Well, sometimes. If Brockley had worn bonnets, he would have had a few bees in them. As the maidservant went away, he said, “Simply report to someone of standing where we’ve been and why, and what we observed. That’s my advice to you, madam. Then it’s out of your hands and you can finally forget about chasing after these men yourself, which is not becoming to a lady.”
“I knew you’d say that before long,” I told him.
“I fancy,” said Brockley, “that you climbed trees when you were a child.”
I was familiar now with the way he made sallies with a straight face so that only the glint in his blue-grey eyes betrayed him. I smiled. “I swarmed down a wall covered with ivy even when I was grown up,” I said. “I had a runaway marriage.”
“Indeed, madam?”
“Yes. Our families lived near each other, in Sussex. Gerald was about to leave for London where he was taking up his post in the household of Sir Thomas Gresham,” I said. “We had already planned to slip off together and marry secretly, but we used to meet out on the downland, and someone saw us and told my aunt and uncle that there was something between me and Master Gerald Blanchard. I went home that day and found them waiting for me, furious. Gerald was meant to marry my cousin Mary, you see. I was shut up in my room, up in the attic. The busybody who told them had told Gerald’s family too. He quarrelled with his father and brother, and left his home that same day and came for me. He knew which my window was. He threw pebbles at it and when I looked out and saw him there in the moonlight, I climbed down the ivy to join him. He took me to where John Wilton was waiting with horses, and we went off together then and there. We married in Guildford.”
“How you dared!” said Dale admiringly.
“I was more afraid to stay than go, I think,” I said, “and Gerald never failed me. Never, until the smallpox took him.”
I didn’t want to remember that, the ravaging fever which burned away his senses so that he no longer knew me; the pustules which ran into each other and turned his handsome face into a horror on which I could hardly bear to look.
“You’ve lost your husband and your protector,” said Brockley earnestly, “but a lady needs to be protected, madam. There must surely be someone at court to whom you could pass on this quest of yours.”
I thought this over, knowing that it was good sense. “I could ask to see Cecil,” I said doubtfully. “I could go to the queen! But . . . ”
“Why do you hesitate, madam?” Brockley asked. “It is only a matter of stating facts. We visited such and such places; we noticed this and that. You guess at such and such. Do you guess at something serious? Of much import?”
“Yes, very much so, and because of that . . . ” I was working it out, trying to understand my own uncertainty. Then I saw. “It’s because what I guess is of great import that I’m unhappy about speaking before I’m sure.” I had never even told Brockley or Dale of the letter John was taking to Cecil for me, or of my old suspicions of Dudley. My companions thought John had just been taking a letter to Bridget. I couldn’t possibly talk to them about treason while it was still only a theory.
“It’s still all so vague,” I said. “If I speak, and I am wrong, I shall do no good and cause trouble for people like the Westleys and the Masons. I don’t want to do that. At least, I want to think it over before I go any further. We will go to Sussex. Perhaps when we come back, I’ll have a clearer mind.”
Perhaps, by then, I would have talked to Matthew.
Two days later, we were in Sussex.
• • •
“That’s the place,” I said, jogging impatiently ahead.
I had done my duty by John and visited his relatives, his sister, Mistress Alice Juniper and her husband Tom, on their smallholding, which was a few miles south-east of Faldene.
The Junipers were kind people. When I visited Sussex before joining the court, I had stayed in their little farmstead with its beaten earth floors and the one main room downstairs, which adjoined the cow-byre and was divided from it only by a half-wall of split logs. The place was always full of the warm cattle smell, and if we sat by the fire for a while in the evening, we could hear the cows chewing cud, and the firelight sometimes caught the tip of a horn or the gleam of a liquid eye beyond the partition. I was more at ease there than I ever would have been at Faldene, with its polished floorboards, its family pride and its cold heart.
Telling his people of John’s death was harrowing. I did not tell them of my suspicions or of our chase, but simply said he had been attacked by robbers, and that I had taken so long to reach them because I had to stay at Cumnor for the inquest and the funeral and couldn’t get away at once.
They had heard of Lady Dudley’s death; it seemed that the whole of England was ringing with the news that the queen’s sweet Robin had now become a widower by way of a most convenient accident. They accepted what I said without question.
It was done now. Alice had cried and I had tried to comfort her, and Tom had called down curses on the murderers of his brother-in-law. We had spent a night and stayed on to midday dinner, and let them talk John’s death over and ask all the questions they wished. Now, at last, at last, I could ride back to Westwater, the hamlet not far from Faldene, where I had settled Bridget and Meg in their cottage.
While there, I might enquire of the Westwater vicar whether he had heard of a Master de la Roche anywhere in Sussex. I had asked the Junipers, who had not, but said, “We live very quietly. We hear bits of news at markets—we heard of Lady Dudley dying, that way—but there’s plenty gets by us, or takes a while to reach us. They’d know at Faldene, I expect, but if you don’t want to go there . . . ”
“No, I don’t!” I said.
“Then try at the church in Westwater. Vicars all know each other and they talk about their new parishioners, like as not.”
It was a cool, bright, early autumn day. The downs above the chalky track were turning to brown and gold as the grass and bracken changed colour. The cottage was at one end of the hamlet and was the first to come into view. It stood a little apart from the rest. It had been recently built and the thatch still had the gold tint of newness. It was not the kind of great house in which Meg ought rightly to be growing up, but it had been the best I could do for her as yet. At least, with Bridget, she would have safety and affection and it couldn’t harm her to learn how to cook meals and tend a garden. I might repair the other deficiencies later. For the moment, I wanted only to see her running to meet me and to leap down from the saddle and sweep her up into my arms.
As we came near, I saw that the garden had been planted with herbs and vegetables and glimpsed a henhouse at the back. Bridget had been doing what I told her. At the gate I shouted, “Hallo!” but there was no reply.
“Visiting neighbours?” Brockley hazarded. “Or is there a market anywhere near?”
“At Faldene village, every week,” I said. “It’s on Wednesday. This is Friday.”
Then the door opened and out came Bridget at a run, although she was a plump woman past her youth. Skirts held clear of her feet, she pelted towards us and arrived gasping. “Oh, Mistress Blanchard! You’ve come! You had my letter then, oh dear, oh dear, I’ve been at my wits’ end . . . ”
“What is it? What’s the matter, Bridget?” I swung down from Bay Star, looping her reins over my arm. Bridget’s round face was normally not expressive but anxiety was now written clearly all over it. My nostrils informed me, to my regret, that she had slipped back into her old ways as regards personal washing, and I noticed that the strands of hair escaping from her linen headdress were greasy and that her skirts and headdress were none too clean either. Just now, however, this was not the point. “Bridget?” I said, as the nursemaid showed signs of bursting into tears instead of answering. “What is it? What letter? Where’s Meg?”
I was looking round for her as I spoke, but nothing stirred within the open door of the cottage and no little girl came running from the garden.
Bridget recoile
d. “You’ve not had word, then? But you’re here, ma’am, you’ve come . . . ”
“I’ve been on the road for a long time. Where did you write to?”
“To Cumnor, a week ago now. I paid a boy to go, from the village here. Oh, Mistress Blanchard!”
“Bridget! In God’s name tell me what’s wrong! Is Meg ill? Or . . . ?”
Oh no, please God, no. Children are always vulnerable to sickness. Suddenly I was terrified, imagining my daughter mortally sick, or dead, perhaps of the smallpox, like her father.
“No, ma’am, she’s not ill that I know of, but she’s not here. They took her away!”
“Who did? Bridget, you’re not making sense. Where is she?”
“She’s at Faldene, ma’am. Your uncle and aunt came over a week ago and took her away with them. They said her place was at Faldene. They said this cottage wasn’t good enough for her and they talked a lot about her immortal soul. I couldn’t stop them, ma’am. I tried but they wouldn’t listen and poor little Meg, she cried so!”
“Faldene!” I said, furious.
• • •
“You will stay here,” I commanded Bridget. “Wait to hear from me. Oh, you’d better have this.”
In my saddlebag was a package containing some fabrics which I had bought in Windsor, so that Meg could have more new clothes. She was a dark-haired child, and I had found some woollen cloth and some satin, both in shades of crimson, which would suit her to perfection. The sight of it, when Meg herself wasn’t there to be delighted and to have the rich coloured fabrics held against her, nearly made me cry but I held the tears back and gave the materials to Bridget to look after. Then I found my purse and handed her in addition seven pounds in half-angels and shillings, at which her eyes widened.
“We’re going on to Faldene,” I told her. “We’ll bring Meg back if we can. Be ready for her, and while you’re at it, Bridget, for God’s sake heat some water over the fire and wash.” I fished in my saddlebag again. “Here’s some soap, so you’ve no excuse.”
“Oh, ma’am, I’m that sorry, but these days it’s getting chilly and my mother always said that if you once get a cold on your chest . . . ”
“Do as you’re told, Bridget! We’ll be back as soon as we can.”
Westwater was at one end of the long, forested valley known as Faldene Vale. Faldene House was three miles away, at the other end. There was a track through the woods and along this we sped as fast as the packhorse and White Snail with their respective bouncing loads could go. Dale, gasping and holding on to her saddle, expressed outrage as we went.
“They’ve stolen your daughter, ma’am? Well, I never heard of such a thing! Oops! I’ve lost my stirrup!”
We paused while Brockley reunited Dale’s foot with its support. “Why would they do that?” Dale demanded, while he made sure that the Snail’s girth was secure as well.
“I can think of several reasons, but spite is highly likely,” I said. “Now come on!”
“We’ll get her back, madam, never fear!” said Brockley.
“I hope so!” I said.
I was frightened as much as angry, frightened for Meg. She had lost her father and been parted from me—that was enough for any child to bear—but I had at least left her with a goodhearted nurse. How would she fare in Faldene, of all places, with Aunt Tabitha and Uncle Herbert? I pictured her bewildered and bereft and bullied, unable to understand Aunt Tabitha’s rigid rules of conduct, constantly offending by mistake, wondering why those she trusted had let her be taken away by such unkind people. I remembered my own childhood experiences at Aunt Tabitha’s hands. Faldene was the last place I wanted to go to and now I couldn’t get there fast enough. I grabbed the White Snail’s bridle, and shouted, “Come on!” once again.
We emerged from the woods at a point where paths crossed. One led on to the gatehouse; others ran left and right to the fields which quilted the valley’s sides. The corn had been cut and the cattle had been turned in to the stubble. I saw village women gleaning, baskets on their arms, moving here and there and stooping to collect the leftover grain.
“This is your family home, madam?” Brockley asked respectfully.
“Yes. It’s supposed to have been given to one of my ancestors by King Harold, before the time of William the Conqueror,” I said. “In fact, before Harold himself became king, if the legends are true. I shan’t be particularly welcome here, though, I fear.”
At the gatehouse, Harry Fenn the porter, white haired ever since I could remember, square, muscular and completely unsmiling, stepped out of his doorway and into our path. Harry Fenn never had been one of my favourite people, nor I his. He was a devoted servant of the house but his devotion had been to my grandparents when they were alive, and was now given to Uncle Herbert and Aunt Tabitha. He regarded me, as they did, as a stain on their pure escutcheon.
“Ah. Mistress Ursula. Well, this is a surprise.”
“Is it?” I said. I had no doubt at all that he knew that Meg was here, in which case my arrival couldn’t be as surprising as all that.
He took hold of Bay Star’s bridle. “You’d best wait here while I go up to the house and say you’ve arrived. I’m not sure that the mistress will be able to receive you. Down you get.”
“No, thank you. We’ll ride straight up.”
“I’ve had my orders, Mistress Ursula.”
I was right. He knew all about Meg. I glanced at Brockley.
“You heard my mistress,” said Brockley, and raised his riding whip. Harry, scowling, snatched his hand off the rein.
“I prefer to make this a surprise attack,” I said, and spurred on.
There had been changes since I was last there. Someone had introduced topiary into the formal garden, shaping the yew bushes there into cockerels and horses’ heads. The ivy which had once covered the walls of the house, climbing almost to the top of the crenellated towers which stood at each end of the frontage, and tapping against the mullioned windows, had been stripped away. The house would be lighter inside, I thought, but outside, the grey stone walls, bare of creeper, seemed harsh.
On impulse, I led us round to the back, where there was a stableyard and courtyard combined, lying between the two side wings of the house, with the stables forming the fourth side. Doors into the yard were often left open. On the way, I had worked out how I might compel my aunt and uncle to hand Meg back to me, but it would save much unpleasant argument if I could simply dismount, run into the house, find her and whisk her away.
The entrance was an archway through the stable block. We clattered under it, to find the yard busy. Horses were outside, being rubbed down in the open air where the men could see what they were doing, and one horse was having a front fetlock carefully bathed in cold water.
I pulled Bay Star up so sharply that she tossed her head in protest. The horse having its fetlock bathed was a piebald, and a more spectacular animal I had never seen.
In the last few days, I had once or twice thought that if I had committed a murder, I would prefer not to make my escape on a horse as conspicuous as the piebald apparently was. But of course, William Johnson and his friends had no idea that they were being chased, and if the famous piebald looked like this—and could there be two of them?—then no wonder its owner wanted to keep it.
“Piebald” is an irritating word. It makes one think of foodstuffs—a parti-coloured egg, perhaps, or a pie with a very smooth crust. Nothing in that word came anywhere near describing the sheer beauty of this animal. Its coat was glossy raven black splashed dramatically with snow; the fine head, held so proudly, and the long sloping shoulders spoke of desert blood and effortless speed. It was a gelding, but had been gelded late, judging from the crest on its strong neck, and its jaunty tail was a waterfall of mingled black and white like foam glimpsed in shadow. It was quite superb.
I stared and stared and I heard Brockley gasp. The grooms had all paused and looked round at us. With no attempt at finesse, I pointed to the piebald and demanded, “Who
owns that?”
I didn’t know its groom and he didn’t know me but I spoke so peremptorily that he was startled into answering. “It belongs to a Master Johnson, from Withysham.”
“Withysham?” I was nonplussed and then remembered that Withysham had been taken over as a country house. Alice Juniper had told me, of course, when I stayed with her before I went to court. “Oh, yes. It’s occupied now. By a . . . a Master Johnson?”
“Well, he lives there,” said the groom snappily, resenting this catechism. “Him and others. There’s quite a few of ’em. They visit here now and then. Master Johnson and some others came through here ten days back or thereabout. Looked as if they’d been on a journey. They called in because his horse was lame. They dined here and left the horse to be cared for. He borrowed a nag to get home on. Ma’am,” he added dubiously, as if wondering whether I were entitled to terms of respect, or not.
“Ursula!” said Aunt Tabitha’s voice behind me. “To what do we owe this unexpected pleasure?”
She had appeared suddenly, from a back door. I swung Bay Star round to face her. I was dazed. The pursuit of John’s assailants and the desire for reunion with my daughter had till a few moments ago been two different things. Now they had collided, and I was seeing stars, as though I had dashed my head against a stone wall.
However, at the sight of Aunt Tabitha, I found myself concentrating once again on Meg. I had lost the advantage of surprise. I had no hope now of snatching my child away before I was caught. I opted instead for a direct challenge. “Good day, Aunt Tabitha. I have come to fetch my daughter. Will you bring her to me, please?”
• • •
It was a brave attempt and of course it failed. Aunt Tabitha wasn’t to be impressed by any high-handed tactics on my part. She was, as ever, thin and active, with a fastidiously disapproving twist to her mouth as though she had just eaten a particularly sour crab-apple. Except when in a temper, she believed in the proprieties.
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