Bessie agreed that it was. She was a buxom girl, with a mass of brown hair that kept escaping from its cap, and she was as full of smiles as her father. They promised to see that we were comfortable.
They kept their word and that night, when Sybil and I were once more sharing a bedchamber and a bed, she admitted that I had been right. She, as much as Dale, had needed rest and food. ‘And it was good food, too,’ she said. ‘But if we just miss Ambrosia …’ she added unhappily.
‘We’ll give chase,’ I told her. ‘We’ll follow the count and his companions no matter where they lead us. If necessary, we’ll trail them all the way to France and the Château d’Oiseaux. But Walsingham’s men may catch us all up and if they’re in time, the count will never embark, and you’ll have Ambrosia safely back.’
‘I hope so. Oh, dear God, how I hope so.’ Sybil tried to smile. ‘Dale hates the sea,’ she said.
‘Let us hope she won’t have to face it,’ I replied. I paused, my head on one side and then added: ‘If they haven’t sailed yet, they won’t for a while, I fancy. Listen. There’s a wind getting up.’
In the morning, when we set out to find Whitefields, we did so in a gale. It wasn’t raining, but the wind was howling like a hound pack and ragged black clouds were racing eastward across a cold, pale sky. As we rode out of Dover, Joseph, pulling his cloak hood further over his ears, looked up at the sky and for once broke his habitual silence.
‘Reckon the Wild Hunt’s abroad,’ he remarked, loudly on account of the wind.
‘The what?’ I asked him, also in a shout.
‘Oh, just a tale my mother tells of a night, when it’s dark and windy and she’s got us all gathered round the fire.’ Joseph came from a large family in Hawkswood village, and went back there now and then for an evening off. ‘She says in weather like this, after dark, the devil goes hunting with the souls of the damned as his hounds, and the screech of the wind is them baying!’
His voice rose to a positive bellow during the last sentence, as the gale rose to new levels of noisiness. He then relapsed into silence again but Dale took advantage of a brief lull and said: ‘Hunting what? Doesn’t sound very Christian to me. More like something a pagan would believe.’
‘It’s a story from before Christianity,’ said Brockley unexpectedly. ‘I think it was one of the old Norse gods that did the hunting then. But I never did get clear what they were chasing. What does your mother say about that, Joseph?’
‘Nothing. Just that the devil was running his hounds, like,’ said Joseph, looking embarrassed at being obliged to go on talking.
‘Hunting for more wicked souls to put in his pack, I expect,’ said Sybil. ‘Which is much what we’re doing ourselves, this moment!’
Her voice had to rise to a shout once more, because the wind had again broken into a howl. Overhead, a couple of gulls went past, wings outspread, flying like leaves on the wind.
I thought how pleasant it was for Joseph, that he still had a mother to tell old tales round the fire. My own mother died when I was sixteen, and we were both living in Sussex with my Uncle Herbert and Aunt Tabitha. I always thought that she had let go of life because she was unhappy and certainly my aunt and uncle had never been very kind to either of us. Perhaps they would have been kinder if she had ever told them who fathered me. Maybe if they had known I was the daughter of King Henry, they wouldn’t have been so harsh.
Though it was true that they had at least sheltered us and I had had an education. If we went back to Withysham this summer, I would visit them. They had been angry with me over the arrival of Harry, out of wedlock, but they were growing old and might be reconciled if they actually saw him, I thought hopefully.
When we went back. I only hoped it wouldn’t be too long. That the question might be if more than when had not yet occurred to me.
Whitefields, when we got there, was nothing at all like Stag-Leys. It had a lodge, where two enormous mastiffs bounded out, baying, to announce us, followed by a brawny lodge-keeper, who demanded our names, looked dubious when I leant down to shout into his ear that our business was private, but finally summoned someone called Sam to run to the house ahead of us. Sam proved to be a lad of about fourteen, already showing his father’s hefty build. He trotted off and we followed him uphill along a winding path between fields and paddocks, until we reached the house itself.
It was not all that large, but it was still manor-house size and seemed to be a small imitation of Hampton Court, since it was built of rosy brick with grey brick as a decorative border round doors and windows. The roof did not have crenellations but it had ornamental chimneys, several of which were emitting smoke into the wild sky. Standing outside was Sam, along with three other men.
‘Joseph,’ I said, ‘I think two of those men are grooms. They’ll take our horses. You go with them and see that all’s well. Brockley, I want you to stay with us, as our escort.’
‘As you wish, madam.’ Brockley was a stickler for seeing that our horses were always properly cared for, but Joseph was reliable and Brockley well understood the seriousness of our purpose.
I was right about the grooms. Along with Joseph, they were taking our bridles and helping the ladies out of our saddles almost as soon as we reined in. The third man was a butler, black clad and equipped with a gold chain of office and a gold ring on his right hand. Like the lodge-keeper he wanted to know our business but I said it was both confidential and urgent and we would be glad if the master of the house – ‘Master Ferguson, is it not?’ – could spare us a little of his time. I tried to be calm and dignified though it was difficult because the screech of the wind still obliged me to shout.
‘I will enquire of Mr Ferguson,’ said the butler, using the modern Mr instead of Master. One day, I thought, everyone would use it. It was the coming thing. ‘Please come this way,’ he added.
Joseph went off with the grooms and the horses, while the rest of us were led inside, relieved of our cloaks, and shown to a parlour, a somewhat dark place as it was on the north side of the house and was panelled in dark oak. It was chilly, for though a fire was laid, it wasn’t lit. The wind howled, shaking the square-leaded windows. We sat down on the settles and stools and there, for a time, we stayed.
Because, I fancied, Mr Ferguson was otherwise engaged. There was a sense of disturbance in the house and not just on account of the gale. This was a human disturbance. Somewhere, not far away, there were raised voices. A man was shouting angrily, a woman trying now and then to protest, and what sounded like a younger man’s voice was also trying to make itself heard. Brockley rose from his stool, went quietly to the door, which the butler had closed after him, and opened it a crack. The distant argument began to separate into words.
‘… how many times must I say it? She may be a pattern of virtue and a flawless cook, which my daughter-in-law doesn’t need to be, and she may be as pretty as an angel but she’s a tavern-keeper’s daughter and you’re not bringing her here as your wife and that’s …’
The younger man’s voice interrupted but the woman spoke at the same time and I couldn’t make out what either of them were saying. Then the older man overcame them, commandingly. ‘… my last word, Duncan! With you it’s first one thing, then another! As if you haven’t caused trouble enough already! I’ll hear no more of this. It’s time you were married but not to Bessie from the Safe Harbour …’
Brockley closed the door. ‘Well, well. We’ve walked into a family dispute. So it’s pretty Bessie from our inn that the son of the house fancies. He’s got good taste, if you ask me. But the heir to a manor house and a wench from the inn … a bit of a misfit by most standards and she won’t have a fine dowry to sweeten it, I daresay.’
‘It’s none of our business,’ I said.
A door slammed. Someone had walked out on the altercation. The wrangling voices ceased. There was a pause during which I thought I heard a quieter exchange and thought that the butler was announcing our arrival. Then brisk footsteps approached the
parlour. The door was flung open and in came a tall, ginger-haired man, elegantly clad in a turquoise-coloured doublet and hose, but with a frown on his brows and no very friendly look in his green-hazel eyes. He walked masterfully in, leaving the door open behind him, and stopped in mid-floor.
‘Good morning. I am Mr Hamish Ferguson.’ He had a slight but definite Scottish accent. ‘My man Morley said we had unexpected guests. I apologize for keeping you waiting. I have a romantic, impulsive son who believes himself in love with a nice but quite unsuitable young woman. Children ought to be a joy but often enough they’re more trouble than they’re worth. I’ve two grown daughters as well. The elder says no to every match she’s offered and I won’t put young Sheila on the marriage market until Katherine is settled. I like things done in an orderly manner. Now, I understand from Morley that you’ – he looked at me – ‘are a Mrs Stannard, and that these are your women and your manservant, who seems to have had an argument with someone recently.’ He was looking at Brockley’s black eye. ‘You say you have business with me. How can I help you?’
I introduced my companions and started to explain our errand but I didn’t get very far before he interrupted me. ‘Yes, yes, Count Renard and his party have been here, but they left yesterday and sailed from Dover towards evening. They were lucky and found a skipper willing to transport their horses. I hope they got across to Calais before this gale set in, though they would have the wind behind them, at least. I wouldn’t like the worry of travelling with horses in bad weather. I am sorry, since you obviously need to catch up with them – a daughter of Mrs Jester here has eloped with the count, you say?’
‘My daughter Ambrosia,’ said Sybil.
‘Well, you’ve missed them,’ said Mr Ferguson flatly. ‘They only spent one night here.’
The butler reappeared in the doorway and coughed. Mr Ferguson turned round. ‘What is it, Morley?’
‘The visitors’ groom wants to speak to Mr Brockley there. Something about one of their horses, apparently.’
‘Go on, Brockley,’ I said. He hurried out and I watched his departure anxiously, wondering what the trouble was. Mr Ferguson began to suggest that we might like some refreshments, but we had hardly said yes before Brockley was back, looking concerned. I looked at him questioningly.
‘Joseph says your mare Jewel has some heat in one foreleg, madam. She may have strained something on that long ride we’ve had from Hawkswood. Mr Ferguson,’ he addressed our host directly. ‘May we ask a favour? Could we take shelter here at least until the gale has passed? It would give the mare a little while to recover. She really shouldn’t go any further today – and we would rather not have to go out and seek shelter elsewhere in this weather. The landlord of the Safe Harbour said that he wouldn’t have room for us a second night.’
Ralph Harrison had said no such thing. But Brockley gave me a warning glance and I merely said, ‘I don’t want Jewel to go lame. Would it be a great trouble if we asked you to let us rest here till tomorrow?’
Most owners of big houses accommodate benighted travellers on occasion. Mr Ferguson did look put out but he knew his duty as a host.
‘You will be welcome.’ He didn’t sound particularly welcoming but at least he was saying the right words. ‘We have spare rooms enough,’ he said. ‘Morley, my compliments to my wife and please tell her that we have guests for the night. Tell the cooks that these people will be dining with us and request Mrs Morley to get two bedchambers prepared, and see that the groom has a bed as well. Meanwhile, perhaps we could have some wine and pasties. Our guests have been on the road for some days.’
Under cover of Mr Ferguson’s orders to Morley, I muttered to Brockley: ‘Is the trouble really with Jewel?’
‘No, madam,’ Brockley muttered back. ‘But Mistress Ambrosia’s pony is in the stable. It’s distinctive, dapple grey at its front end and smooth iron grey at the rear. Joseph says he knew it at once. Our good host says their horses sailed with them so why didn’t they take this one? According to Joseph, it can’t have been left behind because it was lame or ill – he says it’s standing four square in its stall and has its nose in its manger, eating heartily. He is quite sure it’s Mistress Wilde’s pony. Seems odd to me.’
To me, too.
FOURTEEN
Ruby by Moonlight
The refreshments were duly brought and a maidservant lit the fire. The gale continued to roar and rattle the windows. We made conversation with our host. Presently, a small bustling woman dressed in black, with stout black shoes and a stout girdle from which dangled a huge bunch of keys that clinked as she walked, came to collect us and was presented to us as the housekeeper Mrs Morley and was presumably the butler’s wife.
Businesslike shoes briskly tapping, she led us up a winding staircase and on to a wide gallery overlooking two sides of a great hall. As we followed her, Brockley, speaking into my ear because of the gale, said: ‘Walsingham’s men could have got here ahead of us and caught the count before he sailed but they obviously didn’t. Only, why not?’
‘I know,’ I said, in turn speaking into Brockley’s ear. ‘I’ve been wondering too. I hoped they’d overtake us on the road.’
I was very disappointed that they had not, and I was puzzled too. Had something gone wrong? Had Tom’s errand somehow failed? Had a stupid guard, perhaps new to his post, treated the letter carelessly and not had it sent straight in to Walsingham’s office? Should we have alerted the local constable and sent him with Tom to give him official standing? Was Lestrange still in the Sterling cellar? Stephen Sterling wouldn’t like that at all. I could think of no way to find out.
I shook my head despairingly at Brockley. We were walking along a short side of the gallery first of all and I thought it probably doubled as a minstrels’ gallery on occasion. It gave a good view of the hall, which was not unlike the one at Hawkswood except that it was bigger, and decorated, as the Hawkswood hall was not, with weaponry hung to make patterns on the darkly panelled walls.
There was a long central table with a white cloth on it, benches along each side, and carved armchairs at each end. There was also a fire with a ginger-headed young man sitting disconsolately beside it. The passionate and impulsive Duncan, presumably. A dark-haired girl in a yellow gown was sitting beside him and talking to him, and seemed to be urging him to something. She didn’t appear to be getting much response. I wondered if this was the difficult Katherine, encouraging rebellion.
There were doors off the gallery, all shaking in the wind and I could feel the gallery itself vibrating beneath my feet. The wind suddenly redoubled its efforts, its howl rising to a new level of noise and the door that we were just passing shook violently and then burst open. It promptly slammed again but not before I had glimpsed what was inside. Brockley, who was beside me, was looking at me and noticed nothing, while the others had passed it already. I kept on walking, trying to take in what I had seen. It was hard to believe, yet I knew I had made no mistake.
I held my peace while we were led round the corner to the gallery on the long side of the hall, and been shown into our allotted rooms. They were not big but both were provided with four-poster beds, clothes presses, washstands and fur rugs, and each had a small prie-dieu. Mrs Morley did not comment but it was clear that this was a Catholic household. Quite possibly, she supposed that we were all Catholic as well. I hadn’t said anything to the contrary. The rooms had hearths and the maidservant who had lit the fire in the parlour had also got one going in the bigger room of the two, and was now laying the fire in the other, which had been allocated to the Brockleys.
Our saddlebags had been brought up and there were jugs of washing water ready. Mrs Morley chivvied the maid into making haste with the Brockleys’ fire and then shooed her downstairs. After that, she looked round to make sure we had all we needed, bobbed a curtsey and left us. We heard her brisk footsteps and the jingle of her keys retreat along the gallery. Listening intently, I thought I heard her stop and exclaim about something but I co
uldn’t make out more than that. The tapping of her feet resumed and was lost in the racket of the wind. I shut the door, which reduced the noise considerably. Dale and Sybil were unpacking saddlebags in the room I was to share with Sybil and Brockley was similarly occupied next door. ‘Dale,’ I said. ‘Fetch Roger. I have something to tell you.’
‘Are you sure?’ Brockley asked when I told them what I had seen. ‘Just one glimpse … I mean … you’re not imagining things because it’s so odd that Mistress Wilde’s pony seems to be still here?’
‘You should know me better than that,’ I said. ‘I’m sure. But of course we should confirm it. We need a proper look.’
Sybil went nervously to the door, peered out of it and then crossed the gallery to look down into the hall. Coming back, she said: ‘No one’s about. The hall’s empty. Those two young people have gone. We could do it now.’
‘Not all of us,’ said Brockley. ‘It wouldn’t do if we were all seen, crowding round a door where we have no business. Madam, it had best be you and me.’
‘It’s back round the corner,’ I said. ‘It’s the second door we’ll come to.’
‘Let us be quick,’ said Brockley.
We were certainly quick, more so than we intended, for although the door was still shaking, it showed no sign now of bursting open and when I tried it, it was locked. It had probably come open again and Mrs Morley had noticed. Well, I had heard her exclaim about something. No doubt she had secured it, taking the key away with her. Very likely, it now hung on the massive bunch at her belt.
‘Madam,’ said Brockley urgently, ‘did you bring your picklocks with you?’
‘Yes, but I can’t use them here and now in broad daylight. Someone might come up here, or into the hall, at any moment and see me. It can take several minutes to open a lock, as you know. We’ll have to leave it until tonight.’
A Perilous Alliance Page 13