Queen's Bounty

by FIONA BUCKLEY

  ‘I can think of one other enquiry we could make,’ Hugh said as he tore up the second unsatisfactory draft. ‘What about that courier – the one who brought Anne Percy’s letter to you? If the same man carried any message to Ferris – or the Cobbolds – that could be evidence of contact between them.’

  ‘I suppose so,’ I said doubtfully. ‘If she sent the two letters – to Ferris and to me – at the same time. But they might have been sent separately, and then the Ferris one could well have been delivered by a different courier or even by Anne Percy’s own messenger.’

  ‘At a guess,’ Hugh said, ‘I should think that however many times the Countess sent a letter by way of Norwich, a local courier would have been used. I fancy the dear lady’s household members wouldn’t care for the idea of travelling through England in case they were recognized and seized. There were enough hangings after the rising to make them nervous! So if there was another letter besides ours, whether at the same time or not, and it came into the country at Norwich, Twelvetrees could have been the man who carried it onwards. Didn’t he say he’d been recommended? He may be well known in Norwich. I think we could mention him. Where’s the harm? Now, let’s begin again . . .’

  It was so difficult to get the wording just right that it took up most of the afternoon. In the end we reached what we felt was the best possible version, placed both our signatures at the foot and sealed the letter. I would leave in the morning, with Brockley as an escort. Hugh found our efforts tiring and, having stamped the seal, said he would go to our room and lie down. I was not tired, but the evening stretched tediously ahead. I tried once more to settle to reading Greek.

  And was defeated within twenty minutes by an outbreak of domestic confusion.

  We had three grooms, not counting Brockley. Arthur Watts, our official head groom (who was now our coachman), was a middle-aged, gnarled little gnome of a man, apt to be impatient with his underlings but endlessly gentle with the horses. His second in command was Simon, who was at the moment ill, and then came Joseph, the junior. Joseph had attended Dorothy’s funeral, and it now transpired that he had been in love with her.

  ‘He’s doing his work, ma’am,’ said Arthur, when Wilder had transmitted a request that I should go to the stable yard to talk to him, ‘because I’ve seen to that, but he keeps crying while he does it and he can’t see straight and the mess he’s made of cleaning your Roundel’s tack, well, I hardly like to say outright what I think of it. Bits of grass still stuck in the bridle and smears on the saddle; it’s a disgrace. With Simon sick and Joseph as useless as if he was drunk – well, how am I to manage? I’ve only one pair of hands . . .’

  ‘I’ll lend him mine,’ said Brockley resignedly when I had found him in the hall and explained the situation to him. ‘Leave Roundel’s tack to me.’

  With relief, I did, only to be accosted, as I was returning to the parlour and my Homer, by a large and exasperated John Hawthorn.

  ‘It’s Joan Flood, Mistress Stannard. She’s a kind, helpful woman, but she’s too damned helpful, that’s the trouble.’

  Joan, it transpired, was now being helpful to the pox-stricken Netta. It had been agreed when we took Netta on that part of her wages should consist of some eggs and butter, and that every other Wednesday she should be allowed to take these to her mother in Hawkswood village. This would have been one of her Wednesdays, but as she was ill, Joan had kindly offered to do the errand for her, and at the same time to reassure her mother that Netta was being well cared for and recovering.

  ‘Only, I still have supper to make, and when I want Joan to beat the eggs for the quiches, where is she?’ Hawthorn had a meat cleaver in his hand, which he now brandished indignantly. ‘Gone off to Hawkswood to comfort Netta’s mother, and taken more eggs than she should have at that. Maybe there’s some in the henhouse, but with half the servants sick-nursing, I only have Ben Flood and young Phoebe, who are doing the pastry between them, and the spit boy who’s got to watch the fire, and little Tessie who’s scared of going to the poultry yard because she’s frightened of the cockerel. Dear God, how I miss Abel! I can’t collect eggs and make quiche fillings and get the mutton steaks on the spit, enough for everyone, at the same time; I’ve only one pair of hands . . .’

  Sybil and I went to the kitchen to beat the eggs ourselves and to shape some little marchpane fancies which Joan would normally have made. After that, we had a further absurd crisis when Tessie, our newest and most timid maidservant, only fourteen and small, tried to balance a trayload of glassware in one hand while opening the heavy hall door with the other and let all the glasses cascade off the tray to the floor.

  ‘There isn’t a whole one left!’ thundered Wilder, and although he didn’t actually clout poor Tessie he did make a threatening gesture, whereupon Tessie burst into tears. I felt like clouting her myself, but she was so terrified that, as a human being, I felt obliged to comfort her instead. I retired to bed feeling as though I had been put through a mangle and afraid I wouldn’t be able to manage the early start I had planned. However, I slept soundly and woke to find that the day promised well, with a clear sky overhead and a little pale mist drifting from the direction of our lake. A waning moon still hung in the sky, and there was a trace of autumn sharpness in the air. It was pleasant riding weather.

  And then, as Brockley and I were in the hall, at one end of the long table, breaking our fast with small ale, bread and honey and cold chicken legs, there was something else to disturb me.

  Dale was sharing the early breakfast with us, and as ever when I was about to go off somewhere with Brockley, there was a look in her eyes that made me uncomfortable.

  The time when Brockley and I had very nearly become more than lady and servant was far behind us. But though that tide had long since gone out, it had left its residue behind, as an ebbing sea leaves flotsam on a beach. Now and then, Brockley and I would find ourselves sharing a joke that others couldn’t see, or referring to some past event, some danger or adventure that we had shared, and although I doubted whether Brockley had ever told her of that moment on the brink, Dale, who loved him, had read the clues.

  For a long time, I knew, she had sheltered in the knowledge that I was married to Hugh and had given that side of my life to him alone. But during the adventure in the north, when we encountered the Countess of Northumberland, Brockley and I had had an extraordinary moment of rapport which had probably saved our lives but had also left a mark, an atmosphere. Love brings its own awareness. Since then, several times, I had seen the jealousy in her eyes.

  Hugh himself knew perfectly well that he had no need to worry. My erstwhile husband Matthew de la Roche had been a far bigger threat, but I had chosen Hugh instead. After that, he was unlikely to lie awake over Brockley. But with Dale, it was different.

  The problem was that I could not think of a way of lancing the boil. Simply to say: ‘It’s all right, Dale; I would never hurt you and nor would Brockley; your bond with him is safe,’ would be to admit that grounds existed for doubting that safety. So I ate my bread and honey and cold chicken in silence, aware of Dale’s eyes watching me, with pain in them and even resentment, while I was quite unable to offer her any comfort.

  Then we were out in the courtyard, mounting our horses. Brockley’s sturdy cob Brown Berry turned his head as his master adjusted the girth, and nudged him with a hopeful muzzle, causing Brockley to delve into his belt pouch, produce an apple, and present it to him. I too had an apple for Roundel, but the mare waited politely for me to bring it to her attention.

  ‘She’s a lady. Now, Berry’s just plain greedy,’ Brockley said, rubbing the cob’s ears affectionately.

  We had a few spare clothes in saddlebags, in case we had to stay away overnight, but did not burden ourselves with food or water bottles. Twelve miles wasn’t that far, and there were inns on the way, in any case. We set off, with Dale blowing a kiss to Brockley as we departed.

  By this time, the morning had become warm. The mist was gone and so w
as the sharpness. Before we had covered the three miles to Priors Ford, we felt too hot, and we paused to shed our cloaks, roll them up and push them into our saddlebags.

  Beyond the village, the land was mostly open heath, dotted with clumps of gorse, much of it in bloom. There were one or two spinneys but nothing one could call a wood. The heath was not much used for grazing, as the grass was coarse and mixed with thistles. A few donkeys were pastured there, on long tethers, but that was all.

  ‘Not even sheep,’ Brockley remarked. ‘Going to waste, if you ask me.’

  ‘It’s common land,’ I told him. ‘But the Ferrises come here for hawking, I think. Hugh says they’ve always been fond of the sport, and I believe there’s a patch of woodland inside their boundary fence, where they rear pheasants just for that. They beat the woods to send them this way and then go after them with goshawks.’

  ‘Rough ground for headlong galloping,’ Brockley said, regarding the heath with an expert eye and talking to me over his shoulder, since at this point the track was too narrow for us to ride abreast. ‘The Hawkswood meadows are much better. It can’t be easy to guide a horse over terrain like this when you’ve only got one hand because there’s a great big goshawk on the other arm, flapping its wings as likely as not. They’re heavy, goshawks are, specially the females. I wouldn’t care for it myself . . . Christ almighty!’

  It seemed to come from nowhere. There was a vicious whoosh as something skimmed the saddle pommel in front of Brockley and buried itself in the thistles and grass on the other side of the track. Brown Berry threw up his head and skittered in alarm.

  ‘Crossbow bolt!’ I shouted. It had come, I thought, from behind a big clump of gorse on our left. I had glimpsed a movement there. ‘Brockley, go!’ I screamed, and spurred Roundel forward.

  Brockley at once leant forward to urge Brown Berry into a gallop, but as he did so, another bolt sang towards him. Again, it missed Brockley, but to my horror I saw it lodge in Berry’s flank, just behind the saddle.

  Whereupon, the cob bolted. Roundel tore after him, but Berry’s speed was astounding. Normally, we took it for granted that Roundel, who had Barbary blood, was faster. Berry was a good steady saddle horse; Roundel was fleet. Not this time. This time, the fleeing Berry, keeping to the track out of habit, even though it curved, once round an abandoned cottage and then again round one of the few spinneys, produced a turn of speed that left Roundel, though she was doing her utmost, trailing behind.

  Gasping encouragement to her, I was thankful for the cottage and the spinney, which between them must be putting barriers between us and the unknown crossbowman. I hoped to God that whoever it was didn’t have a horse. And who was it? Those bolts had been aimed at Brockley, not at me.

  Years ago, a man called John Wilton, a good servant of mine, had gone on an errand to Cecil and had not returned alive. I had not forgotten. I never would. Had I now brought catastrophe on Brockley, as well?

  We careered onwards. The track streamed back beneath Roundel’s hooves, seeming to flow like water. The wind of our passage buffeted my ears. On either side, the heath gave way to scattered trees and then to real, thick woodland, with trees and hazel bushes, all crowding closer to the track than they should have done. Landlords and local authorities were supposed to cut trees well back on either side of any main track, to make life more difficult for robbers. Whoever was responsible for this district was careless.

  We had gone about a mile when, ahead of me, Brown Berry suddenly swerved, leaving the track after all and veering left on to the narrow belt of unkempt grass between path and woodland. He charged on, straight towards a hazel brake. I cried out, thinking he would crash headlong into it, but at the last moment he shied and reared, flinging Brockley to the ground. Then he collapsed into the grass.

  I hauled on my reins and swung Roundel towards them. As I did so, Brown Berry, raising his head, let out a dreadful cry, a shrieking whinny, of pain and protest and desolation. His head dropped. I brought Roundel to a stop, scrambled down, flung her reins over her head and dragged her forward the last few steps. Brockley’s cob lay quiet in the grass with hazel branches drooping over him and the crossbow bolt still sticking out of his flank. Blood oozed from the place, rolling across his hide, sluggishly now, for there was no heartbeat to drive it. Brown Berry was dead.

  Brockley was on his feet, limping a little but otherwise uninjured. He came to my side and knelt, stroking Berry’s neck. ‘Poor old fellow. Poor Berry.’ He looked up at me. ‘I loved this horse! He was sweet-tempered, reliable. Used to turn his head and whicker when I came into the stable. Trotted up to me if he was out on the pasture. No trouble to catch, ever. The sort of horse you think of as a friend. If I ever lay hands on the bugger who did this to him, I’ll screw his head clean off his shoulders!’

  Brockley rarely swore, and certainly not in my presence. This was a sign of how angry he was. And not just angry. There were tears on his face as well. When he said he loved Brown Berry, he meant just that.

  I touched his arm. ‘I know. But, Brockley, we’ve got to get under cover. I think whoever did this was hiding behind a gorse clump, and I think I glimpsed a horse’s tail. We may be pursued. Put your saddlebags over Roundel’s saddle, and we’ll get into the trees. Brockley, come on!’

  ‘Let me alone!’

  ‘Brockley!’

  He got to his feet. I let go of his arm and grabbed at Berry’s saddlebags, trying to haul them clear of the heavy, inert body. Brockley, still silently crying, stooped to help me. We flung them over Roundel’s back and started for the woods. We had just reached their shelter when we heard the hoof beats. They were coming fast.

  ‘Just in time,’ Brockley said as we pulled Roundel deeper into the leafy shadows.

  ‘If that’s our man, we’d best get further from the track,’ I said. If our bowman was pursuing us, we had only outdistanced him as much as we had because Brown Berry’s dying panic had kept him going so fast for so long.

  Brockley was coming back to himself. ‘I want to see who it is.’

  ‘We can’t risk it. He . . . they . . .’

  ‘Has gone straight past.’ Brockley had started forward but too late. The hoof beats were fading in the distance already. ‘Didn’t see my Berry lying in the long grass so close under those hazels. Lucky the poor beast is brown and not piebald or grey. He’s earth coloured. Can’t be seen from the track, I fancy. If we stay under cover and watch the road, we may see whoever it was come back.’

  ‘That crossbow bolt is sticking up. If he comes back more slowly, he might see that,’ I said. ‘Can you get it out?’

  Brockley dragged it free. It was of a commonplace pattern, which told us nothing. It was then that I felt thankful I hadn’t let Hawthorn make a stag transfixed by a crossbow bolt for the centrepiece at Meg’s feast. Brockley threw the thing out of sight among the hazels. Then we crouched behind the bushes.

  We waited for more than two hours, judging by the sun, but no one came. This stretch of track was lonely. No wayfarer of any kind went by.

  Eventually, we gave up. ‘What now, madam?’ Brockley asked.

  ‘Try to find a farm or something, I suppose,’ I said. ‘We need another horse. You’re limping.’

  ‘I turned my ankle when I fell,’ Brockley admitted.

  I said: ‘We’d better put Berry’s saddle on to Roundel, and then you can ride and keep the weight off your ankle. She can take both lots of saddlebags, and we can fix my saddle behind you, though it’ll be awkward for me to use it, so I’ll walk and carry Berry’s bridle.’

  ‘But madam, it’s not fitting for you to walk while I ride.’

  ‘Nor is it fitting for you to walk on that ankle. Please, Brockley, do as I bid!’

  TEN

  Starting Hares

  We didn’t know the district and had no idea where the nearest habitations might be. But we did discover a path through the wood and followed that. Eventually, we reached some farmland and came to a small hamlet with a hostelry
where there was a water trough and a manger for Roundel, ale and meat pies for us, and a chance of asking where we might hire another horse.

  The place seemed mostly to serve the labourers from the farms roundabout, and several were there, taking a noon break. We presented ourselves fairly truthfully as having been attacked by highway robbers. Amid much head-shaking and tut-tutting from the landlord and his clientele, we said we had fled from them and escaped without being robbed but Brockley’s horse had been wounded and fallen dead under him.

  The landlord said there had been no word of such fellows thereabouts but you never knew; robbers could get driven out of one place and start up in another, yes, that’s how it must have been.

  A ploughman who claimed to feel for his own plough team much as Brockley felt for Berry, offered – for a consideration – to go out that evening with his friend who was a shepherd and find Berry and: ‘Put ’un away proper. No need to leave ’un there for foxes and the like.’

  We suspected that put ’un away proper probably meant feeding the carcase to the shepherd’s sheepdogs, but somehow it felt better than the idea of foxes and crows. We didn’t enquire. Instead, we asked about hiring a horse and were directed to a farmhouse about half a mile away. We thanked our well-wishers, finished our meal and set off.

  The farmer, whose place was called Longfields, was helpful, after some hesitation. Well, yes, there was a horse we could hire – given we brought it back inside of a week.

  ‘Wouldn’t do it for everyone, but granted, you don’t look like horse thieves. Trouble on the roads – shocking thing, that is. Wouldn’t want to turn anyone away that’s had to cope with that.’

  The horse had hairy fetlocks and a build which suggested that three of its grandparents had been plough horses, but it had four legs and seemed healthy. We offered to buy it outright, but the farmer said it was a good all-rounder and he’d rather have it back. ‘We’ll want it when harvesting starts in earnest.’

  To show goodwill, we gave him more for its hire than he had actually asked, and since Berry’s saddle didn’t fit its broad back, we took the battered old saddle that was normally used when the animal was ridden. As further evidence of our honesty, we left Berry’s saddle, which was a good one, with pommel and cantle dyed crimson, and a thick roll of leather in front of the rider’s knees.