To Shield the Queen

by FIONA BUCKLEY

  It had also harboured murderers. I must not forget that.

  Dale shared the breakfast, sitting a little apart at the table. I joked with her about her riding lessons. “I was watching you yesterday. You must sit up more. I’ve a good mind to join you when I come back from my own ride and show you how to do a few things myself. General principles are the same, even though I don’t ride astride. You wouldn’t object, Matthew? Just for fifteen minutes or so before I go to Malton’s office. What is Brockley going to work on with you today, Dale?”

  “The same as yesterday, madam. He wants me to sit up better, just as you said, and to practise getting a horse going when I want to and stopping when I want to.”

  I waited for Matthew to say that he didn’t object but he did not speak. “I’ll stop and enquire after your progress, as usual, anyway,” I said, casually, afraid of arousing suspicion and praying that I wasn’t going to fall at the very first obstacle. Under my boned bodice, against my heart, I could feel the weight of the bag of gold sovereigns and silver crowns, part of Dudley’s last payment, which I had retrieved from my personal chest that morning. I had taken a last look round the bedchamber, to make my farewell to its remembered images of love. It had been a mistake. I had fled the room as if from an enemy.

  “Oh, join the lesson if you wish. You ought to give Malton a morning off,” Matthew said. “You take him from his other duties and he says how can he leave you alone with the account books, when you ask so many questions?”

  A breath of sheer relief went silently out of me. “Oh dear. I’m sorry. Very well, I’ll give him a rest.” I laughed. “I’ve probably learned quite enough for the time being. By the way, I’ve noticed that we’re rather extravagant with household candles, but I suppose the big dining chamber needs a great many . . . ” Chatting idly about things that didn’t matter, I led the conversation away from Dale and her riding lessons.

  I can’t remember what I talked to Matthew about during our ride. I must have kept the pretence of normality up somehow. When we came back, Brockley and Dale were at the end of the paddock furthest from the gate, engaged in stop and start manoeuvres. Brockley’s voice floated towards me.

  “No! I want you to put him into a canter straight from a standstill and then stop him before he gets level with that fencepost there. Now, try again. Get him ready. Tighten the reins and sit down well. Now . . . oh no, let me show you . . . ”

  “You know, I don’t think Brockley is always a perfect teacher,” I said to Matthew in critical tones. “She can’t follow what it is he’s trying to demonstrate. I’m sure I could do better. Well, I said I might join in for a while. I think I will. I’ll see you at dinner, then.”

  “Of course. Don’t overtire yourself,” said Matthew, quite unsuspiciously, and opened the paddock gate for me. I took Bay Star in and he closed the gate and then leaned across it for a kiss. “Saltspoon!” he whispered.

  I smiled into his eyes, but my own eyes stung as he rode off towards the stableyard. I sat for a moment, watching him go from me, before I turned to join my servants. My friends. My fellow conspirators.

  We looked gravely at each other. “We’d better not waste time,” said Brockley.

  “I have to ask this,” I said. “Are you two willing to take the risk? If we fail, I shall of course say that you were only obeying my orders. I’ll protect you if I can, but Master de la Roche may well be very angry.”

  “Let’s just go,” said Dale in a jittery voice. She tightened her reins and the brown mare threw up her head.

  “Easy,” said Brockley quietly. “There’s an ox-cart full of barrels coming in through the gatehouse, I see. By the look of it, the driver knows the gatekeeper and they’re discussing the weather and the gatekeeper’s grandfather’s rheumatics.” Dale let out a slightly hysterical giggle. “We’ll have to wait a bit,” said Brockley frowning at her. “Madam, you’d better do a little instructing. Dale, you can take the chance of some extra practice. Straight from a standstill into a fast canter, that’s what we want. Madam?”

  I rode round the field, demonstrating. A few of the men who were laying out the new garden drifted over to watch, but they were well away from the paddock gate, and were not a threat. Every nerve in my body was alert for things that might hinder us.

  Dale took her turn and did well. Brockley didn’t deserve my disparaging remarks about his instruction. He was a good teacher and the brown mare was much more amenable than White Snail. However, I shook my head at him and told him he wasn’t making it clear how Dale should use her calves to tell the horse what to do, and then told Dale that now she had boots which would protect her calves from the stirrup leathers, she ought to be able to squeeze firmly.

  We were three people practising horsemanship in a paddock, apparently with no thought in our heads beyond the technicality under discussion, but I was watching the ox-cart from the corner of my eye. I saw it move on at last, leaving the gatehouse tunnel clear. Brockley saw it too. “That’s enough for today,” he said, and we began to walk the horses towards the gate.

  Another ox-cart, this one laden with timber, arrived, and blocked the gatehouse like a stopper in a bottle.

  “Oh, no,” moaned Dale under her breath.

  “I think,” said Brockley, “that Bay Star has trouble with her off fore. Stop.” We halted and he dismounted to examine Bay Star’s hoof. Mildly puzzled, she pulled against the bit in order to look round at him. Dear God, I thought, if only we could get on with it.

  The second ox-cart had creaked into motion again. Brockley straightened up. “There we are. Just a little pebble.” He threw the imaginary pebble away and remounted his cob. The cart rumbled past the paddock and went off towards the new outhouses. There were no more carts behind it.

  The porter had gone back into his little office. Brockley opened the paddock gate from the saddle and held it while Dale and I went decorously through. Then we were outside the paddock, on the track. Dale and I, as if to wait for Brockley, turned our horses to face him while he closed the paddock gate. We were now facing the gatehouse, too. It was only a few yards away. Brockley fastened the gate. Then he gathered his reins, spun the cob on its hindquarters to face the gatehouse as well and said, “Now!”

  With that, we went, all three of us, from a standstill into a canter and then a gallop within six strides, aiming for the gatehouse, the one way out through the encircling wall. At the sound of our hoofs, the porter ran out and tried to reach the gate but we were already tearing through the tunnel, shod hoofs echoing from the walls, and he jumped back as we clattered past. We were through. Bay Star stumbled once and for one appalling moment I thought I would go over her head, but she recovered and I kept my seat, and with scarcely a check, in a flurry of flying clods, we were making off along the track, turning westwards, towards Faldene and Westwater and, ultimately, the road to London.

  • • •

  It was five miles to Faldene and three more to Westwater at the far end of Faldene Vale. The road we wanted, which ran from Chichester to London by way of Guildford, was just beyond Westwater. It wasn’t a main highway; in many places it was only a very rough chalk track, but it nevertheless boasted a few hostelries.

  “There’s a posting inn, two miles northwards from Westwater,” I said, addressing the others as we thundered along, three abreast. “That’s about ten miles altogether, from here.”

  “Well, we can’t gallop all that way,” Brockley replied.

  We would certainly be pursued, so we galloped for a good distance to open up the best possible lead before reining back to let the horses get their breath.

  It was agony to go slowly, though, and we all kept glancing uneasily back as though expecting the pursuit to burst into sight behind us. The horses sensed our uneasiness, and fretted to be given their heads. Soon, we were galloping once more, and we went through Faldene village flat out. Women came to their doors as we hurtled past and poultry scattered from the road before us. A cat which was washing peacefully in the mid
dle of the track fled for its life and several dogs chased us, barking, for some distance.

  We settled, eventually, to a steady canter. The hoofs pounded steadily on the damp earth of the path through the valley, under the trees whose leaves were showing the first autumn tints, and along the side of a stream.

  “We may be able to change horses but we can’t risk stopping to eat at the inn,” I said to the others. “There should be food waiting for us in Bridget’s cottage.”

  “How did you arrange that, madam?” Brockley asked.

  Dale, who had been in the room when despite my pounding headache I gave Bridget her instructions, said admiringly, “You were so brave, ma’am. So ill, yet you didn’t forget anything. Mr. Brockley, the mistress was wonderful.”

  “I’m sure she was,” said Brockley, and in his voice I heard unmistakable affection for Dale. I had been right. They were attracted. “But just how did you do it, madam?” he asked.

  “Before I left Faldene,” I said, “I asked for Bridget to be brought there, to collect Meg, and I made up my mind to seize any chance I could of speaking to her without anyone else hearing, except Dale, of course. I was ill, yes, but I turned that to account.” My last glimpse of Matthew haunted my mind’s eye and I did not feel much like laughing, but the recollection of how I had managed my private word with Bridget did produce a faint amusement. “I moaned that I couldn’t speak loudly—which was true—so beckoned her close and said it all in an undertone. I’d been trying to think ahead. I’m sure that Matthew wouldn’t harm either of them, but I might arrive at court and find a message waiting to say that unless I held my tongue on what I know, Meg would be taken to France and I’d never see her again. Or else Uncle Herbert might snatch her for much the same purpose. No doubt he’ll soon hear what’s happened! I told Bridget, as soon as her escort had left her at the cottage, to take Meg on to Tom and Alice Juniper, and not let anyone know where they were going. They should be safe there. I also told her to leave some food, something that would keep, in her larder.”

  “That was well thought of, madam. Very well thought of, if I may say so. Is that Westwater, up there?”

  The path had veered away from the stream and now led uphill towards a cluster of thatched roofs. “Yes. You’ll recognise it in a moment,” I said. “There’s Bridget’s cottage.”

  “Westwater? Where do they get their water from?”

  “A well,” I said. “Not from the stream, I’m thankful to say. I’ve seen a dead cow lying in that stream, in the past. I thought Westwater would be healthy for Meg because the well water is so pure, but it was too near Faldene, after all. Here we are.”

  Bridget had done as I told her. We found the place empty; even the poultry had gone. It was useful that the cottage stood somewhat apart from the rest; our visit was unobserved. I dismounted and went in, and found that Bridget had left us a ham, some apples, half a loaf of the black rye bread which keeps so well, a cask of ale and a couple of empty flasks. My orders must have puzzled her, but she had certainly obeyed them. I filled the flasks with ale, found a basket, piled my booty into it, hurried outside again and handed the basket up to Dale. Brockley got down to help me remount, and then stopped short, gazing back the way we had come. “Look down there!” he said.

  Standing as it did on a slope, Westwater looked down over the tops of the trees in the valley. They were old, mossy of trunk and massive of bough and most of the path along which we had just raced was hidden beneath them, but in one or two places it widened out and was open to the sky for a little way. Brockley pointed, and I glimpsed movement: the glint of a bridle, the flash of a brightly coloured cap. Riders were on the path behind us, moving at speed. They were little more than a mile away.

  “That was quick,” said Brockley grimly. “They must have had horses already saddled for some reason. Now what? Madam? You know the district well.”

  I nodded. “Follow me,” I said.

  I had lived all my life at Faldene and there wasn’t a track, dell or spring for miles that I didn’t know.

  Brockley threw me up into the saddle and leaped into his own, and I led us at a canter, back down the hill to the woods and the stream. The stream was bordered on both sides by alders and its banks were steep for the most part, but there was one place where they sank somewhat, and it was possible for a horse to shoulder through the alders, get down to the stream, ford it and climb the further bank.

  “This way!” I said.

  “Hurry!” said Brockley. “They’ll be here in minutes.”

  We pushed through in single file, to avoid damaging the alders more than we could help. Our ears were straining all the time for the sound of hoofbeats. Dale’s mare, picking up fear from her mistress, almost balked at the ford but with Dale urging her, Brockley cursing her, and Bay Star to give her a lead, we got her to splash across after only a few moments’ delay.

  Once up the further bank and through another screen of alders, we were out of sight of the track, and a few yards further on, there was a little dell, surrounded by thick trees and undergrowth. Here I stopped. “We can’t be seen from here. We have only to wait. Brockley, hold Bay Star for me. I want to creep back and watch them go by. I have a reason.”

  “But ma’am . . . !”

  “Madam, I can’t allow . . . ”

  “Be quiet, Dale, and yes you can, Brockley, and you will! I shan’t be seen, don’t worry.”

  Brockley made an exasperated gesture, of which I took no notice. I slid from my saddle and scrambled out of the dell, going back towards the stream. I paused for a few moments, hopping first on one foot and then on the other, to pull off shoes and stockings, then, kilting my skirts, I waded quickly over, to crouch behind the tangle of alders on the side nearest the track.

  They were coming. I could hear the hoofbeats. At once I wished I hadn’t ventured back. I had wanted to see if Matthew were with them, wanted to catch one last glimpse of him, but I had been a fool. I was sure that I was hidden, but I was too near, too near. It was too late to change my mind. I shrank as the riders approached, pressing myself against the ground as though I were trying to burrow into it. They were coming fast, but as they came level with my hiding place, someone shouted that he could see Westwater village, and they all slowed to a jog.

  “The child lives there with her nurse. I know the cottage; I took them back there! Maybe the nurse’ll know something!” That was the voice of one of the Withysham grooms, evidently the man who had escorted Bridget and Meg away from Faldene.

  Well, the cottage was empty. They wouldn’t be able to frighten Bridget or Meg. I froze as the riders crossed my line of vision. There were six altogether. Withysham was full of grooms and manservants. Third in the line was Matthew. He was close enough to recognise although I couldn’t see his face plainly, but as he went past me, I saw him raise his left hand to brush at his left eye.

  He could have been rubbing away a piece of grit thrown up by the hoofs but he wasn’t. When anyone rubs an eye to clear a speck of dirt away, they do so in a distinctive way, sometimes quite rough. When they brush away tears, it is a different movement, gentler.

  I had wanted to see him, one last time. I wished I hadn’t. I had expected Matthew to ride after me in anger and fear. Now I saw that he was also riding after me in grief. I muffled my own tears against the ground and stayed like that until the riders were gone.

  • • •

  I crept back across the stream. I dried my wet feet as best I could on my skirts, put on my stockings and shoes again and returned to the others. I knew by the way they looked at me that my feelings were written on my face, but they didn’t comment. “They’re trying the cottage,” I said. “They’ll find it empty, and after that, I imagine they’ll ride on. They’ll be ahead of us on the road.”

  “That means the inn’s impossible even for a change of horses,” Brockley said. “Even if we wait until they come back, they might alert the innkeeper. God knows what they’ll say!”

  “That I’m a runa
way wife who has stolen her husband’s money, I expect,” I said acidly. “Unfortunately, I’m actually carrying some, though it’s mine, not his. But there is another possibility.” I must not think about Matthew, must not think of that hand, secretly brushing his eyes. “These woods,” I told them, “they extend some distance. We can get through them to the Chichester to London road, south of here. I doubt if the search will turn south. It’ll go north, towards London. Once across, there are ways round among the downs and there are a few remote farms. One of them might shelter us for the night. We can travel on next morning.”

  I remounted, and we set off. As we did so, Brockley, who had been scanning my unhappy face with some anxiety, suddenly remarked, “We’ve done very well so far, madam. I think we made a most elegant escape.”

  “Elegant?” I turned to him. He was now wearing his most expressionless face, with only a gleam in his eyes to tell me that he was laughing.

  “Very,” he said. “At the start, much depended, did it not, on all of us putting our horses from a standstill into a gallop? The men setting out the gardens came to watch several times, not just today. I had Dale practising the art for three mornings, right under everyone’s noses!”

  He was trying to make me feel better and to some degree he succeeded. Dale’s riding lessons had been a piece of most satisfactory cunning. I found that I could smile, just a little.

  We crossed the road safely, and found a sheltered place, in a fold of the downs on the other side, to dismount and eat a meal of sorts while the horses grazed. Then we went on again and as evening drew near we sought beds at a farm, using the old excuse that we had attempted a short cut and lost our way.