A Traveller in Time

by Alison Uttley

  Then there would be gifts of food and woollen stuffs, and some of them would bring presents to Anthony. All would be on an equality, with singing and music and play-acting, dressed in garments from the oak chest where I had found my tunic, he added.

  There would be church in the morning, and then the great feast, and I must come too, he said, no slipping away.

  At their own table there would be wild boar, from the hills of the north, for boars did not live near Thackers, only deer and gentle beasts were there. Each year a wild boar was sent to Anthony Babington by the lord of Haddon, and from its flesh were made brawns and jellies, but the head and shoulders would be roasted in the kitchen and borne into the hall by the oldest man on the estate, John Darbishire, the bearded old man I had seen at the table one day. Already it hung in the killing house. It was a fine beast with long tusks and thick bristles. Would I like to see it?

  Its head would be decked with a wreath of bay and rosemary. They would sing carols, and as John Darbishire carried in the boar’s head he would sing in his piping ancient voice:

  The boar’s head in hand bear I,

  Bedecked with bays and rosemary,

  And I pray you, my masters all, be merry,

  and all would then join in with:

  Quid estis in convivia.

  “We are all joyful,” said Francis. “We share our pleasures, and you will be with us, Penelope. You will hear the villagers come a-wassailing on Christmas Eve, too, and they will enter and drink our barley brew. That’s why we have such a great baking and brewing before Christmastide.”

  “This will be a glorious Christmas,” he added, sitting down on a stool in the barn, and drawing up another for me. He looked round, not a soul was there beside ourselves. “The work goes on”, said he, “and the underground passage is over a mile long.” Then he began to laugh, and he threw back his head with merriment.

  “Anthony has seen the queen. It was as good as a play. He dyed his face and hands with walnut juice, and put on a pair of old torn leather breeches and a ragged jerkin. In his ears he wore brass ear-rings, and he darkened his eyebrows and his hair. Oh, you should have seen the sight he was, with his gold hair dipped in a bowl of walnut juice, Anthony the fastidious dandy! Nobody knew him. Mistress Babington screamed when he entered the hall! He carried a pedlar’s pack heaped with ribbons and trinkets, silver beads and glass baubles, and a pomander of silver wire, some of the things so pretty Mistress Babington longed to have them. There were special things too, fit for a queen, silver toys, such as Her Grace loves, buttons of enamel and gold for her dress, seed-pearls for her broideries and bunches of silks and tinsels. Then he set off with his pack of gewgaws, and we had a to-do to get him out of the house safely, for Tabitha saw him and wanted to buy from the strange gipsy fellow, and he had to stop and speak in half-French, to bewilder her, and let her buy a ribbon before he got away. But she never suspected!

  “He got to Wingfield, and then entered the little west door, where the servants go, the nearest door to Thackers, too. In he went, without any question, and soon he came to the hall, following after the servants and the crowd of rascals and fools which went in and out of the serving rooms. He got to the queen, by showing his goods and speaking of the pretty trinkets he had for the rich and mighty. Her Grace sent for him, and Sir Ralph Sadleir saw him and bought some of his things. When he was with the queen he whispered a word in her ears, and she sent her women away. Then he gave her the letters, and received others from her, and told her of the plan of escape but not the whereabouts of the tunnel. She was full of courage, full of hope, her eye sparkled, she was ready for anything. Like a young boy, she was filled with adventure, and Anthony came back most encouraged, so much so that I feared he would do something rash.

  “He walked boldly out of Wingfield, and kissed the serving wenches, who were loath to let him depart, but he came over the hills in the evening and crept into Thackers at dusk. He removed the stains as best he could, but that took him much longer than he expected and we feared he must be a gipsy all his life!”

  Francis fumbled in his pocket and brought out a ribbon.

  “I bought this for your dark locks, from the gipsy’s pack, Lady Greensleeves,” said he. “Put it on, and wear it for me.”

  It was a crumpled green ribbon, stiff with silver thread and laced with silver love-knots, and I tied it in a fillet round my head. As I thanked him I heard Aunt Cicely calling impatiently, and I sprang to my feet.

  “Penelope! Where is the wench? Art’ helping the hens to lay the eggses?”

  I hurriedly collected all the eggs I could find, fifty or more, and ran back to the house.

  “Where did you get that pretty ribbon, Penelope?” asked Tabitha. “Ah, you needna tell me. Your blushes are enow. Master Francis gave it you, and he got it from the pedlar’s pack. That was a queer gipsy as came round here, and I wish he had stopped longer. He had the loveliest things ever I saw, and he was as handsome a man as ever I saw either. Dark skin and black hair and blue eyes.”

  “You liked him better than Tom Snowball, didn’t you, Tabitha?” teased Margery. “He was a pretty fellow with a fine leg, wasn’t he?”

  “I won’t deny it,” Tabitha tossed her head and then gave a sigh. “But that’s a lovely ribbon, Penelope, and it suits you well and matches your green smock.”

  Mistress Babington came out of her still-room and went to the storeroom for tall waxen candles for the altar, and I polished the beautiful silver candlesticks. The bellringers rang their peal of bells, and the deep clashing sound of it went over the hills, joining with bells in far valleys. I thought of the queen sitting in her room with her ladies, listening to the bells’ message of goodwill on earth, and then kneeling in her private chapel. What did she pray for? Freedom? But what else? Did she ask for vengeance for those long years of imprisonment, and did God listen to prayers for revenge?

  There was to be midnight mass for Master Anthony and his wife and Mistress Foljambe who had arrived at Thackers for Christmas. Fresh straw had already been taken to the church to keep the feet of the congregation warm, and I carried my candlesticks there. When I returned to the kitchen Dame Cicely was already making the marchpane, a great bowl of almonds powdered in the mortar, pots of honey, some flour and many eggs all mixed together to a stiff paste, ready for moulding.

  “Thou shalt make it into a device out of thine own head, Penelope,” said Dame Cicely, as she worked the yellow mass together.

  “A horseman came two days ago with letters from France, and Master Anthony and Father Hurd have been deciphering them,” she whispered to me. “Now Master Anthony has gone to Wingfield to try to bribe a servant to get them through to the queen.”

  “What do you think about it?” I asked, half timidly, for I was shy to interfere in such weighty matters.

  “I say ‘God save Queen Elizabeth’, but I would like the poor Scottish queen, who has seen such terrible trouble, to be safe and sound overseas,” said Aunt Cicely, and she pressed the mixture together and bound it with the eggs. “It’s a dreadful life to be imprisoned when you are young and beautiful and to be kept there for twenty years. She is a great lady, used to every luxury, with the most beautiful jewels and clothes and furniture, and there she is, living with her women, clothed in plain dresses, in a lonely country house, and no music or dancing or companionship.”

  “Will they get her away?” I whispered, for my cruel knowledge was dim and lost in memory, and the present was bright and hopeful, like the wreaths of bay and holly.

  “I hope so, my sweeting. We are staking all upon it. But don’t worry your pretty head, Penelope. Get to your pastry-shaping, for you’ve got clever fingers and can make roses and lilies to the life. There’s jars of colourings ready for you.”

  I worked hard, making leaves and flowers for the giant pasties and pies which Dame Cicely had prepared ready for cooking. Then I started on the marchpane, and I decided to make a model of Thackers and the church and tower in the sweet almond pas
te to surprise my aunt and Mistress Babington. First I modelled the buildings and tower, and marked the long windows and set the fifteen shields round the sides of the tower, and showed the carvings round the doorway. Then I set to work on the house, with its porch and little mullioned windows, but as I worked I found my mind wandering, so that I made Thackers as it is, not as it was at that day. The shields were broken, the house was smaller, and farm buildings stood where once were servants’ rooms.

  “You’ve done it wrong, Penelope,” said Tabitha leaning over me. “The church and the tower are beautiful, but the shields are broken, and you’ve missed out the south parlour and the wing.”

  Dame Cicely came to look. She bent over it a long time, while I moulded a little green rose-tree with tiny red roses, and I twisted the tree up the house porch and placed the rosettes of flowers on the boughs. It was my Aunt Tissie’s rose-tree I had made, and Dame Cicely touched it with her blunted finger.

  “There isn’t enough marchpane to do all the house,” she excused my work to Tabitha. “This little manor house is well enough. The haystacks and church are there, true as life, but I’m sorry you spoiled the shields, Penelope. The rest will amuse the mistress and delight Master Francis. You’ve done it beautiful, with porch and chimleys and as beauteous a rose-tree as ever I seed.”

  Then Jude came over to look. He clapped his hands and crowed and threw back his head. He took my hand and kissed it, as if he thanked me for letting him into a secret of the future. But I couldn’t help myself. My fingers refused to work differently, I had made Thackers as I knew it.

  We set the great confection on its wooden board to be dried and set in the cooled bread-oven.

  “It’s like one of the marchpane sweetmeats they make at Hardwick Hall for the Earl and Countess Bess”, said Tabitha.

  “There can’t be a better one at Greenwich Palace for Queen Elizabeth herself,” said Phoebe, who had left her spinning to come and see.

  “Jude has been promoted,” Dame Cicely told me, as I helped with the mincepies, and marked them with the sign of the cross. “He’s been promoted to be Master Francis’s own man. The young gentleman never had a servant of his own, and Master Anthony offered him the lad after Jude saved your life. So he’s all decked out in a new livery, very fine, and he seems to understand all Master Francis says, reading his lips, and even reading his thoughts we think. It’s Jude’s reward.”

  Jude watched her speaking, and nodded his head and pointed to his silver buttons and fine new coat, much finer than that which Francis wore, I thought. Then he took my hand again and kissed it, and I laughed and stroked his head.

  “Go now and see if Mistress Babington wants anything. She likes you to wait on her, Penelope. And you will see the fine decorations, which she has done herself.”

  I went into the panelled hall, and curtsied to Mistress Babington, who was singing softly to herself at the virginal. The room was beautiful with leaves and berries hanging in circular wreaths and long twining garlands along the walls, symmetrical and correctly even, unlike the freedom of the boughs in the kitchen. At the far end of the room was a table laid for the Christmas Eve feast, spread with a white linen cloth and set with silver and glass and shining pewter plates, each engraved with the Babington arms. On a raised dais was a table lighted with red candles ready for the marchpane Thackers. A great fire blazed on the hearth and the flames were reflected in the thousand mirrors of holly leaves and berries, so that the air was dancing with spots of brightness.

  Mistress Babington smiled and signed to me to stay still, while she went on with her singing.

  In that hall there stands a bed,

  The bells of Paradise I heard them ring.

  It’s covered all over with scarlet so red,

  And I love my Lord Jesus above anything.

  “That’s a Darbyshire song I’ve been learning for Anthony, and I shall sing it on Christmas Day to the company which assembles here. Do you like it, Penelope?”

  “Yes, oh yes,” I cried, clasping my hands. “Is there any more, Mistress Babington?”

  She turned the page, and I stood at the window by the curtain watching her serene young face as she sang to me.

  Under that bed there runs a flood,

  The bells of Paradise I heard them ring,

  The one half runs water, the other half blood,

  And I love my Lord Jesus above anything.

  At the bed’s foot there stands a thorn,

  Which ever blossoms since He was born,

  Over that bed the moon shines bright,

  Denoting our Saviour was born this night.

  The sweet notes of the plaintive air and the tinkling of the virginal flowed through the timeless world where I stood, and I thought it was the ringing of bells of ice high in the winter sky. Then the music died away, and there was silence, and Mistress Babington bowed her head, her hands resting on the instrument, on the painted panel of our river Darrand swinging for ever through its valley of rocks. In my mind rang the carol I had heard. The bed, the flood, the thorn, and the moon shining bright, all belonged to Thackers, and in the stable like that across the yard was the Holy Child born. At midnight the shepherds would come from the fields to see the Child lying in Thackers’ manger. Even now they were on the hillside with their flock, the ancient shepherd and his companions, listening to the song of the angels.

  “Penelope,” said Mistress Babington, and she rose from her seat and came to me. “I am happy to-day, for I have had news from Heaven itself and my prayers are answered. I am going to have a babe, to be born here at Thackers, to be brought up in this lovely country, and he will play in the garden and run round the stacks and ride over the hills just as his father and grandfather did when they were little. He will be the heir to our lands, and perhaps when he is full-grown England will be at peace, and these wounds of religious hatred will be healed.”

  She put her arm round my shoulder and kissed my lips. Yet even as we two stood looking happily at one another there was a wild clatter of hooves from the road and the gate was flung open. Anthony galloped into the yard, his horse covered with sweat and such a look on his face as filled us with terror. We both rushed to the door, and he threw himself off and staggered in with half-shut eyes, blinking in a dazed way like a bird caught in a snare. Francis followed from the stable, and Mistress Foljambe came running downstairs white as a ghost, trembling with apprehension. Mistress Babington clasped his arm as he strove to speak.

  “What is it, Anthony? What has happened?” she asked.

  “Listen all of you,” he panted, choking on the words. “We are ruined. We are discovered.” He groaned and sank to a seat, shivering violently. “The queen, Mary Stuart. We cannot save her now,” he muttered, as all waited horror-stricken.

  “What is it, Anthony? Tell us Anthony. All may not be lost,” said Mistress Babington, instantly brave to face whatever might come.

  “They’ve discovered the secret passage at Wingfield, where it starts in the underground hall. They noticed the covering stone had been disturbed, although it was well concealed, and they found the tunnel. Then they buzzed like a hive of bees. The queen is to be moved as soon as possible, to Tutbury, to that damp and gloomy castle where she was so ill formerly. It will be her death to go. Only three months at Wingfield, and her freedom so near.”

  “Do they know about your tunnel here?” asked Mistress Foljambe. “The Wingfield tunnel was blocked, and they cannot know where it leads without many days of excavation. They will never guess it goes to Thackers.”

  “That is true. It is my hope they will discover nothing, but the queen will be moved and my plan destroyed.” Anthony groaned again, but his wife took fresh life from the knowledge that the plot was not discovered.

  “Only the Earl of Shrewsbury knows the connection between the two manor houses, and he showed me the shaft. His grandfather told him the story of a tunnel made through the hill-side many generations earlier, and as a boy he saw the entrance. He walked along and
found the way blocked, and it is this passage that has been exposed by some unlucky chance. He told nobody about the secret way, and it never seemed to have any importance until the rumour came that the queen was to live at Wingfield. Then he revealed the entrance to me, and together we explored the ground. I have told nobody where it is. The queen can face her questioners with a calm denial. I was waiting till we bored through the complete length before I unfolded my plans to others.”

  “Then why should the tunnel be discovered?” asked Francis. “They will surely see the queen couldn’t escape by a blocked passage.”

  “They will be rightly suspicious, for Mary Stuart has tried to escape from prison many a time. Remember Loch Leven! The least occasion sets them agog with inquiries. They may think that somebody intended to enter Wingfield that way to get in touch with Her Grace. Obviously the tunnel hasn’t been used, but if we had got a little farther the queen might have been on her way to France now.”

  “And Thackers would have been destroyed and all in it,” whispered Mistress Babington.

  Anthony took no notice. “They will search the farms and manors in the district for any clues,” he said, “and as ours is the nearest house of importance, and I am already suspect, they will come here first.”

  “Then quickly fill in the shaft at Thackers and cover all traces,” cried Mistress Foljambe. “Anthony! Pull yourself together. Call Tom Snowball and fetch the men out of the tunnel. Even their tapping might be heard.”

  “They are not in it, as it is Christmas Eve. I gave them a holiday and for two days there has been no work down there, otherwise they might have been heard at Wingfield.”

  “All the better. Fill in the shaft and hide all before they come.” Mistress Babington spoke bravely, fired with new hope, for she had been wellnigh fainting as Anthony talked.

  “But the queen!” cried Anthony, and he sank down again, his head in his hands. “The queen! Why should we trouble to do anything now! We can’t save her, our work was for nothing. She is going to be taken away. Do you realize? Our plan is broken and our hopes destroyed. Never was there such a great chance to save her, and it is lost! I don’t care what happens now.”