“Yes. Tell your father that I would like something tidied up. I cannot control what will happen to my possessions when I die, which will be soon, please God. Be sure you tell him to come here himself as I will speak to none other, not even you. Good-bye.”
As Carey made a Court bow to the old lady, Cumberland could make out the milky eyes, wide open, staring hard at him, assessing.
Once back in the corridor and the bedchamber door shut, Carey went along the corridor to the carved door at the end, opened it. There was the long gallery, seen from the other end, their own footsteps in the dust. Carey shut it again, felt his way back with his eyes squeezed shut in the light from the small windows along the courtyard side.
Then he stood, staring down the great stairs for what seemed an hour. Cumberland had no idea what was going on in his friend’s head except it seemed to be making him absentminded.
“Do you know who was the lady-in-waiting with your father?” he asked, more to break the silence than anything else. Carey started slightly and squinted at him.
“I’m not sure.”
“But you suspect…?”
“There’s a family story. My father’s sister, my Aunt Katherine, was one of the Queen’s senior ladies-in-waiting, and there was a story about a green hunting kirtle of hers being somehow damaged a month or two after I was born.”
“You think it was your aunt?”
Carey paused. “Yes, I do. But not my Aunt Katherine.”
For a moment Cumberland couldn’t work out the inference and when he did he sucked in his breath as if he’d been punched in the stomach. Only not with surprise because, after all, there had to be something like that going on.
Carey’s father, Henry’s by-blow and the Queen’s half-brother, had brought Elizabeth Tudor to Cumnor Place, disguised in her half-sister’s plain hunting kirtle, probably wearing a black wig. The Queen had been at Cumnor Place on the morning of the 8th September 1560, the day her rival Amy Robsart had been killed.
Carey found he was gripping the banisters with his left hand, the fingers of his other pressed hard into his temples to try and ease the headache. Something inside him was fighting to be heard. After a moment he breathed deeply and relaxed because this still wasn’t the answer.
How could the Queen possibly benefit if her lover’s wife was killed by a crossbow bolt, especially if she was actually present? The Queen was the sharpest, most intelligent woman he had ever met, apart from Elizabeth Widdrington. Would she set an assassin with a crossbow to kill Amy Robsart and actually be there to watch? The idea was ridiculous.
He shook his head again and groped his way slowly down the stairs, followed by a silent Cumberland. As they went into the courtyard and he tied the scarf on again, pulled the brim of his hat down against the sunlight, he said quietly,
“I don’t need to tell you to keep quiet about this, my lord.”
“Christ, no!” said Cumberland with feeling, offering Carey his arm again. “I’ve forgotten already. You deal with it. I’d rather take on three Dutch sea-beggar fighting ships in a rowing boat.”
“Thank you, my lord.”
“Please don’t mention it again.” Cumberland said firmly and beckoned for Kielder to bring up the horses. Carey called Ross over and the swordmaster went over to the stairwell where Amy had died, came back with a heavy sack.
“Where are we going now?” Carey asked as he felt for his horse’s girth to tighten it.
“I’ve had men at Oxford setting up an encampment in a field north of the city wall, just past that alehouse with the good cider. It’s handy for the Schools and Balliol, there’s a stream and it’s not too marshy. We’ll stay there.”
“Why not in one of the colleges?”
“Don’t be wood. Unless you fancy going three in a bed with strangers…”
“No, my lord,” said Carey, climbing into the saddle with much more effort than usual. He was suddenly infernally tired, was thinking longingly of going to bed, alone, and staying there. “I’ve done that.”
Cumberland laughed.
It was only three miles to the outskirts of Oxford but by then Carey’s head was having nails pounded into it by invisible carpenters. The bedlam of Oxford’s streets didn’t help. The High Street, Cornmarket, and Broad Street were filled with scaffolding, stages, fences, and the noise of hammering and shouting made Carey feel physically sick again. He set his teeth, drove his horse on and let the animal follow Cumberland’s lead. At some stage the Earl must have quietly put a leading rein on the animal, which was humiliating, but otherwise Carey didn’t know how he could have stayed with the party. At last they turned aside through a gate and Cumberland shouted for grooms. Carey slid from the saddle, forced his knees straight and stood holding onto the horse’s reins, the world dissolving into a bedazzlement of light and noise that he could make no sense of. The horse dipped his head and nudged him, nickered with concern.
“Are you all right, Carey?” It was the Earl’s voice.
“Yes. No.” He had to admit it. “I need to rest.”
More bellowing by Cumberland, who seemed to think there was a gale blowing, and a man with a comforting Glasdale accent arrived to lead Carey to a tent behind the main ruckus, and to a pallet laid on a bed of sweet rushes. The man helped Carey with his doublet and boots, helped him to drink more mild ale and gave him a magnificent bear fur rug which he pulled over his head to keep out the light.
Despite the frightening exhaustion of his body and the pounding in his head, Carey’s mind was whirling. Could the Queen have got to Cumnor Place that day? If she had been hunting at Windsor Castle, she most certainly could. In her late fifties she could still ride like the wind for hours and leave her courtiers behind in the hunt. Windsor to Cumnor was only thirty miles and with a remount she could have done the distance in a few hours. But why? For what conceivable reason could she have disguised herself in Aunt Katherine’s hunting kirtle and ridden out with his father to see her lover’s wife?
Not to kill the woman. That didn’t make sense. Thirty years ago, the Queen had been much younger, of course, so probably more impatient, more ruthless, less cautious…but…
Unlike Mary Queen of Scots, she had a brain. He couldn’t believe she had plotted to kill Amy. Although Henry VIII had committed judicial murder of inconvenient women at least twice in his marrying career, Carey couldn’t believe it of the Queen. Not for morality’s sake, but for expediency. What a king could get away with, a queen couldn’t, as the Queen of Scots had proven.
He needed more evidence, and to talk to more people. Could Thomasina fetch him Topcliffe? Would Topcliffe tell him the truth if she did?
And he simply must do something about finding Dodd, who must either have headed straight for the Border with his loot or got into serious trouble. If ever he needed to be up and about, now was the time and his bloody eyes and head and body weren’t cooperating.
And who had poisoned him? Emilia? Surely not. Hughie? Unlikely. Someone unknown? Why? Emilia perhaps? He knew his father would have taken care of the lad and intended to find him as soon as he could, ask a few questions. He would be sure to warn the Earl of Essex, though there was no chance Emilia would try to poison the Earl. However it would be embarrassing for everyone if other bidders for the management of the farm of sweet wines suddenly started dropping dead.
Carey awoke once into daylight, heart pounding. Sunlight was shining through the canvas of the tent, he could see the shadow of a man sitting by the flap and another on the other side to stop anyone coming in that side. Although the painful light made him shut his eyes immediately, he smiled, quite comforted. George Clifford had a simple view of most things and a mysterious assassin was one of them. You put men in the way.
Something had woken him. Something loud in his mind, but there was no sign from the two men on guard that there had been a real noise of a blade slicing through a neck.…And his heart was beating like a drum, his shirt drenched, cold shivers down his legs.
Christ!
It was the half-remembered fever dream from Saturday night. Or no, it was another installment of it. He had been shaving himself carefully in a small mirror in…Yes, definitely a stone cell, though quite well lit. His hand was steady, but looking into the mirror he had seen an older man, hair retreating a little up his temples, streaks of grey in the chestnut, a pouchiness to his face that he had seen in men who drank too much too often. His shirt collar was frayed and had been badly darned. He was facing the axe, he knew it, was sad about it but not angry. He had made many stupid mistakes and had unforgivably let himself be talked into rebelling against his royal cousin and aunt. He could not quarrel with the sentence, only hoped the headsman would be good at his job. If only Elizabeth Widdrington…The face in the mirror stopped pulling the razor over the sides of his face and just stood staring. If only he had married Elizabeth Widdrington.
Then it was as before, the shock his watching self felt at the worn green velvet doublet, the glitter and swing of the axe, the sound that had woken him…
He was sitting up now, all the hairs on his body prickling upright. Was that why he rebelled? Because he didn’t marry Elizabeth Widdrington? Why hadn’t he? It was the one thing he wanted most in the world, he was quite clear he would trade anything at all save his honour for her. Had she turned him down? Had she died?
Was this a prophecy from God? Had he been sent a warning? What was he supposed to do with it?
Slowly the strange feelings down his legs and in his heart calmed and faded, leaving him exhausted again. He didn’t like sleeping during the day but he didn’t want to get up. What was he supposed to do? What did God want?
He knelt on his pallet with his eyes tight shut against the light. As he couldn’t think what to say to God, he just recited the Lord’s Prayer and hoped the bit about leading him not into temptation would do the job, whatever it was.
Of course, it was clear that the Queen would consider accusing her of being the actual killer of Amy Dudley as treason plain and simple. Would she have him executed? Perhaps not, although the Tower was a distinct possibility. But he didn’t think that of her because it didn’t make sense, even if the Queen actually was at Cumnor Place when it happened.
He growled softly to himself with frustration, lay down again and instantly fell asleep.
Then somebody prodded him awake and he blinked into the dazzle at a small person in a small but stunning cherry red-and-gold wheel farthingale with a tiny black doublet bodice and a raised cambric ruff behind her head like a saint’s halo.
“Well, Sir Robert,” came Thomasina’s voice, “What have you been up to?”
“Ah um…” moaned Carey, wishing his head would stop pounding. He shut his eyes against Thomasina’s outfit. “I’ll tell you, Mrs. Thomasina, on condition you stop any other bastard waking me up and let me sleep.”
“Certainly,” she said.
And so he told her the whole story of what he had found at Cumnor Place and what Mrs. Odingsells had told him, including her wish to see his father. He didn’t say anything about what he thought of the matter. Thomasina sat perfectly still while he spoke and then nodded once. She settled back on her cushion with her legs crossed and he heard the click of ivories as she started playing dice with herself. No doubt it was her full set of crooked dice, highman, lowman, bristleman, quite hypnotic. His eyes fell closed again and he slept.
Monday 18th September 1592, morning
Dodd waited, forcing himself to breathe slowly in the prickling leaves and stones. There was a crunch of wooden clogs, but quite light, perhaps not a man…The dog was snortling about and came right over to Dodd. He stayed still where he lay, let the animal sniff him all over, heart beating.
A wet nose thrust into his face and started licking his face, chin to forehead, slobbering his beard hairs the wrong way.
“Ach, awa’ wi’ ye!” he complained and shoved the dog off. The dog put his paws on Dodd’s shoulders and panted in his face, so Dodd stayed where he was and reached out to pat the dog’s hairy flank. “Ay, what d’ye want?”
“Goodman,” said a girl’s voice on the other side of the bushes, “Are you all right?”
“Eh…nay, lass, Ah’ve got nae clothes nor gear and yer hound’s droonin’ me…”
Silence. Then: “Are you a foreigner?”
Dodd sighed deeply and said it again more Southern, which hurt his lips and face.
“Oh. Are you very much hurt?”
Considering the battering he’d taken, he’d been very lucky with only a possible busted rib and nose. But…
“Ay, Ah think ma leg is broken.”
“Oh no, I’m so sorry. The robbers must have jumped you at the ford, didn’t they?”
“Ay,” Dodd said, thinking fast, “Ah’m no’ a pretty sight for a lass. Ha’ ye any breeks wi’ ye?”
After more tiring translation, a bag was thrown over the bushes and in it Dodd found a rough hemp shirt and woollen breeches. He pulled them on at once, hoping the other man’s lice wouldn’t be too ferocious.
The dog had lain down beside him, watching with his nose between his paws and his eyebrows working as Dodd looked about for a belt. There was none, nor shoes nor clogs neither. He sighed, having a shrewd idea what was going on.
“I’m decent now,” he called and the girl peered around the bushes.
She was a grubby little creature, about seven or eight years old and her greasy brown hair hanging out under a smeared biggin cap. Impossible to say if she would ever be pretty.
“Oh, Goodman,” she said with a polite curtsey, “I’m ever so sorry about the robbers, they’re terrible wicked men. My granny says, would you like to come and stay at our house until you’re recovered?”
“Ah have nae money,” Dodd explained. “I could likely get some in Oxford town but the robbers took a’ I had on me.”
It was a real nuisance having to repeat everything he said more Southern. His right leg was the one more bruised from the kicking so that was the one he decided would be broken.
“It’s all right,” said the child with a smile that seemed hard work for her. It certainly never reached her eyes. “My granny says it’s our duty to help poor travellers attacked by the robbers.”
“Ay,” said Dodd, careful to keep his suspicion off his face and not ask why they didn’t try a bit of warning then. And also how it came about that she had clothes for him. “Would ye…ken…d’ye know the name of the reivers…the robbers’ headman…their captain?”
“No, Goodman,” said the child in a pious way which told Dodd that she did. “They’re wicked men.”
Dodd made a great palaver of getting up, screwing up his face and groaning loudly in a way he never would if his leg actually had been broken. Then he leaned heavily on the child’s shoulder as he hopped along the path with the dog padding quietly ahead of them.
After only a mile or so uphill they came to a tiny little bothy with low walls and a roof of turves and branches, not even respectable thatch like the remains of the monastery. An old lady in blue homespun was sitting on a stone by the door knitting and she looked up and smiled toothlessly as Dodd came hopping along with her granddaughter.
He made the motion of taking off his cap to her but of course he wasn’t even wearing a statute cap which made him feel as if he was still naked.
“Missus,” he said respectfully, “yer grandaughter says I can come and recover ma strength with ye, which I’m grateful for, but I’ll tell ye now I havenae money with me for the…bastards took the lot includin’ ma breeks.”
“They do that so you won’t chase them,” said the old woman. “Can you work, Goodman?”
Dodd made a helpless expression. “A little, missus, but I think I’ve broke me leg.”
That got only an unsympathetic grunt from her and the child left Dodd to wobble on one leg and went to whisper fiercely in the carlin’s ear. Another grunt and a chomping of jaws. Before he fell over or had to put his leg down and give the game away, Dodd grabbed the bush he was standing
next to. He had felt unaccountably dizzy for a moment there which was odd. Still maybe not surprising, considering the battering. He had already sworn a mighty internal oath that he would never ever come to the soft safe South again, where people beat you up but didn’t bother to kill you.
The old woman’s eyes were narrowed in their crumpled beds and her jaws worked again. “Who’s yer master?”
Dodd had thought hard about this inevitable question. What would be the best thing to say?
“Missus, I dinna ken…know ye and I’m grateful for the duds ye’ve lent me, but until we’re better friends I’d be happier in my mind not to gi’ ye my master’s name, seeing he’s a courtier.”
The old eyes were narrowing and the child’s as well. You could see they were related.
“Is he rich?”
“Not him, his family,” said Dodd truthfully, “but Ah dinna ken if they’d ransome me…”
That was a dangerous thing to say because there were people on the Border who would just slit your throat if they thought you weren’t worth anything. On the other hand, it was worth it to see the reactions—disappointment, guilt, then…
“We wouldn’t ask for ransome, Goodman, we’re not robbers and you’re not our prisoner,” said the old woman, working hard to look pious. “We only want to help you.”
“I’m sorry, missus,” Dodd said, with as charming a smile as he could get his bruised face to stretch to. “I meant a reward, payment for yer trouble…”
The carlin smiled and nodded, the child continued her very hard stare.
Ay, thought Dodd with some satisfaction, I know ye, missus, and how you’re placed and what you’re up to.
In fact, there was no chance whatever that a little cottage with a garden and…yes…from the smell, goats…could have survived next to a troop of broken men like the bastards who had temporarily bested him, without they paid blackrent of some kind. They were the carrion crows to the wolf pack of the broken men. What did he want the wolves to know? That was the question.
Air of Treason, An: A Sir Robert Carey Mystery (Sir Robert Carey Mysteries) Page 18