A Traveller in Time

by Alison Uttley

  She then turned to Francis, who had picked up the basket. “You are wanted, Master Francis. Master Anthony is ready, all decked in his white satin, and he wants a word with you. Ah, there is such a to-do, and here you be, as if nothing was.”

  She flounced away and then turned back. “And get some cresses from the brook and watermint for sallets, Penelope, and look sharp.”

  “Be ready soon, Penelope. Have a morsel of food and change to the riding dress of my sister Alice,” Francis said, and he ran, whistling, down the garden path.

  I gathered branches of rosemary and stripped the leaves from the boughs of bay. Then I found the cresses and mints growing in the shallow pool of the brook’s edge, and returned through the garden for a purpose of my own. I found Old Adam Dedick working near and I talked to him about the flowers that bloomed in the square box-edged borders, and as he talked I helped myself to my favourites.

  “Mistress Babington likes a-plenty of flowers,” said Adam, “and so does Mistress Foljambe. Here’s a bed of sops-in-wine I’ve raised myself from cuttings from the Duke’s place, and here’s heart’s-ease, although the young mistress calls’em by a newfanciful name. ‘Pauncies’, she says, just like that, ‘Pauncies.’ I likesheart’s-ease bettermeself, it’s more comfortable.”

  “I call them pansies,” I interrupted, and he gave me a contemptuous glance. “Pansies! Pipkins!” he said scornfully. “Here’s Holy-hocks, and these is pinks, but what I likes is Sweet Williams and Sweet Johns and Sweet Nancies, those three, nice homely names. I shall name my grand-babbies after ’em when they’re born.”

  I gathered a good-sized bunch, but Adam shook his head at me when he saw it.

  “Mistress Babington don’t like the blossoms picked by nubbody but herself. Nay wench, you shouldna do that! You can pick the wild ’uns, the foxgloves and poppies, but you mun leave these alone!”

  “Dame Cicely would let me pick them,” I protested.

  “Dame Cicely isn’t mistress here,” replied Adam, stoutly, “although she rules the roost in the house. She would rather have the yarbs from the yarbgarden, same as you’ve got in thy basket. You’d best be off, and don’t be so meddlesome picking and poking. Get you gone to Dame Cicely, for I hear her calling you.”

  I hid my bouquet of carnations, lilies, and damask roses under the hedge, and went indoors to my aunt. The kitchen was a turmoil of cooking and preparation, and Margery took my herbs and ran off to strew the chambers for me, for I was late.

  Francis came impatiently to ask me why I was not ready. I must change my dress and ride with him to see the queen’s passage. Mistress Babington would not go, it made her heart ache to think of the tragic queen so near. The country was so fair, life might be very beautiful, but underneath were cruelties, she said. She herself wished that Her Grace had remained at Sheffield, for Wingfield was too near Thackers. She would stay at home and prepare the rooms for Anthony’s guests, and make her simples and ointments which would be needed for the coming winter. Wild days and much illness had been prophesied, and she must prepare, for the people turned to her in their distress.

  I dressed in the little panelled room with the bare floor, next to Mistress Foljambe’s painted chamber, and I hid my frock in the folds of the bed lest any one should find it and take it away, for I felt I could not return without it. Down in the courtyard was a clatter of horses slipping on the stones, and the cries of a farrier who fastened a loose shoe. Anthony, in his beautiful white satin doublet trimmed with gold, rode off with a groom. As the squire of the estate next to Wingfield he must be there to welcome the queen when she rode up with Sir Ralph Sadleir. The earl, his guardian, had stayed at Sheffield, thankful to be rid of his important capricious captive, and Sir Ralph took his place.

  It was the second time I had worn the green riding-habit, and I dressed myself with pride, glancing out of the window to see Master Anthony’s tossing feather as he rode down the lane. Francis was waiting with his bay horse and the little mare he had lent me, but first I ran to the hedge, stumbling over my skirts in my haste. I came back with the bunch of flowers.

  “They are for Queen Mary of Scotland,” said I, and Francis was glad I had thought of it, although he doubted the wisdom of the gift.

  “They will be examined by Sir Ralph, lest you have hidden a letter inside,” he warned me.

  Arabella came galloping on her brown mare from Bramble Hall to join us, and rode with us, for she had no escort. She seemed quieter, more friendly, but I caught a sidelong glance at me, cruel and swift, and then she turned her head with a queer smile.

  We clattered down the valley and joined a bevy of villagers on foot going to see the queen. The news had leaked out, and allwere hot-foot to see the royal captive. But some stayed at home, women sat at their doors in the sunlight with their spinning-wheels. What was a queen to them? They had their work to do. Children ran playing leap-frog, and marbles almost under the horses’ hooves as we rode by. The little girls curtsied, but the boys stood bold with legs apart, or they mounted their wooden hobby-horses, and pranced along the grassy ways, imitating Francis, doffing their hats, so that he frowned at them and then began to laugh and throw them coins.

  At the door of the inn, under a hanging bush, was a wooden bench where old men sat drinking their barley ale. They touched their hats and Francis stopped to pass the time of day with them. I saw some young men playing skittles with wooden ninepins down an alley, and Francis watched them, careless of the time, till Arabella angrily reminded him where we were going.

  “I play with those fellows each week,” he turned to me. “We have our score marked up on yonder sycamore, and I wanted to see how the game ran. Sometimes we play against other villages, but we always win, for we have a champion among us, Peter Dobbin, the smith. He can throw the ball at the kails and knock down every one, never missing.”

  “Surely you can leave your childish games now,” scolded Arabella, but he only smiled lazily at her.

  We rode up the long, winding lane and over the crest by the headland, where a stack of wood lay ready for firing, tree trunks piled in a mass against the pale sky.

  “It’s to send a warning of danger if a foreign foe should invade us. There are wood-stacks on every peak of this country, and all the way through the length and breadth of England,” Francis said, pointing with his whip. “Wouldn’t it be glorious to see them all alight?”

  “That would be war,” I said doubtfully. “Who would invade England, Francis?”

  “Nobody would dare,” cried the boy proudly. “But the Spaniards would like to try. We’ve pulled their tail too often. Anthony doesn’t hate them, and there I disagree with him.”

  We reached a great oak wood, and threaded our way through ancient, twisted oak-trees, where swineherds guarded their pigs, and wood-cutters stopped their work to have a word. Francis talked to every one, finding the men from Thackers who were there, asking after the herds. He was a friendly, happy person, careless of appearance, full of good humour. Arabella was in constant spasms of rage with him, for his unbuttoned coat, his free manners, but I thought he was right to treat the shepherds and swineherds well, instead of despising them.

  At last we came to the manor house, with its high walls and great arched gateway. On the tower were the arms and quarterings of the Earl of Shrewsbury, and Arabella pointed them out with a proud gesture; but Francis’s eyes were watching the serving-men who ran hither and thither like ants, carrying meat for the great retinue of guards and the queen’s men, taking wheat for the bread, malt for ale-brewing, oats and dried peas, and round-bellied tuns of wine which they stored in the undercroft, the vast arched room beneath the manor house.

  At the oriel window in the banqueting hall stood many men with plumed hats, and slashed jackets of purple, plum and brown, waiting to receive the queen. Then a signal was given and they trooped out to the courtyard. There was a murmur of voices and we saw a company of horsemen in the distance, two hundred of them, or more, riding rapidly towards us. We s
tood with a score or two of villagers, waiting, talking softly, thinking of the queen.

  We three had dismounted, and given our horses in charge of a groom, so that we could be free to walk about and see the sights.

  Then a few horsemen galloped up and cleared a way with angry gestures, as if they were enraged we had discovered their secret removal of the queen. Perhaps they feared there might be a plot to rescue her, for they drew their swords and kept a wide passage for the little group of women who rode disdainfully and slowly along the grassy road.

  A few of us cheered, others remained silent, remembering dark deeds, and I heard murmurs of “Bothwell. Darnley.” They were not all on her side, it was evident.

  “Aye poor soul, she’s suffered more nor a bit,” croaked an old woman. “Let’s give her a cheer,” but she was quickly silenced by a guard, who pushed her aside.

  I clutched my bouquet of flowers and stood waiting my chance. I caught only a glimpse of the queen’s chestnut hair, now faded and touched with grey, but I saw her pale, lovely face, and those bright eyes which looked round at the folk so calmly and with such assurance that several fell on their knees and asked her blessing. She smiled and moved her hand in a little gesture of charming acknowledgement, and the wind caught the snowy lace of her cuffs and swept the silk folds of her black cloak aside. Then I tried to pass through the people with my bunch held out to the queen, and she saw me and made as if to stop, and gave me a warm glance and little intimate smile which made my blood tingle. The guards marched on, and the queen was forced to move onward through the great doorway to the courtyard. One of the queen’s ladies took my flowers, but at once a guard rode to her, bowed, and asked for them.

  “For Mary, Queen of Scots,” I cried as loudly as I could, and he nodded, his face stern and unsmiling.

  “If Sir Ralph approves,” said he coldly.

  The horses and men were safe inside the walls of the great house, a house which had none of the quiet homeliness of Thackers, none of the friendliness and sweetness of the place I knew. Sheep were driven into pens in the fields nearby, and cried mournfully. Horses were stabled in the great mews beyond the walls. Grooms, stablemen, shepherds, beggars and pedlars, all appeared from nowhere, attracted by the news that the queen had come, and there would be food and drink and leavings for many.

  I thought again of Thackers. The best chamber was prepared, and some day, if God willed, she might escape from these great walls which were strong to resist attack, and yet had a secret outlet. She might escape! Once again the sense of unreality came over me, for I knew something the others did not know, and the knowledge made me feel faint. We mounted our horses and sat for a time looking at the ivied walls, thick and massive, listening, waiting, as if we expected something to happen.

  “Surely a small force of soldiers could steal her away,” said Arabella. “Even our own grooms and labourers and the village men could bear her off. I would lead them if you were too cowardly, Francis.”

  She suddenly flashed with temper, as if she expected us to break down the gate and carry off the queen. “Anthony should capture her as Bothwell did,” she went on. “He could do it, not you.”

  Francis shook his head, and turned his horse towards home. “Our way is better,” said he. “She will be hidden at Thackers, under their noses. We can keep her in the priest’s room if there is a search, or she could hide down the tunnel. It’s the best plan of all.”

  We galloped most of the way home, feeling happier for the thought of the queen’s rescue, for it seemed easy to help her now she was so near. Only a long hill-side separated us, and at Thackers was freedom. Who would look in a little manor house, unprotected, with neither drawbridge, nor soldier, only cattle and horses and haystacks to guard her?

  I changed my dress, for I was never comfortable in the long skirts and stiffly pleated ruff of the riding-habit. Then I went back to the garden, looking for something I had left there. I crossed the lawn, but Mistress Babington, seated under the cedar-tree, did not see me, although I passed very close to her and saw the book she was reading. Not even the birds were disturbed by my footfall and I stepped light as air back among the rose-trees and box hedges.

  The sun shone down, the garden was a haze of heat, much hotter than it had been on my ride. The beds of sweet william and carnation were heavy with perfume. I hurried along the path, intent on finding something I had left undone. I passed through the herb-garden, and the thought flickered through my mind that I ought to help to strew the floors.

  I could smell the strong odours of rue and wormwood, and I leaned forward and plunged my hands into the brown market-basket full of peas.

  “Twelve peas in a pod,” I murmured inconsequently, as I split open a brimming peascod. I made my wish, as all country-bred girls have done since time began, a wish that could never come true. I worked hard and took them indoors, wondering what Aunt Tissie would say at my delay, for surely dinner was over and the men gone back to the fields.

  “How quick you’ve been, my chuck,” said Aunt Tissie. “Now will you gather me a bunch of parsley and a sprig of bay and some fennel for the fish which I got from the fishman. And run down to the brook for some watercresses, my dear, for a salad.”

  “I declare I know where you’ve been,” said Alison, sniffing at me. “You’ve been shelling peas in the herb-patch, your clothes smell of lavender and lemon balm and feverfew, as if you’d been rolling in them.”

  11. I Revisit Wingfield

  Mother came for a few days to Thackers, to arrange for my prolonged visit, for it was decided that I should remain after the others had returned to London. We took her round and showed the farm and the great haystacks and the corn-ricks. Autumn was the best time of the year, she said, as she tramped the woods with us and discovered the wealth of flowers which grew in the broken rocks of the quarries and the berries which ripened on many a wall and hidden bank. Sometimes we came across old leadshafts, covered with rocks to prevent cattle falling down them, their stones laced with harts’-tongue ferns and London Pride. Quarries and lead-mines, all were deserted, and only foxes and stoats played there.

  Aunt Tissie asked Uncle Barnabas to take us for a drive before Alison and Ian went away with Mother.

  “Where shall it be?” he asked. “Shall it be Lilies Inn, or Carson, or Brasson, or Hognaston? Which would you like, Carlin?”

  “Take us to Wingfield by the lanes, Uncle Barny,” said Mother, slipping her arm into his. “It’s many a year since I was there. I remember having tea at an old farmhouse there when I was a child.”

  My heart thumped. I knew something important about it, something connected with the other world in which I had gone. Wingfield! It was the manor house where the queen was imprisoned long ago, a great strong house which I had seen as in a dream, where soldiers and horsemen rode with a beautiful queen.

  Uncle Barnabas was pleased with Mother’s choice, and he told us to get ready, for we could go that afternoon. Alison and Ian decided to walk over the hill through the oak woods, while Mother and I drove with Uncle Barny.

  There was the usual excitement of getting off, for Aunt Tissie sent messages to the farmhouse attached to the Manor, and I had to take a bunch of red roses, a pot of damson cheese, and Aunt’s kind regards to the farmer’s wife. There was the best rug to fetch from Aunt’s bed, and the best whip with the copper bands and white lash to get from the hall, and a nose-bag of hay to find for the mare, and Uncle Barny’s best hard-hat to be brushed. Jess polished up the harness, and rubbed the trap with a chamois leather. Uncle Barnabas walked round to see that all was perfect for the drive. Ian and Alison must have been half-way before we started, but Mother only laughed.

  “I’m glad Father isn’t here,” she whispered to me. “He would go crazy. He doesn’t like these slow country ways, but I was born to them. A journey to another farmhouse is an important event, and we must go in our very best.”

  “A journey to the house of a queen is truly an important event,” I thought, as I
picked up the great bunch of roses.

  When at last we got started, we went in fine style, and the children at the cottages came to the doors to see us go past, as the mare showed her paces and skipped along with her mane tossing in the wind.

  I looked up at the crest where the beacon had stood ready to warn the English folk about the Armada in days long ago. There was a broken tower on it, and a quarry had cut away the grassy hill which once was so prominent. Even now it was a landmark for many miles, and we saw people standing on the top with field-glasses looking at the view.

  “That’s where they had the Coronation burn-fire, and the Jubilee burn-fire,” said Uncle Barny pointing it out with his whip. “At Queen Victoria’s Jubilee there was a great fire a-top, up there, and fires all across England. From the crest we could see twelve of ’em.”

  “It’s a splendid place for a beacon,” said Mother. “I expect they lighted the Armada fire there.”

  “Aye. I’specks they did, but I dunno remember that,” said Uncle Barny, with a wink at me. “But I do know they put a burn-fire on that hill when Napoleon was coming to invade England, because I heard that from my grandfather.”

  I sat quietly at the back of the trap, staring at the little stone cottages and the quarrymen with their picks and closed wicker-baskets. They were like people I had seen there before, corduroys for leather trousers, coats for cloaks, but the same slouching walk and eager interested stares.

  We had left the river valley and were in a green land, a wide, gentle stretch of country. I was looking for the beautiful house, with thick walls and splendid gateway with strong iron-studded doors, and I was surprised when Mother said:

  “There it is, Penelope. There’s Wingfield Manor,” and she pointed to a ruined castle half hidden among trees. The broken walls were ivy-covered, grass grew in the courtyard, and sheep grazed there; jackdaws flew in and out of the tall, empty windows, and the stone mullions were open to the blue sky. There was an air of desolation over the ruin, stones lay in heaps where they had fallen, and little yellow gillyflowers and thick ivy spread their web of healing, trying to cover up the wounds in the lovely old house.