collect Ambrosia and hurry her into changing as well. ‘We must look elegant if we are to dine with Mistress Stannard and the count.’

  Dale and Gladys were to eat upstairs, with Tessie and Harry. Dale, though, put on a fresh hood in case she should by chance come face-to-face with the count. Gladys didn’t seem inclined to take the trouble but I ordered her out of sight until she had removed the awful patched and stained brown gown which was her regular choice of garment, and had put on the respectable dark blue dress and white ruff that I had given her for the previous Christmas and which she always had to be nagged into wearing.

  Eventually, Sybil and I went to the hall to find our guests enjoying the wine and the meat patties that Wilder had provided to bridge the gap until dinner. I noticed that Lestrange had indeed not retired to servants’ quarters but was at his master’s side. They all smiled at us and Sybil and I smiled back. Then we all sat or stood about, rather ill at ease, making stilted conversation on harmless topics. There was an atmosphere of constraint, and no one referred even obliquely to the reason for this visit.

  I found that Pierre Lestrange and Father Ignatius spoke good English just as their master did, and congratulated them on this. Meanwhile, the count and I kept glancing at each other, taking silent stock of our possible future life partners, but aloud we limited ourselves to exchanging platitudes about the fortunately dry weather (so nice that the roads weren’t muddy) and Father Ignatius made a little jest about a tricky point of English grammar.

  Presently, there was a break during which the guests were shown to their rooms and were given warm water and towels so they could wash before dinner, which was considerably later than usual, and didn’t appear until dusk was imminent.

  As it was a social occasion, it was reasonably successful. Wilder had chosen my best wines to go with it a
nd they had a relaxing effect on everyone’s tongues. Some jokes were told and there was a discussion about the differences between French and English cuisines. Lestrange helped to wait on the count and seemed to enjoy the jokes. Father Ignatius, who was quite a lively soul, told us amusing tales of their journey from London, including one about an innkeeper who claimed to speak French and kept trying to talk to them in that language. ‘And it was oh so much an embarrassment; we couldn’t understand a word he said!’

  The count himself turned out to be well read in both French and English. Indeed, things went so smoothly that I sent for Tessie to bring little Harry in to share the dessert course with us, and though Harry, a typical four-year-old, stared blankly and rather rudely at the stranger who was so obviously the chief among the other strangers, and had to be nudged into making a bow, the count spoke admiringly of his good looks and healthy air, and congratulated me on my son by quoting a poem I did not know, though I thought myself knowledgeable about English poetry.

  ‘You have a lovely child,’ he said to me. ‘Have you come across the poem by George Gascoigne – “A Lover’s Lullaby”? Sing lullaby as women do, wherewith they bring their babes to rest; and lullaby can I sing too, as womanly as can the best. But I will not go on, for it is a long poem and not all of it cheerful, and those first lines say what I mean so well.’

  ‘But I know that poem!’ said Ambrosia. ‘My husband was a schoolmaster and he loved poetry and used to read it to me as well as to his pupils. I don’t know it by heart but the poem goes on to say how the lover’s youthful years must be stilled to sleep with lullaby because age and grey hairs have hold of him now, and his face is lined. I found it very moving.’

  ‘You are a lady after my own heart,’ said the count, laughing and bowing gallantly to her across the table. ‘We must talk more of poetry before I leave.’