“Ah, that’ll be it.” The older Thwaite’s smile was horridly reminiscent of old Gladys at home, with her witchlike fangs. “Mistress Stannard, what you see isn’t what Fernthorpe ought to be. There was a fine enough house here once. This is what happens when a house gets burnt down and there’s no money in the family to replace it rightly—and anyhow, it’s just father and son and the likes of Rosie to keep order. Even at that, we’re a bit more respectable upstairs than down. Up above”—he jerked his head at the ceiling—“we’ve a couple of decent enough bedchambers and a music room, too. Down here we just think of as t’farm buildings.” He paused. Rosie came back with Andrew’s ale and handed it to him, and he waved at her in a go-away signal. She went.
Then he said: “If Pen weds Andrew, she can have things as she likes—it’ll be up to her. She’ll bring her own money, I take it, so she can make Fernthorpe whatever she wants; pretty it up, more servants; no pigs in the kitchen; she’ll be t’mistress. But since Fernthorpe and Tyesdale adjoin, maybe she and Andrew’d rather live there and I’ll stop here as steward, as it were. Leave the youngsters alone to make their lives and their babies. There’s good blood in my family. Andrew takes after his mother and she were connected to the Lennox family—not close, but some sort o’ cousin. You know who I mean? That husband o’ Queen Mary, him that was murdered; his father were Earl of Lennox.”
Andrew’s resemblance to Darnley was clearly no accident. To my mind, looking like a Lennox was bad enough; actually being one was frightful. Good blood? Bad blood, I thought. Murderous blood. I made a vague noise to signify that I had indeed heard of the Lennoxes, and Ryder chipped in uninvited.
“It seems to me,” he said, “that all this has come as a great surprise to Mistress Stannard and that she can hardly be expected to decide at this moment, even if there were not a prospect for Mistress Pen at Bolton.” He spoke as smoothly as though he had been present at detailed marriage negotiations in the castle. “We only called here because Mistress Seton was ill. Mistress Seton, how are you now?”
“Better, thank you,” said Seton. Her voice was faint, but she straightened her back, and glancing at her, I found her eyes fixed steadily on me, conveying a message just as mine had done to Ryder earlier on. She had sensed that I wanted to get us away. “I can’t manage the ride to Bolton yet,” she said bravely, “but I heard you say earlier that Tyesdale wasn’t very far off, Mistress Stannard. I might get there, perhaps. I think I am a trouble to these good people.”
“Just how far is Tyesdale from here?” I asked.
“Matter of a mile and a half, house to house,” Andrew said. “My horse is in t’meadow but I can catch him and show the way.”
“Our thanks, but there’s no need,” said Ryder, at his most fatherly and protective. “I’ve an eye for country. I can guide the ladies to Tyesdale. Master Thwaite, I think we should leave. Mistress Stannard and Mistress Pen should have a chance to talk over your most kind proposal in private and—er—compare it with the offer at Bolton.”
“We’re Catholics, as I’ve told thee,” Thwaite said, “and if we haven’t a chaplain, we do have a chapel, out at the back. Rites can be done twice—once by t’vicar in Fritton and once here, to make it sure. Wed in the eyes of God and Queen Elizabeth, they’ll be, then.”
“As Ryder says,” I said, rising and laying my empty beaker aside, “I must consider the matter and speak to Pen. Mistress Seton, if you think you can endure a little more riding . . .”
“I’ll get the horses,” said Ryder.
I knew that the Thwaites wanted to keep us for longer but there was nothing they could do. At least, I thought, they hadn’t seen Meg. They couldn’t know that she had recognized them.
The fear that had kept my pulses hammering through every moment I spent in that house sank away when at last I got into Roundel’s saddle. At that moment, anger took its place. I would have liked to seize Will Thwaite by his scrawny throat and pound his head on the farmhouse wall until he told me where Harry Hobson was buried.
But that was hardly possible. For the moment, I must say farewell in a polite voice and ride off. I yearned to give my feelings an outlet by leaving at a gallop, but for Seton’s sake we still had to proceed at a funereal plod.
As we went, Ryder said: “I think I spoke out of turn in there, madam. I’m the escort; not the man in charge. Only, I thought you needed help. Is there a marriage prospect for Mistress Pen at Bolton?”
“Not yet. I invented that. I had to. You were right to think that I needed help but you’ve no idea how much! Meg wouldn’t come in because she recognized the place and recognized Will Thwaite’s voice as well. She’d come across them before. Can you guess when?”
Ryder’s thick, graying eyebrows shot up again. “When she was kidnapped? Is that what you mean?” I turned my head to look at his face and saw his eyes widen. “That sword on the wall! With that great big amethyst in the hilt! Was it—is it—?”
“I think so.”
“Strewth!” said John Ryder, appalled.
It was still only the afternoon when we arrived back at Tyesdale, though the air was cooler. A breeze had sprung up and cloud was drifting from the west. As Ryder helped Seton down, Jamie Appletree and the Brockleys came out to meet us. Fran at once took charge of Seton, putting an arm round her and leading her indoors.
“I’m glad to be home, Brockley,” I said to him as he handed me out of my saddle and Jamie led the horses away. “Where are the others? Are Pen and Meg back safely?” For some reason, Brockley’s inexpressive face became more blank even than usual, which was a sign that he was disconcerted. “What’s the matter?” I said in alarm. “I sent them off with two men to guard them and . . .”
“They’re all here, madam—Master Littleton, Tom Smith, and the young ladies. I’m glad to see you safe. I would have come to find you before long, if you hadn’t come home. Fernthorpe is no place for you, from what Mistress Meg had to tell us when she arrived. To think that they—our neighbors!—were responsible for . . .!”
“It was a blessing that they didn’t realize Meg was there. But there’s more, Brockley. While we were in the farmhouse and waiting for Mistress Seton to be well enough to leave, Will Thwaite made a formal proposal for a marriage between his son Andrew and Pen. I managed to put off giving him an answer and got us away. But I don’t like it. They’re not far away and now that we know what kind of people they are . . .”
“Desperate, by the sound of it, madam,” Brockley said.
“And extraordinary,” I said. “I can’t understand why they tried to snatch a wife for Andrew when we were on our way to Tyesdale and could be approached in a perfectly normal manner—as indeed we were, in the end. We . . . Brockley?”
Brockley’s air of being disconcerted, not to say distracted, had reappeared. “Madam, there’s something else. Nothing to do with Fernthorpe. This is very difficult.”
“What is? Brockley, what’s the matter?”
“Well, it’s nothing much,” said Brockley awkwardly. “Only, when you go inside, you’ll find them dancing.”
“Dancing? Who’s dancing?”
“You know what young folk are, madam. Your Meg was upset by finding herself at Fernthorpe, and what does Mistress Pen say to her, but Oh, let’s practice some dancing; it will give your thoughts a new direction, and what kind of music can we arrange? The instruments we found in the music room here are useless, of course, but then it turned out that Master Whitely has a lute in working order, and that Dick Dodd had one in his luggage, and now they’re both up in the minstrels’ gallery, sitting on stools because of that low ceiling, and playing for them . . .”
“Playing for whom?”
“Mostly Mistress Pen and Master Littleton, madam. Mistress Sybil is there as well, of course, watching. Tom Smith is partnering Meg. Somewhere or other, Tom has learned to trip a pretty measure. But . . . I think you’d better go in.”
I made for the steps. At the top, I was met by Agnes Appletree, looking
anxious.
“Mistress Stannard!”
I could already hear the lutes and the slip-slide, pit-pat of dancing feet but Agnes was barring my way. I frowned. “Agnes? “What is it?”
“I saw’t with my own eyes,” said Agnes, brisk and worried. “I never thought no harm when the dancin’ started but now, well, I said to mysen: Mistress Stannard’s the guardian of t’lass Pen and did ought to know . . .”
“Know what?” I demanded.
“Her and that man Littleton,” said Agnes dramatically. “I saw. They were dancing and they got under t’shadow of t’gallery and t’others weren’t looking and Littleton . . .”
“Yes, and Littleton what?”
“He kissed Mistress Pen, mam. I saw it. And t’lass were laughing. Then they danced across the hall and he did it again and that were no snatched kiss, neither—went on and on, he did, till Mistress Jester called out and chided him. Then he stopped but . . .”
I pushed past her and marched into the hall. There they were, as Agnes had said. Sybil was standing at the side of the hall, hands folded in front of her. Meg was dancing, hand in hand with Tom, and yes, there were Tobias and Pen. Pen was gazing up into his eyes. Littleton was still in the shirt and breeches in which he had gone hawking while Pen had changed into a charming gown of deep green embroidered with yellow flowers, but they danced with equal elegance, face-to-face, toes pointed, hands on hips, whirling away from each other and then back, to clasp hands and parade gracefully down the hall. I recognized the sequence. It was part of Leicester’s Dance, which Robin Dudley had made so popular at court three years ago.
As I watched, Pen saw me and turned her smile toward me, and even though the hall was shadowy after the sunlit courtyard, I could see how her eyes were shining.
The Thwaites and their proposal were complication enough but here was another. Pen had done it again. It had even driven the horror of our discovery at Fernthorpe out of her head. The wretched girl was once more in love.
13
Credentials of a Suitor
My arrival broke the dancing up. I didn’t like myself for it. Young people dancing are a charming sight and I spoiled it, like an attack of wheat rust on someone’s harvest. But I was responsible for Pen and this would not do. I would have to speak to her. Feeling yet again that I had too much on my mind, too many problems of too many different kinds, so that I was like someone trying to travel to all four points of the compass at the same time, I told Pen to go to her room and wait for me, while I went first to my bedchamber. There Dale helped me to change out of my dusty riding dress and I sent for some wine and sat down to think.
I was soon interrupted, however. Meg came to me there and after one look at my daughter’s small scared face, I decided that I would let Pen wait.
As Dale slipped tactfully away, I took Meg in my arms and said: “It’s all right. You’re perfectly safe here, and they didn’t want you for Fernthorpe, anyway. They set you free—remember?”
“I was only dancing because Pen said I ought to think of something else. I didn’t really feel like dancing! When I heard that man’s voice and knew why that place seemed so familiar, I thought my knees would turn to water. When we got home, I just wanted to hide in my bed and cry, only Pen wouldn’t let me. Oh, Mother.”
“She probably did you a service.” Meg had only been an excuse, but Pen had helped her even if it was by accident. “Darling, there is nothing for you to fear. And we’ve learned something. We know who killed Harry and we know what kind of people the Thwaites really are.” Meg managed a watery smile and I gave her another hug. “You’re here with me,” I said, “and that’s where you’re staying.”
“We didn’t mean any harm, by dancing, Mother.”
“Of course you didn’t. It’s a skill you need to practice.”
“But it displeased you—everyone saw it.”
“It wasn’t the dancing that displeased me,” I said. “It was something quite different. I daresay I shall arrange more dancing, now that I know we can have music. I wish I’d thought to pack my own lute. Now, find Mistress Jester and occupy yourself sensibly until supper. I must talk to Pen.”
“Oh, she wants to talk to you, Mother. She wouldn’t stay in her room. She’s waiting to come in. I raced her to get to you first.”
“Indeed?” I said. “Then tell her that I’m ready to give audience!”
Pen must have been just outside, for she virtually passed Meg in the doorway. I greeted her by standing in the middle of the room, and waiting, with a stern face, for her to approach. But if I were trying to convey the idea that she ought to have something on her conscience, I failed. She came eagerly up to me, bobbed a mere sketch of a curtsy and exclaimed: “Oh, Mistress Stannard, what an amazing day this has been! That dreadful business at Fernthorpe—but now, something so splendid has happened! You’ll never guess what it is!”
“I have a strong suspicion,” I said, “that it doesn’t need much guesswork. However, just in case I’m wrong, you’d better tell me.”
“It’s Master Littleton—Tobias! Oh, Mistress Stannard, he is such a kind, interesting young man! We talked at Bolton, you know, when we went to look at the mews, and when we were leaving, he said he hoped we would soon meet again. Mistress Stannard, he’s so well educated! He can speak and write Latin and Italian, and he likes the same poetry that I do. And he dances beautifully! He wants to offer for my hand! Oh, Mistress Stannard, it would be a perfect match, wouldn’t it? My mother would approve, because Tobias says he’s Catholic, though he makes no parade of it because he is working for Sir Francis Knollys. And Sir Francis is a courtier and we would go to court eventually, as part of his household. I expect I would be received back at court once I was married, wouldn’t I?”
“Stop!” I said. “All this is happening far too quickly. Littleton had no business to make advances to you without obtaining my permission first. I shall have a few things to say to that gentleman.”
“But, Mistress Stannard, we couldn’t help it—it just overtook us! It began at Bolton, just tentatively, as it were, but Tobias wrote to my brother George about having met me and liked me, and George wrote back saying that he was agreeable to the match . . .”
“Did he now?” I said sharply. I remembered Ann Mason’s words in her letter to me. She had said that she and George were not altogether in agreement concerning the kind of bridegroom his sister should take. She had also remarked that by the terms of her husband’s will, she and not George had been made Pen’s guardian.
Oblivious to my tone, Pen was rushing eagerly on. “Then today, on the way back from Fernthorpe, we rode side by side and talked further, and now we’ve danced together and . . .”
“You’ve gone too far and too fast for my liking. Pen, I saw you with him in the hall when you were dancing, and you were also seen to be kissing him openly. Your mother wouldn’t approve of that! Sit down!” I sat down myself, on the edge of the bed and Pen came to sit beside me.
“I’m not a gorgon,” I said. “In fact, I feel at the moment like nothing more than a very tired Mistress Stannard. I want your happiness. I am not here to stand in your way. But there is such a thing as checking a suitor’s credentials. Your mother made it clear to me what manner of man she wished you to marry and I’m not sure that she’d choose Master Littleton. He has no property for one thing. And,” I added, holding up a hand to stop Pen from interrupting, “there is such a thing as indiscreet behavior. What you were doing when I arrived was sadly indiscreet.”
Pen’s mouth drooped. “You are so young,” I told her. “I’ll talk to Littleton. He will stay here overnight, I think; it would be best for Mistress Seton to rest until tomorrow and then I have decided that we should both ride back to Bolton with them.”
“Both?”
“Yes. It would be natural for me to ask Sir Francis Knollys’s opinion of Tobias and I need an excuse to go to Bolton again as I still have to talk with Mary Stuart. The falconry gave me no chance. I want you to come beca
use I want you under my eye. Pen, you are entitled to know this. While I was at Fernthorpe, Master Will Thwaite asked me formally for your hand, for Andrew . . .”
“What?” Pen whitened. “But . . . Mistress Stannard . . .”
“It’s all right! Good God! There’s no question whatsoever of an alliance with them, even if you liked the look of Andrew . . .”
“I don’t!”
“Just as well. They’re criminals and I intend to send Brockley to Fritton again to report what we have learned to Constable Toft. Perhaps he’ll pay attention this time. Meanwhile, though, I think there’s something very odd about this whole business. I can’t understand why they’re so eager for an alliance with us. That’s another reason why I want to watch over you. You will be in Tobias’s company on the journey to Bolton but there’s to be no more talk of love until you have permission. Go along to your room, now. Read something improving!”
I sent her away, looking downcast, which I regretted, although I knew I was right to be firm with her. I secretly admitted to myself that I envied Pen’s easy, youthful abandonment to passion. I had been like that, when I ran off with Gerald. But I had been lucky in my man. At Tyesdale, I felt that we were surrounded by unknown quantities and it is more alarming to be responsible for someone else than for oneself.
Before supper, I wrote a letter to Constable Toft and then called the Brockleys to me. However, when I told Brockley that I wished him to deliver it, his face at once became doubtful. “What is it?” I asked.
“Madam, if this is an order, I’ll do your bidding. But I think it may be unwise just yet.”
“Explain yourself, Brockley.”
“Toft is a stupid and obstinate man, and what have we to tell him? Will he believe—or even listen to—the testimony of a child like Meg? She will tell him she recognizes Will Thwaite but she never actually saw his face. Apart from Meg, the only evidence we have that the Thwaites were concerned in Harry’s death is the fact that they have a sword that looks like his. But such swords are not uncommon. I think,” said Brockley, “that we need to find Harry’s body. If it’s on Fernthorpe land, that might make a difference. Toft would have to take notice of that. We should ride over that land and search, if we can.”
The Fugitive Queen Page 14