Queen's Ransom

by FIONA BUCKLEY

  His men came running up to join him and the burly one shouted to me to get back; they would see to all this. “Don’t kill anyone! Just look after Matthew!” I shrieked, and then was flung roughly sideways as two more men with upraised blades crashed past me to join the fray. One shouted to the other in a language I didn’t know, and I saw that they were the two suntanned individuals I had seen in the doorway of the inn earlier, the ones I had taken to be father and son. The older of the two was brandishing not a sword, but a scimitar.

  Stumbling to a place of comparative safety on the far side of the well, I saw to my bewilderment that the two newcomers were attacking Van Weede. He fought back with fury, and so did his two companions. They had all produced swords now and they obviously knew how to use them.

  The stableyard turned into a maelstrom. The struggle lurched this way and that, getting entangled with the grooms and the frightened horses, colliding with the bucket chain, attracting savage curses and yells of rage. Two horses panicked altogether, broke loose and bolted, leaving one of the grooms down on the cobbles, swearing and clutching his knee where he had been kicked. The horses bolted into the paddock where they were meant to go anyway, which was a mercy, but I heard a furious Charpentier demanding at the top of his voice that these brawlers be seized.

  The fire was dying down. Everyone in the street hadn’t gone to murder the Protestant neighbors and I heard someone shout that there was a second bucket chain in the front now, using somebody else’s well. Then, suddenly, Brockley and Van Weede were beside me, rubbing the sweat from their faces and grinning.

  “It’s all right, madam. It’s all over. Charpentier’s got some fellows to put the Dodds and Searle under lock and key,” Brockley informed me. “Seems he saw that they were the ones who started it or I daresay we’d be locked up, too. As it is, here we are, safe and sound.”

  “Just a little out of breath,” Van Weede said. “But otherwise none the worse. What a night!”

  “But Matthew!” I said, peering wildly around the shadowy yard. Two dark shapes lay unmoving on the cobbles. “Where’s Matthew?”

  “Here,” said Matthew’s voice behind me, and turning, I found him there, alive and strong, still with his sword in his hand. He sheathed it and put his hands on my shoulders. “I’m all right. Those two corpses over there are a couple of strangers who joined in; I don’t know why. They went for this man”—he nodded toward Van Weede—“and since he was fighting on our side, I helped him deal with them. I got one of them and he got the other. One of the men who followed you here is hurt, I think, but he isn’t dead.”

  “I didn’t lead them here knowingly!” I was suddenly terrified that he might wonder if I had. “I swear it! When I saw them snooping round the inn—well, you saw how angry I was. Matthew, do you believe me?”

  “Yes.” He drew me apart from the others, into the deep shadow under the wall of the stableyard. “It’s all right, Ursula,” he said quietly. “It’s all right.”

  “I’m bad luck for you. I belong to the other side and I can’t escape from it. Oh, Matthew, I’m so sorry, so sorry!”

  “Mistress Blanchard! Where’s Mistress Blanchard? Is she safe? Mistress Blanchard!”

  “That’s Ryder’s voice!” I said. “He must have come from the abbey!” Twisting around, I saw Ryder himself, striding about, catching people by the arm in order to question them, and accompanied, for some reason, by two men I did not know, who were also accosting people to ask after me, and doing it so roughly that several times they were brusquely shaken off.

  “Who’s Ryder?”

  “One of the men Cecil sent with me. The abbey’s only just across the square; I suppose this uproar has woken up everyone there as well.”

  “I daresay.” Matthew pulled me deeper into the shadow. “I doubt if anyone’s slept through this in the whole village.”

  “Matthew, listen. The Dodds knew you by sight and if they do, then Ryder probably does, too. They’re Cecil’s men and they could all have seen you when you were at court in England. You must get away quickly, now!”

  And I could not go with him. We both knew it. It was too hasty, too quick; decisions that change lives ought not to be taken in such confusion. Nor, in any case, was it safe.

  “Yes. You’re right. The hunt’s close behind me. Did Cecil’s men fire the inn, do you think?”

  “With me inside it? I hope not!”

  “Well, maybe not. There really are Huguenots who would like to get their hands on me and if they didn’t show themselves tonight, perhaps it was because they saw they were outnumbered. But they could have set the fire. Ursula, you promised to make your choice this morning, but I can’t hold you to that. It is not only that you endanger me. I also endanger you. I dare not take you with me now.”

  “Mistress Blanchard!”

  “She’s safe, sir. She was here a moment ago. I’ll find her for you. She’s come to no harm.” Brockley had pitched his voice so that I would hear him. Dawn was near. By its first faint light I saw that he was talking to Ryder and Ryder’s companions, and that as he spoke, he was moving gently away toward the other side of the courtyard, taking them with him.

  Matthew and I moved as one toward the paddock gate, and then, with the end of the stable block between us and those who were seeking him, we stopped and he took my face between his hands. We were looking at each other, groping for words, when Charpentier, soot-stained and angry, appeared beside us. “Someone’s asking for you, madame.”

  “In a moment. Please keep everyone away from us meanwhile,” said Matthew.

  “It’s another of the men you had with you before, madame. He has two of the abbey riffraff with him.” Charpentier’s voice conveyed distaste. “An abbey, even a women’s abbey, can’t do without retainers but many of St. Marc’s best men have rallied to the call for Catholics to take up arms in Paris, and the abbess has had to fill the gaps with whatever she can get. Riffraff, as I said. They bully the town shopkeepers for special terms. They are detested. They and your man, madame,” he added accusingly, “are also asking for the three I’ve got shut in my cellar for attacking the Seigneur de la Roche.”

  “My wife did not lead them here.” Matthew answered the accusing tone rather than the words. “They came here to seize me but not with her knowledge. She is innocent of all offense against me. I must go now, Charpentier. I must get away before I am recognized and I must leave my wife here. I charge you to treat her with the utmost respect. Go and make sure those men don’t come near us. Say Madame is helping someone who is hurt and will come presently. And tell someone to fetch my saddle and bridle and catch my horse.”

  Charpentier muttered under his breath, but went. Matthew held me closer, and I held him in return. “Ursula,” he said softly, “since you cannot come with me now, finish what you came to France to do. Pray for peace, so that France may grow safe again. And then—make your choice. This way, you will have time to think.” His voice grew rough with the intensity of his feelings. “Only, let it be the right decision, and the last. When you know your mind, let me know, somehow.”

  “But where will you be?” I didn’t want to let him go. “How will any message from me find you?”

  “I shall be at home in Blanchepierre, or else in Paris or wherever the royal forces are. If war breaks out in full, I may join them in the field. Letters sent through the court at Paris will find me. Ursula . . . don’t leave me waiting and hoping and wondering for too long.”

  “I promise,” I said.

  We clung to each other for a moment, but there was no more time. Day was broadening every moment. A groom came through the gate with a pile of saddlery and a sieve of oats. “The bay gelding, over there in the corner,” Matthew said brusquely, and while the groom went to entice the horse, Matthew and I kissed farewell. Then we stepped apart. Standing there by the gate, my mouth still imprinted with the memory of his, my body still aglow from his hands, his warmth, I saw him cross the paddock to where the groom had now bridled his mou
nt and was putting the saddle on its back.

  Once more, we had been forced to part, and I must not linger here for fear that Ryder should evade Brockley and Charpentier, come in search of me, and find Matthew as well. I was crying as I turned away. Fortunately, it didn’t matter. After escaping from a burning inn, nearly being caught in the midst of a fight, and having to listen to murder taking place nearby, any woman might shed tears. When I joined John Ryder in the courtyard, he greeted me with fatherly concern but the white streaks on my grimy face didn’t surprise him in the least. He willingly accepted ny statement that Matthew had fled two hous ago.

  9

  Levantine Lions

  The full dawn revealed that although one-half of the inn was still more or less intact, much of the other half had been reduced to a smoking shell. The two swarthy men who had attacked Van Weede lay dead in the yard, where they had fallen. They were very dead indeed, the older one half sliced through; the younger nearly decapitated. They lay amid their own blood, a dark, congealing pool on the cobbles.

  Most of the kitchen was lost in the ruin but Charpentier had a stout stone-built larder with a massive door, which had repelled the flames. Van Weede, who seemed to be a resourceful individual, had taken it upon himself to organize an impromptu breakfast for helpers, in the harness room. Charpentier had given it the nod. It left him free to deal with other matters, such as us.

  Charpentier’s private rooms were at the unharmed end of the building. It was here that the innkeeper, his face bloodless with exhaustion under stubble and soot, confronted us: myself, Brockley, and John Ryder. He sent Ryder’s tough-looking companions to eat with the helpers, but the rest of us were herded into his sanctum.

  “We will speak in private,” he said grimly, and added, to my horror: “Then we will find out just what you Anglaises have done to my inn and why!”

  The black-haired woman who had whipped the crowd up into hysteria during the night had reappeared, her broad face full of an ineffable and horrible smugness. She brought us bread and cheese and informed us that there were no stinking Huguenots left alive in the town. “But for these Anglaises,” she added, giving me a glance of sheer hatred.

  “We didn’t start the fire,” I snapped at her. “And I don’t suppose your unfortunate neighbors did, either!”

  “There, madame, I agree with you,” said Charpentier. He pushed the bread and cheese across the table toward us. “You may eat. I keep an inn, after all. Listen. I detest my Huguenot neighbors. I hate all of the Lutheran persuasion. But like you, I do not believe they started the fire. They are—or were—humble and quiet enough; I grant them that. That, however, leaves your men, who it seems came here to seize the Seigneur de la Roche if they could. Your husband said you did not lead them here, but still, they came. Perhaps they set fire to the inn so as to drive him out of it and into their arms. Who else is there?” He stared accusingly at Ryder.

  Turning to Ryder and Brockley, who had not followed this, I told them what had been said. Brockley exclaimed indignantly and Ryder burst out into a wrathful denial.

  “Of course my men didn’t start it! We would never have put you in such danger, Mistress Blanchard. We had orders to take Master de la Roche if he put in an appearance, but most certainly not to put you at risk. Just explain that to this innkeeper here, if you please, mistress.”

  I did so. The black-haired woman, marching in again with a flagon of wine that she put in front of us with a resentful bang, paused to listen to me and then walked out again with a loud snort. Charpentier didn’t look much more convinced than she did.

  “I have to take the word of Seigneur de la Roche that you did not lead your English retainers here on purpose,” he said, though it was clear that to believe in my innocence pained him considerably. “But I still believe that they fired the inn. The blaze was obviously started on purpose.”

  “Where are my English retainers?” I interrupted.

  “In my cellars. At this end of the inn, quite safe and well away from where the fire was. Permit me to finish. In the middle of the public room I have found the remains of logs that someone dragged out of the hearth, still alight, no doubt, and pushed among the furniture. The same was done with the kitchen fire; at least there is ash in a pile on the floor. My servants have quarters of their own to sleep in; I do not have them sleeping in the kitchen. I think someone got in. There is a window frame in the front of the house that is splintered as though it has been forced. It is blackened, but one can tell.”

  “That is very shocking, madam,” Brockley said to me, when I had dutifully translated. “But I can’t believe it of the Dodds, or even of Searle.”

  “Fetch my men up here,” barked Ryder. “Let us hear what they have to say!”

  Once more, I translated, this time for Charpentier’s benefit. “I can guess what they will have to say, and it will all be lies!” Charpentier seized a goblet in his soot-stained hand, poured himself a hefty draft of wine, and gulped at it. “Those men will stay in my keeping until I can bring them before the mayor. Do not expect considerate treatment because you are foreigners. The seigneur your husband may vouch for you, madam, and that I will accept, but why should I believe the protestations of this man Ryder? Or Brockley? It is my opinion that those miscreants in my cellar—”

  There was a tap on the door and then, without waiting for permission, Van Weede walked in. Considering that he had been up most of the night, sword-fighting and firefighting, he looked astonishingly spruce. His shirt and hose might be dirty, but he had combed his hair and beard and washed his cheerful, rosy-brown face. His dark eyes were as bright and his step as springy as though he had just risen from eight hours on a down mattress.

  “Excuse me for interrupting,” he said in French. “But the woman who has been serving you came to where I was eating breakfast, and repeated something of what is being said here. I have come to say that I think I know who fired the inn and why, and to assure you that it had nothing to do with Madam Blanchard’s men, or with the unhappy disputes that are now disturbing the peace of France. The offenders were trying to smoke me out of my room in order to kill me. They—or colleagues of theirs—have tried to kill me before. But it’s too late to take reprisals against them because they’re the two who are lying dead in the stableyard.”

  We all stared. I muttered a hurried translation for Ryder and Brockley.

  “I ask your pardon, Charpentier,” said Van Weede seriously. “I thought I had shaken off the pursuit. But I have looked closely at those bodies out there and I recognize one of them. Besides, they attacked me last night. There really is no doubt that they were responsible for all the mayhem. I am really very sorry, Charpentier, and I shall offer you compensation.”

  Charpentier had risen indignantly to his feet. “What is all this? You stride in here uninvited and begin talking nonsense! I tell you that my inn was set alight by the men attached to Madame here, who sought to seize or kill her husband, a prominent supporter of our good Catholic cause.”

  Van Weede, unimpressed, shook his head. “I think not. The perpetrators were almost certainly men in the employ of a consortium of merchants who object to the idea of England trading directly with Persia and bypassing tolls and middlemen of Turkey and Venice. I’m traveling under a false name. I am not really called Van Weede, and I’m not from the Netherlands. I’m another of the Anglaises who are so unpopular here just now, although believe me, I have no interest in the civil wars of France, one way or another. I am a man of business, pure and simple. I am an English merchant in the employ of the Muscovy Company and my name is Anthony Jenkinson.”

  “The trouble began soon after I left Persia and started for home,” Jenkinson told us, over the wine. He had declined the bread and cheese, saying that he had eaten already and now would rather talk. He did so bilingually, speaking every sentence first in French and then repeating it in English, bridging the language gap with what was evidently practiced ease. “I meant,” he said, “to go back by the route I’d us
ed on the outward journey, and travel north up the Caspian Sea, then by river to Moscow, and then north again to Archangel, and westward round the Norwegian coast, before next winter begins to freeze the seas. I don’t know if you recognize any of these names, but . . .”

  “I’ve heard most of them. Merchants come to this inn,” Charpentier said briefly. He seemed prepared to listen, though he had obvious reservations.

  “When my first husband was alive,” I said, “we lived in Antwerp, where my husband was employed by Sir Thomas Gresham. The voyages of merchants and explorers were often discussed. Since then, I have been at the court of Queen Elizabeth, who also takes an interest in such things. I understand very well.”

  Ryder nodded agreement and so did Brockley. Brockley was always well informed. Jenkinson looked pleased.

  “Good. It makes it easier to explain. I had had a successful audience with the Shah in Persia and I found him willing to enter into a trade agreement with England, although there were protests from Turkish and Venetian representatives then at his court. They appeared to yield gracefully when the agreement with me was made and signed. But then they left Persia rather suddenly and that made me uneasy. I thought they might well have gone to consult with their superiors in Istanbul or Venice. Istanbul probably; it would be nearer. I should have heeded that feeling and taken myself off at once, but I wanted to purchase a first consignment of goods to carry home, and I wanted to inspect the workshops where fabrics were woven and jewelry made. Unwisely, I lingered, though I planned to set out north before Christmas, intending to reach Russia in spring—you don’t make rapid headway with a merchant caravan—and travel round the Norwegian coast in summer.

  “But I left it too late after all. We chartered two vessels to take us across the Caspian Sea but halfway across, we were attacked by what we at first thought were pirates. We fought them off and we took a prisoner, and from him we got some interesting information. He was no pirate, or not in the usual sense. It seems,” said Jenkinson, “that the merchants of Venice and Turkey were very upset indeed at the prospect of losing so much valuable trade through me. In particular, there is a consortium of merchants who call themselves the Levantine Lions. I’ve heard of them before. They have a ruthless reputation and they had decided not to let me get back to England with my treaty. According to our captive, I had a whole pride of lions on my spoor. He and his piratical friends were in their pay.”