I sat down, bundle on lap, and stepping in after me, the boatman took his own seat, loosed the painter and picked up his oars. We drew away from the landing stage. I waved merrily to Dale and Brockley. Then we were in midstream and turning upriver, towards Richmond. I looked back at the bank but Brockley and Dale had disappeared.
It was as though, since the moment I found the letter, I had been moving rapidly, surging with eagerness, willing time away. Now, for the first time since then, I sat still, in the midst of the dark, chilly river, alone with the stranger who had forbidden Brockley to come with me, and at that point, when it was just too late, my misgivings began.
In restrospect, I think I already had them, but I hadn’t wanted to pay attention. Something had nudged uneasily at my mind when I saw how the handwriting straggled, but I wanted to be with Matthew so much that I had muffled my instinctive doubts as thoroughly as my boatman had muffled his person.
The boatman seemed to have a powerful build, but it was difficult to tell because he was so enswathed in garments: cloak, boots, hat, and even a dark blue scarf across his lower face. Even in this weather, I thought, such clothing must be far too hot for comfortable rowing, and surely it was hindering his movements. I tried to say something of the kind, lightly, but he merely grunted in answer and rowed steadily on.
Time passed. My oarsman was clearly not the talkative type. I looked again at the dark river, rippling under a fretful breeze, and at the banks which here consisted of empty meadows, and thought, I am travelling into the unknown. The Thames was like the Styx, the river of Greek legend which the dead must cross to reach the hereafter. There was a ferryman in the legend: Charon. My silent, anonymous companion would do very well for Charon. He was so extremely silent and anonymous that he made me uncomfortable.
“Surely we’ve been going for more than half an hour?” I said.
“We’re almost there.” I got a sentence out of him that time. He looked over his shoulder, towards a grassy bluff jutting from the north bank, and changed course. Beyond the bluff there were signs of habitation: a house in the distance, and several boathouses by the water. We were making for them. A moment later, we were alongside another landing stage and my escort was tossing the painter round a bollard. “Here we are, madam. Out you come.”
He handed me out. The nearest boathouse, one of the largest, was firmly shut and there was no sign of life. My Charon, however, led me round the side of it on a wooden walkway which brought us to the landward door. I saw with disquiet that although it had probably once had a lock, the lock had been hacked out, and a piece of timber nailed over the place where it had been. Two stout new bolts had been fitted to the door instead, top and bottom. He undid them. “In here, madam.”
I looked across the fields, noticing how far away the one house was. The place was very lonely and no one seemed to be about. I didn’t want to enter the boathouse, but Charon seized my arm and pushed me, quite roughly. I found myself inside, willy nilly.
“Watch your step now,” he said.
The warning was necessary because the interior of the boathouse was very dark, with only a narrow walkway round the sides. The rest was water, on which lay a sizeable barge. I hesitated, still trying to resist, but Charon propelled me onwards for a yard or two and then stopped above a ladder which led down to the barge.
“You go down there. You’ll feel safer on the barge. I shan’t come with you. Turn round and go down backwards. Go on!”
His manner had unquestionably changed. It was no longer respectful. Badly frightened now, I twisted round to look at him. “Where’s Matthew de la Roche?” I demanded.
“You’re going to see him, right enough. Down that ladder with you. Go on, now. Nothing to be afraid of.”
But there was. There was Charon. I looked at the muffled-up face, with the scarf which covered it from the bridge of the nose downwards, and the overshadowing hat beneath which his eyes too were almost hidden, and all I wanted to do was back away. Suddenly afraid that he might actually pick me up and carry me down, or worse still, pick me up and throw me down, possibly into the water instead of the barge, I accepted the alternative of the ladder. I crept down backwards and stood on the barge, looking up at him.
“But where is Matthew? He’s not . . . ?”
For an awful, panic-stricken moment, I thought that Matthew might be dead, and that some hideous jest had been played on me, and I had been brought here to see his body, but the flat-bottomed barge was innocent of any such horrors. A quick glance round it showed me that instead, it was provided with a brazier and a tinderbox and some rugs.
“No,” said Charon from above me, divining what I hadn’t actually said. “He’s alive. Don’t you worry about that. You’re in safe hands. No one’s going to hurt you. Personally, I’d be in favour of knocking you out and dumping you in the river, but I’m not the man in charge.”
“What?”
“You just stop there. There’s heat, rugs, and you’ll find food and water in that locker under the seat behind you. You just make yourself comfy till you’re fetched.” He walked away towards the door. Outraged and much alarmed, I shouted incoherent protests after him but he took no notice. He left the boathouse, and I heard the bolts shoot home.
I scrambled up the ladder again, and ran perilously along the narrow walkway to hammer on the door and shout. There was no answer. Pausing, I heard sounds on the landing stage outside, to the right of the big river doors at the other end of the boathouse, where the barge would go out when in use. Someone was getting into a boat. I heard the plash of receding oars, and Charon was gone.
Uselessly, I pounded on the door again and shouted for help on and off for quite a long time before I gave up and went back to the barge.
The barge was big and well appointed, with gilding and paint and smooth, polished seats which were no doubt supplied with cushions when the vessel was taken out. It had probably been laid up for the winter. It had a dinghy, which had been brought on board, complete with oars, and most of the seats on the barge had cupboards beneath them. I started to search the cupboards, and to examine the deck to see if there were any lift-up doors to storage compartments below. A vessel like this might have tools on it somewhere. I might find something—a hammer, a chisel, or by the greatest good luck, even an axe—by which I could hack a way out through that door.
I had no doubt about the need to escape if I could. I did not believe for one moment that I was to be taken to Matthew. Matthew would not have had me treated like this, not even out of anger at last year’s betrayal. Oh yes, he had been angry. His first letter had shown me his anger, but it had also shown me his love. Besides, I knew him. This was not Matthew’s doing.
I found the food my captor had mentioned. I had been provided with a loaf, some cold bacon, and a sizeable wedge of cheese. There were two big leather bottles of water, too. I had also been left a good pile of charcoal for the brazier. It looked as though I could expect a lengthy stay in the boathouse.
I couldn’t find a hammer, or a chisel, or an axe. I had a small knife of my own and I went back to the door to see if I could slide the blade into the crack and somehow shift the bolts. It took only a few moments to show me what a useless idea that was. Treading cautiously, I went right round the walkway, seeking another way out, another door, a weak place in the planking walls or even in the roof, if only I could somehow climb up to it. There was nothing. Disconsolately, I returned to the barge.
I became aware of how cold I was. Well, there was the brazier, and there were the rugs. I lit the one and wrapped myself up in the other. It seemed that I could do nothing but wait. I had no doubt been missed by now but I did not expect rescue. How would anyone know where to look for me?
I ate some food but not too much, for I had no way of knowing how long it would have to last. I was too alarmed to be hungry, anyway—eating was just something to do.
I was swallowing the last crumbs when, once more, I heard oars, and then the sound of someone getting out
of a boat on the landing stage. Tensely, I pushed off the rugs and stood up. Whoever it was was now walking round to the landward door. There was only one set of footsteps. Charon? Matthew? Could it, after all, be Matthew?
Heart thumping, I turned to face the bolted door. The bolts were being drawn back. The door opened.
Roger Brockley, stepping warily, with a drawn sword in his hand, came through, keeping his back against the door, and peering through the gloom, eyes narrow.
“Brockley!” I gasped, and made for the ladder. “Brockley, I’m here, I’m here! How on earth did you find me?”
His hand, strong and friendly, was there to help me off the top of the ladder. “Madam? You’re all right? Unharmed?”
“Yes, yes! Oh, Brockley, I’m so glad to see you! But once again, how did you . . . ?”
“Questions in a moment, madam,” said Brockley. “First of all, I think we’d better get away from here!”
• • •
“I didn’t like it, you going off alone like that,” Brockley said as he rowed us back towards Whitehall. The tide had turned and the ebb was draining out of the river, carrying us along. “I just didn’t care for it. From the beginning, I didn’t think much of the notion that Fran and I shouldn’t come with you. What if it did make us a large party? People usually travel in groups. And when your boatman said I couldn’t even see you safe to your husband . . . ! Well, there are dinghies the servants in the palace use; I take one now and again and the boatkeepers know me. I had my sword on already, under my cloak. I got myself a boat and rowed after you like a madman. I lost a few minutes and you were a fair way ahead, but I’ve got good long sight and I had you in view as soon as I was round the first bend.
“I tracked you all the way here. I saw you land and go round to the other side of that boathouse, but while I was still trying to reach it, that walking parcel of winter clothing who was your boatman, got into his craft and came back towards me—leaving you in the boathouse, presumably. With Master de la Roche, I hoped, but it seemed a funny place for a meeting. I was scared for you.”
“I was scared for myself,” I said.
“I didn’t want him to recognise me,” Brockley said. “I pulled away over to the bank to let him go past and waited till he was a good long way off. The tide was on the turn then, and it was hard going, the last bit up to the landing stage. I thought I’d never get there. Now, madam, just what happened? There was no sign of your husband, I take it?”
“No. I was to be held there, Brockley, but I don’t know why. That man said I was to wait until I was fetched, and that I would be taken to Matthew, but I didn’t believe him. That’s all I know.”
“You’ve no notion who he was?”
“It seemed to me,” I said grimly, “that he’d taken pains to make sure he couldn’t possibly be identified!”
“Yes. Likely enough.” Brockley frowned, pulling on the oars, then he said, “Whoever he was, he knew of your marriage to Master de la Roche, and—I suppose—of your wish to join him. Tell me, madam—you had a letter purporting to come from your husband. Do you think it was genuine?”
“I’ve been wondering.” I had the letter with me, in a pocket inside my open-fronted overskirt. Reaching under my cloak, I got the letter out and looked at it. “My name on the outside looks convincing enough,” I said, “but the letter itself . . . well, it could be Matthew’s hand if he were in a great hurry, or it could be an imitation. The seal isn’t quite right, either. I think it’s a forgery.”
“I wonder,” said Brockley thoughtfully, “if whoever sent it also knew what you were going to this place, Lockhill, for? The name of your husband would make good bait, I fancy, if someone wanted to make sure that you didn’t set out after all.”
“But how could that be? Very few people,” I said, “know of my marriage, and fewer still that I have asked permission to go to France. It’s no secret that I’m to visit the Masons and help with their daughters for a while, of course, but my real purpose has been very carefully guarded. Hardly anyone knows of that.”
Brockley rested on his oars, letting us drift on the ebb. “Well, madam, I can tell you one thing for sure, and that is that neither Fran nor I have been indiscreet. When I first heard about that letter and felt doubtful, I asked her if she’d said anything about your affairs—about Master de la Roche or Lockhill—to anyone, and she said no. I believe her because if she’d been careless, I’d have got it out of her. Fran doesn’t lie to me.”
I nodded, understanding him. Brockley was not the sort of man to whom it would be easy to lie. There was something in that calm, steady gaze of his that always made you feel he knew what you were thinking.
“She wouldn’t have been able to look at me,” Brockley said. “She’d have admitted it, and cried. But she looked at me straight, and said it was a shameful suggestion. I know my Fran. She hasn’t talked and I certainly haven’t.”
“I accept that. I have never known either of you to be indiscreet,” I said.
“Maybe someone else has talked,” Brockley said. “Someone from Sir William Cecil’s house, could it be?”
“That’s ridiculous!” I protested. “Leonard Mason is the master of his own house, presumably! If he heard something about me that made him feel he didn’t want me at Lockhill, all he had to do was to write and say it wasn’t convenient, or that he was making other arrangements for his girls, or that the children were coming out in spots and there might be infection in his home! It would be easy to keep me away. There was no need for all this nonsense about abducting me and locking me in a boathouse!”
“Then why were you abducted, madam? Do you think your husband arranged it after all and that you really were going to be taken to him?”
“God alone knows, Brockley. I certainly don’t. I can’t believe that Matthew arranged it—unless there’s been a muddle. Unless he gave orders that were misunderstood, or some of his people meant to please him by bringing me to him, but went about it stupidly . . . I just don’t know.”
Brockley took up his oars again and began once more to pull. “Let us get off this chilly river. I take it you’ll be reporting what has happened to Sir William Cecil?”
“Not at once,” I said. “I want to think.”
“And Lockhill? Do you intend to go, or not?”
I considered, while Brockley rowed us steadily on downstream. On the face of it, the notion that my imprisonment in that boathouse had anything to do with Lockhill seemed as unlikely as the idea that Matthew had organised it. Neither theory made sense. And yet . . . if Cecil’s suspicions were right, then who knew how far this mysterious conspiracy extended, how many people were involved? Mason might be only one among many. How could I read the minds of these hidden adversaries?
How could I know what was really absurd and what was likely?
I was never one to heed warnings. Last year, I had run into danger largely of my own choice, and my first marriage, to Gerald Blanchard, had been an elopement in the face of outraged objections from both our families. I had taken plenty of chances in my time.
But now, as we moved along the cold river in our small and solitary craft, and I remembered that lonely boathouse and its locked, unyielding door, I felt that all this amounted to a very ominous warning. Dared I ignore it?
I shivered. “I don’t know,” I said.
But even as I spoke, I knew that I did. The decision had taken itself.
CHAPTER 6
Vision of Wings
“We are going to Lockhill,” I said. “Or I am. I have no choice. I’ve given my word already and unless I go through with it, I risk offending the Queen. And I want to make sure I still have permission to go to France in May. There’s no question now of travelling sooner, of course.”
I had been badly frightened. Whatever the truth of the matter, Matthew’s name had certainly been used to get me to that boathouse. I still loved him and longed for him, and I still believed in his love for me. When we met again, I said to myself, we would pu
t right all misunderstanding, but now, waiting until May seemed not only endurable but inevitable. I was no longer prepared to embark on any illegal journeys to reach my husband. If and when I went, I would do so lawfully, with the Queen’s goodwill behind me.
Unfortunately, Elizabeth could be unpredictable. I had better make sure I kept that goodwill. Dale and Brockley knew that too. They listened to me in silence and nodded sagely.
We were all in Brockley’s lodgings. As usual when I called there, I had been politely given the best seat in the room, a stool with a cushion in a cover charmingly embroidered by Dale. Dale, I thought, would much rather spend her time doing embroidery than travelling to Berkshire in pursuit of conspirators.
Dale and Brockley sat side by side on the bed, which doubled as a settle. The lodging was very small, though reasonably comfortable, with a little hearth and a sheepskin mat beside the bed.
Dale said, “But after what’s happened, ma’am . . .” and stopped.
“I doubt if it had anything to do with Lockhill,” I said. “I daresay that if I reported it to Cecil he might have second thoughts about sending me, but I doubt if they would be justified. I can’t report it anyway: I can scarcely tell him that I had a clandestine assignation with a wanted man—even if the man in question is my husband. Even if I didn’t say I was intending to run off with Matthew, Cecil would guess at it.”
“You still mean to go to France in May?” Brockley asked.
“Yes, but Lockhill comes first. All this talk of plots may be only a mistake, you know. In that case, I can perhaps put it right, and help Ann Mason thereby. I liked her.”
“I agree, madam,” Brockley said thoughtfully, “that from what I remember of that household, it didn’t seem much like a hotbed for intrigue.”
“I damned well hope it isn’t,” I said, “for Ann’s sake.”
The Doublet Affair (Ursula Blanchard Mysteries) Page 6