Queen's Ransom

by FIONA BUCKLEY

  Helene stared at us, eyes wide. It was as though we had flung open a window that showed her a completely unexpected view of her own world. But she could not make sense of it. She had been too carefully taught. She could only repeat the religious platitudes on which she had been nurtured.

  “How can I believe you? The true faith is there for everyone and it is wicked to deny it! You have only to accept it and you would have no need to carry poison. The stake is only there to save the souls of those who abandon God and warn souls who are in danger back to the true path.”

  “Helene,” I said, handing the phial back to Dale, “it is my duty to look after you and be a companion to you, but I think if I have to hear that superior, languid drawl of yours for many more minutes, I shall lose my temper. I’m on the verge of losing it now. Leave this room. Go to your own, and tell Jeanne to pack. We are setting out for Douceaix immediately after dinner. And, Helene, never touch our things again without our permission. You will be sorry if you do.”

  I meant it. She saw it in my face and fairly fled from the room. I sat down on the edge of my bed, shaking.

  “Much more of this, Dale, and I think I shall go mad.”

  Dale, putting the phial away in her saddlebag, said: “It can’t have been her that searched our baggage the first time, madam. She wasn’t there. What’s going on?”

  “You mean, was she lying about the white thread, and are the two searches connected? Helene couldn’t have carried out the first one but the same person could have ordered both—is that what you’re trying to say?”

  “I think so, ma’am . . . I’m not sure. It’s all so muddling.”

  “You’re right about that. Well, you might find out from Jeanne whether or not she brought any white thread with her. But even if . . . oh, for God’s sake. I can’t work it out. For God’s sake, let’s get out of this place, on our way to Paris and then, as soon as possible, let’s go home!”

  We set out after dinner, though not as promptly as I had hoped, because Helene made a great to-do about her final farewells to her friends in the abbey and kept us waiting for half an hour in the courtyard. The farewells culminated in a last emotional embrace with the abbess on the porch. Wilkins didn’t appear, though, which was a relief.

  Dick Dodd had been tended in the abbey infirmary and had his arm in a sling but said he could ride well enough with one hand. Walter placed himself protectively at his brother’s side. They maintained their normal courtesy toward me, but Searle kept giving me sullen looks as though last night’s defeat and the hours he had spent shut in Charpentier’s cellar were due to an act of spite on my part.

  Our little cavalcade was augmented by three, for Anthony Jenkinson had duly asked if I would let him and his two men, Stephen Longman and Richard Deacon, ride to Douceaix with us, and I had agreed.

  He had dressed plainly, in a well-worn buff jacket and hose and a creased collar. None of it fitted too well; I think he had borrowed an outfit from the burly Longman. Jenkinson was himself quite thickset, but the clothes seemed loose on him. The slightly untidy effect, though, was probably what he wanted. It made him look surprisingly commonplace. He might pass as an ordinary retainer after all.

  Halfway to Douceaix, we met Luke and Henri Blanchard, accompanied by a whole crowd of men including William Harvey and Mark Sweetapple, riding hard in the opposite direction, intending to fetch us from St. Marc.

  I greeted my father-in-law coolly. After some further talk with Brockley, whose common sense I trusted, I had definitely made up my mind that I would do best not to take up with him the matter of his pretended illness and the part it had played in Cecil’s schemes against my husband. Matthew was safe, and Blanchard’s extraordinary behavior was a solved mystery over which I need not any longer puzzle.

  It was quite possible, Brokley had said, that the two searches of my baggage were not connected; that whatever Helene’s motives had been, the earlier search had been merely cecil’s men looking for signs that I was in touch with Matthew. Well, no matter. Let me just perform my errand for the queen and get home again and after that I need have nothing more to do with either Blanchard or Helene. I would let them pass out of my life and that would be that. No doubt Blanchard had been put under pressure by Cecil. I knew what that was like! I need not pretend to warm friendliness. I need only be polite and distant and leave it at that.

  It was fortunate that we had other matters to discuss. Blanchard had had the message from the abbess, but it had been lacking in detail and both I and Jenkinson had to do a good deal of explaining. After hearing us out, which he did patiently enough, Blanchard pulled a solemn face and said in his portentous bass voice that yes, he had in fact known of my marriage to Matthew de la Roche because Cecil had told him; and no doubt it was natural for me to wish to see him, but Matthew was a wanted man, after all, and he hoped I would do nothing of the kind again.

  I made one single reference to my new knowledge. “I realized last night that you knew of my marriage to Matthew,” I said in an even voice. “I understand many things now. He is safe away, I’m glad to say.”

  My father-in-law looked chagrined, but he did not pursue the matter. Instead, he turned to Jenkinson to ask him for more details of his own part in the night’s events. He had heard of him, apparently, and now turned out to be an admirer.

  He expressed horror concerning the Levantine Lions and also clicked his tongue a little when he understood that Jenkinson had entered the fray on Matthew’s side. However, he then declared magnanimously, Master Jenkinson could not have known that in defending Matthew, he was defending a traitor.

  “I am sorry if I offend you, Ursula,” he added, “but that is what De la Roche is, and well you know it.”

  I was silent. From his point of view, of course, it was true. I knew that. But he should not have said it to me. I stared at him coldly. “I am sure,” he observed, “that Master Jenkinson here fought bravely in what he imagined was an admirable cause. He appears to be a very brave man. I can only hope, sir, that you have now finally put paid to these miscreants who have been trying to hunt you down and that they will trouble you no more.”

  Or anyone in your company was the unspoken rider to that last sentence.

  Jenkinson, picking up the nuance, studied Blanchard thoughtfully for a moment and then said gravely that if he had any further pursuers, they were assuredly far behind. “I think the danger now is very slight,” he said. “May I, however, ask if I and my men can travel on with you to Douceaix? Mistress Ursula has consented already but we did not then know that we would meet you on the way. Just as a precaution, we wish to fade out of sight and what better way than to journey as someone else’s retainers?”

  Blanchard’s expression was doubtful, but Jenkinson’s reputation had visibly awed him, and Jenkinson’s personality wasn’t easily gainsaid. “You will be most welcome,” said my father-in-law politely, turning his horse to face back toward Douceaix.

  Blanchard fell in beside me as we rode on, and began to talk to me of the night just gone by. He actually asked if I knew where Matthew had gone. “I have no idea,” I said icily. I didn’t, however, trouble to add: “And I wouldn’t tell you if I did.”

  I didn’t want to discuss Matthew with him anymore. I only wanted to reach Paris, deliver my letter, and then go home.

  Except that . . .

  Talking about Matthew had made me think of him again, made me think of the night just behind me, and our united bodies in the warm darkness of the bed, before the fire disturbed us.

  I was no longer sure where my home might be.

  11

  The Serpent Queen

  We reached Douceaix that evening. Henri and Marguerite were duly appalled by our story, impressed (and slightly alarmed) by Jenkinson, who admitted his identity and his plight to them, and astonished to hear of my marriage to Matthew.

  “You have a hard choice to make,” Marguerite said to me. “I will pray that you may choose with wisdom.” Henri said little but regarded
me with grave sympathy. They were good people; I appreciated them even if Helene didn’t.

  We waited a day at Douceaix, hoping that Dick’s arm, which was giving him trouble, would improve quickly, but although it was not infected, Marguerite said firmly that he should rest it, for safety’s sake. We decided, therefore, that on the following day we must set out without him. It meant leaving both the Dodds behind, since his brother wished to stay with him.

  Of Cecil’s men, I would still have John Ryder. Probably they thought it was no longer necessary for them all to keep close to me. They had missed Matthew once and he was unlikely to risk coming near me again. There should be enough sword arms in the party for simple protection against the normal hazards of the road, for Jenkinson and his men were to come to Paris with us, though, they would part from us there, and take a ship down the Seine.

  “I don’t believe that even if there are still any Lions following me through France, they’re likely to find me before I get to Paris. I fancy I have covered my tracks,” Jenkinson said to my father-in-law, who once more gave in, though as before, his face was dubious.

  John Ryder was present and listened with noticeable amusement. After we set out, he said to me privately that Master Blanchard wouldn’t want to look churlish or timid before a bold fellow like Jenkinson. “But if you ask me, he’s shaking in his riding boots for fear of the Lions.”

  “Is he right, I wonder?” I said. “I’m grateful to Master Jenkinson and glad to help him, but the Lions make me nervous, as well.”

  “The whole of bloody France makes me nervous,” said Ryder candidly. “The Lions are the least of our worries, if you ask me! We’ll have three men fewer coming back from Paris. I have recommended to master Blanchard that unless the country is much calmer by the time Master Jenkinson leaves us, which isn’t likely, we should consider sailing home from Paris ourselves and abandoning the Chaffinch. If you want to know, mistress, I’ve already told the Dodds to make for Nantes as soon as Dick’s fit enough and not worry about us. We ought to leave France by the shortest route.”

  Brockley, who was riding just behind us, at this point expressed vigorous agreement. “The sooner we all get safe home the better.”

  I agreed with them, and my agreement grew stronger with every hour. The ride to Paris, which took several days, was one of the most unpleasant journeys I have ever taken.

  It was so disagreeable that Easter came and went while we were on the road and we didn’t even notice it. To start with, there were crosscurrents in the party. It soon became clear that because Jenkinson and his two men had fought on Matthew’s behalf at the inn, the other men regarded them as intruders. Searle in particular refused to speak to them, and would hardly speak to me either. On my side, although no one could help liking the acute and fatherly John Ryder and the cheerful, ever-hungry Mark Sweetapple, I distrusted my escort and although I accepted that a truce with my father-in-law was necessary, I could barely tolerate his company.

  As for Helene, whose companion I was supposed to be, she loathed me and I loathed her back, though I did now and then remind myself of Helene’s youth and her bereavement and I was glad that her woman Jeanne had agreed to come with her as far as Paris. Jeanne was a sensible woman with a genuine attachment to Helene, and a real concern for her.

  Before we left the abbey, Dale had casually asked Jeanne for some white thread, to see what transpired. Jeanne at once produced a sizable quantity of it and offered a needle to go with it. This was interesting enough, but during the journey toward Paris, Jeanne made an opportunity to ride beside me, and said that she wished to apologize to me for her young mistress’s bad behavior in looking through our baggage.

  “She came and told me what she had done, and that she had made an excuse about wanting thread. She tells me most things, my little Helene. I have been with her for many years; I even went to the abbey with her. I have been like a mother to her. This I cannot approve of, and so I told her.” Jeanne’s lined face was worried. “She did it from youthful curiosity, wanting to know more about you, madam, and I fear she has invented foolish explanations for the things she found. My young mistress is passionate for her faith. She wished to be a nun, or if not a nun,” said Jeanne, with a glint of humor,“then a martyr. I tell her I would rather she was a married woman—and a lady.”

  Jeanne, in fact, did what she could to smooth our quarrel over. But it went too deep for that. I would do my duty by Helene, but I would be glad when it was finished.

  Anthony Jenkinson talked to me a good deal on that journey and was pleasanter company than most of the others, although somewhat inquisitive. He had gathered from Luke Blanchard some of the details about my marriage to Matthew and understood that a trap had been set for him, but a few things still puzzled him.

  “Master Blanchard says De la Roche is wanted in England for treachery. But you were with him that night as his wife, were you not? Yet here you are now, riding off without your husband, and still using the name of Mistress Blanchard.”

  As ever, I kept silent about my work for Cecil, but I explained that as a young widow, I had married Matthew “in some haste” in England, and then parted from him when I found that he was involved in a plot to replace our queen with Mary Stuart. “But I still have feelings for him,” I said.

  I also explained my relationship with Master Blanchard and how I had come to France to help him with Helene and present our queen’s compliments to Queen Catherine. “But I couldn’t resist Matthew’s approach when his letter reached me at Douceaix. I wish now that I had.”

  His response was much like that of Henri and Marguerite.

  “You have a difficult life, Mistress Blanchard,” Jenkinson said. “I can only pray that the future holds more happiness than the past. I won’t try to advise you. You know your own business best.” I was glad of both his sympathy and his detachment. He had struck me at first as a more than slightly crazy adventurer, but there was something solid beneath all that blithe courting of danger.

  We were rid of Searle before we got to Paris, although the circumstances were horrible. Our own private squabbles would have been quite enough to cope with, but we had those of France, as well. Ryder had been right to worry about them.

  We soon came across more signs of trouble: refugees from a village where Catholics had been attacked, and then the village itself, burned out, with bodies lying in the street, and three times we were stopped at roadblocks.

  The first two were manned by officers of the government’s Catholic army. The officers were impressed by my letter of introduction from Queen Elizabeth and let us pass. But it was a different story at the third block, which was unofficial, made of a couple of tree trunks thrown down across a woodland track, and manned by six unshaven and extremely aggressive Huguenot mercenaries.

  Although most of us were English and, therefore, should have been regarded as friends, we came near to being hanged then and there as “spies,” although it wasn’t at all clear what we were supposed to be spying on. But although the six were armed and murderous, we outnumbered them by almost two to one and when the situation began to look dangerous, our escort drew their swords and attacked.

  It was fortunate that all the women were riding their own mounts, and, therefore, not encumbering any of the men. We hung back out of the way as the fight raged till Ryder suddenly emerged from the melee, caught my eye, jerked his head toward the trees and mouthed: “Now!” I saw what he meant and swiftly herded Helene, Dale, and Jeanne into the woods, past the block, and back to the track on the other side.

  Presently, breathless and bloodstained, the men rejoined us. Three of the enemy were dead and the others had run for it. But we had had two casualties of our own. One was Jenkinson’s man Deacon, the one Jenkinson had said could fight like a leopard. His feline agility had not saved him this time. The other was Searle. Deacon had been killed outright. Searle was still alive, and we tried to help him, but he had been run through, and he died while Jenkinson and Ryder were trying to exami
ne the extent of his wound.

  We did not want to linger there, but we took a few moments to lay the enemy bodies out with some semblance of decency. No doubt they would have been relieved at their post before long; their own comrades would see to them. We all helped. Helene was coolheaded about it. Jeanne said to her that this was not work for a young girl, but Helene merely replied that they were only Lutherans, after all. I turned away before I said something unfitting in the presence of the dead. Our own two casualties we placed across their horses and led them on, intending to get well away and then find a secluded place where we could bury them.

  Two miles farther along the road we came on another burned-out hamlet, but one in which there were a few survivors who had got away and hidden in the woods during the attack. One was the village priest. His church had been fired along with the houses—“but consecrated ground is still consecrated,” he said, when we asked him if we could use his churchyard.

  He was not young, but for all his gray hairs and the white cataract over one eye, he was tough. We had found him organizing the other survivors into putting roofs back onto a couple of houses to provide shelter. We said we had been the victims of Huguenots and Helene was wearing a silver crucifix that was visible when her cloak swung open. I suppose he took it for granted that all of us were Catholic. At least, he didn’t ask, and we didn’t enlarge. The men of our party dug a single big grave in the churchyard and there Deacon and Searle were laid together.

  The priest recited a burial service for them. I found it moving. I hardly knew Deacon and I hadn’t liked Searle, but they were human beings, with lives and no doubt with loves. I cried for them, and when I saw that Blanchard, too, was weeping, I felt more kindly toward my father-in-law. He had his human side, it seemed. There were tears in the eyes even of hefty Stephen Longman. Longman, who could kill a man by hugging him, was actually an amiable soul and his heavy-boned face was attractive in its way. I had gathered that he and Deacon had been friends as well as comrades.