The Fugitive Queen

by FIONA BUCKLEY

  “Fine turn of events this is! There was t’Grimsdales a’hammering on t’door—lucky we don’t shut t’gatehouse these days—and shouting fit t’wake a whole churchyard full o’ dead, and when I put my head out o’ t’window and shouted down to ask them what t’blazes they think they’re at, they tell me that t’marriage party’s on its way, at this hour! Not that we’re complainin’—my son’s ready to jump t’moon. Puttin’ on bridegroom’s finery this minute, he is.”

  He handed Pen down from her saddle himself, grinning all the more when she shuddered away from him. “And here’s summat comic,” he added. “From not having a priest at all, it seems we’ve ended up with a choice! Good of you to come, Father Robinson, but we’ve got a fellow here already.”

  “You’ve got a priest?” Whitely was surprised. “How did that come about?”

  “One o’ t’wanderers that come around these days,” said Thwaite. “From Italy, so he says. Sent over to comfort t’faithful, so he tells us, and test t’water, as it were, see what support a Catholic rule ’ud have in northern England. Been travelin’ round and then got into trouble, askin’ too many questions in t’wrong sort of household. Turned up t’other day, looking for shelter. Good fellow, speaks fair English. Says he’ll gladly marry my son to Mistress Mason. Don’t want to offend you, Father Robinson, but . . .”

  “You won’t offend me,” said Father Robinson, with unaffected relief. “I will tell you frankly, Master Thwaite, that I don’t approve of this marriage, which I know very well isn’t to the mind of the bride. I’m only here because I’ve had orders from my employer. She has been paid for my services, but since I have made the journey here and would have done as she bade me if necessary, I feel that I have fulfilled the bargain. I need not insist upon actually performing the ceremony if someone else is ready to do so. If I can have a little rest before I go home . . .”

  “Oh o’course, and welcome. Hope thee’ll at least drink to t’couple. Get down and come inside, the lot o’ you.”

  For the third time in the course of that awful night, I got stiffly out of my saddle. Pen’s eyes met mine with frantic pleading, but all I could do was shake my head. We were pushed in at the door. The horses were brought in as well and put in the byre on the right of the passage. One horse was there already. As the only light in the passage was from Will Thwaite’s torch, I couldn’t see it very well, but its coat had a gloss and peering at it, I saw that though its fetlocks were hairy, they were clean. For a change, something at Fernthorpe was being cared for properly.

  In the short interval since the Grimsdales had disturbed the household by pounding and shouting, preparations had been made. The kitchen-cum-living-room had been hurriedly tidied and made ready for a celebration. New candles glowed in what looked like the best candlesticks and a white cloth covered the table. Some pewter dishes and tankards had been set out, along with a couple of ale jugs, a cold cooked fowl, and a large cold pie. The squint-eyed Rosie was evidently up and working in the kitchen, for I could hear what sounded like eggs being beaten in a furious hurry, and a pleasant smell of baking bread mingled with the sharp smell of the horses.

  A wooden crucifix had been hung on the wall of the living room and below it, a second small table, draped with an embroidered cloth and set with more candles, seemed to be doing duty as an altar. The Italian priest, in a black cassock and with another crucifix, this one silver, on a chain around his neck, was waiting beside it. The wavering candlelight made everyone’s features indistinct but this was as swarthy a fellow as I’d ever seen, with a jet-black tonsure.

  “This is Father Bruno, who’s said he’ll officiate,” said Will Thwaite, spraying saliva liberally over everyone close to him.

  “Eet will be my gritest pleesure,” said Father Bruno graciously. “To starta younga pair on the holee road of matreemony; eet ees always a joy. I have not had soocha joy since I stepped ona the shores of theesa island.”

  Pen ran forward and threw herself on her knees before him, clutching at his cassock. “Please help me! Please! I don’t want to be married! I don’t . . .”

  Gently, he lifted her up and held her, facing him. “Come now—pax vobiscum, my leetle one. Let us praya, you and I, sì?”

  He turned her toward the makeshift altar and with a hand on her shoulders pressed her to her knees. To my surprise, she yielded. They knelt side by side, and drawing his hand away from her, he laid his palms together in an attitude of reverence. So did Pen. I heard him murmuring his prayer. It went on for some time. Pen seemed to droop, but she did not interrupt or try to get up until he said amen. He said it in a firm voice and she echoed him, her own voice small and sad. He looked at her and smiled, and then they both rose to their feet. She came back to me. Her face was still dreadfully pale but she seemed calm. I opened my mouth to ask her what he had said in his prayer, but at that moment, Andrew Thwaite appeared, descending the stairs from the upper regions.

  He was dressed in what was presumably his best suit, of dark blue with red slashings, and puffed breeches to match, and a clean ruff. He was wearing a sword. With a rage so intense that it actually overwhelmed my exhaustion, I saw the amethyst in its hilt.

  The outfit made the best of his looks, though. He was undoubtedly handsome in his fashion. His father, greeting him, looked at him with such a doting approval that for a brief instant I saw him as Will Thwaite did; an only son, a bridegroom, the next generation, with the future and the potency that his father no longer had. Will Thwaite’s one chance to perpetuate himself.

  Pen didn’t see him like that, though. As he stepped into the room, he bowed most graciously to us all, and especially to her, but she turned her head away. For an instant, he seemed disconcerted but then, turning to me, he said: “Mistress Stannard, as the representative of my bride’s parents, would you care to inspect the bridal chamber?”

  Apparently, we were expected to go through the motions of a normal marriage. It was like being on a river in a current. There didn’t seem to be anything else to do except go upstairs to see what preparations had been made there. They were fairly satisfactory. The marital bedchamber was comparatively clean, and some lavender had been strewn among the floor rushes and on the coverlet of the big bed. There were clean sheets on the bed and an empty clothespress had been provided, which, Andrew said, was for Pen’s belongings. “We’ll send for them from Tyesdale.” There was a washstand, too, with an earthenware basin and an ewer.

  “You have taken some trouble,” I said, detaching my gaze from the amethyst in Andrew’s sword hilt and forcing myself to be polite. There was no point in antagonizing the people in whose power Pen would shortly be.

  “I mean well by t’lass,” said Andrew. “She’s a pretty piece. This is honest marriage; nowt less.”

  “Treat her kindly, that’s all I ask,” I said.

  We went downstairs again without exchanging any further words. We found everyone in their places for the ceremony. Father Bruno stood in front of the makeshift altar and facing him was Pen, with Magnus Whitely gripping her left arm. The rest were in a group behind them. Rosie had been fetched from the kitchen and was standing with the Grimsdales, wiping her hands on her apron. The light was still poor but I could make out that her black eye was better, although I thought there was a fresh bruise on the other side of her face.

  Treat her kindly, I had said. I had said it to people who ill-used their maidservant and had left a girl of thirteen to fare as best she could in a moorland fog, miles from anywhere.

  And after Pen had been made legally a part of it, what would happen to me? The fog of exhaustion had descended on me again, but within it, I was shuddering with dread for myself as well as for her.

  Will Thwaite strode out of the group to meet us, frowning.

  “At last! We’re all waitin’! Master Littleton says we’ve to get on with it; summat might happen to stop it if we don’t. That’s what all this rush is about. There’ll be folk out, huntin’ all over for Mistress Pen again if not for Mistres
s Stannard too, as soon as t’sun’s up, he says. And t’bridegroom ditherin’ about upstairs without t’bride! Just you tak your place alongside t’lass, Andrew, on her right hand. Mistress Stannard, you’re her attendant. You stand behind her. Master Whitely’ll give her hand t’Andrew. Come on, now.”

  Bemusedly, miserably, I placed myself as told. Andrew went to stand on Pen’s right. Father Bruno cleared his throat and in his thick Italian accent, began the marriage service.

  It was a weird, nervous kind of wedding. Outside, the dawn had still barely gathered strength, and here within this shadowy room most of the light still came from the candles, but if an artist had been present to paint the scene they revealed, anyone seeing the canvas would have said at once: this is a clandestine affair. Everyone looks furtive and most of them look as if they’ve spent the night in a cobwebby cupboard or under a hedge, and the bride looks about as happy as the chief participant in an execution.

  The service proceeded. I was aware that Magnus Whitely, after he had given Pen’s hand to Andrew, had stepped to one side and was watching me with malevolent satisfaction. The smell of the horses in the byre across the passage permeated everything and some of Father Bruno’s words were lost in their snorts and rustlings. To the last moment I had gone on hoping that Sir Francis Knollys would somehow find my trail and arrive after all, but he had not. Despite the bad light, I noticed that although the priest was so dark, he had unexpectedly light eyes. His command of English words seemed competent enough; it was just that he pronounced them so badly.

  Andrew took his vows in a clear, strong voice. Pen denied hers in an equally strong one, saying I won’t where she should have said I will in tones that fairly echoed through the room. No one took any notice, and neither the rustlings of the horses nor Father Bruno’s terrible accent prevented us from hearing it plainly when he said: “I pronounce that Andrew and Penelope are man and wife together.”

  Andrew kissed the bride. I saw her standing in his arms and shivering as she stood. Wretchedly, I went over in my mind all the events of the last few hours and wondered if there was anything, anything, I could have done to get her away but could not think what.

  If she hadn’t been brought here on a pillion, I might have grabbed her bridle, spurred my horse, and ridden off into the mist with her, I thought, or upstairs with Andrew, inspecting the wedding bed, I might have snatched out my dagger and attacked him. But he was bigger than I was and had a sword. Besides, if it came to the point, I would rather Pen went to bed, however unwillingly, with Andrew than expose myself to the risk of getting hanged. Though whether that would better or worse than whatever Whitely and Tobias had in mind for me, I didn’t know.

  The food was being offered and although Tobias was obviously ill at ease and by now Whitely was himself growing impatient to be away, we all needed to eat. I found a platter containing a piece of pie and a few slices of chicken being thrust at me by Tobias.

  “We’ve to get to the east coast and it’s a long way,” he said in an undertone. “Magnus was so determined to see the wedding and make you watch it too that we’re late setting out. You realize that we shall have to take you with us? There won’t be time to waste on food or sleep. It’s the last meal you’ll have for a long while.”

  He turned away, coming face-to-face with Whitely, who glanced toward me and then said something. In the general murmur of talk, it shouldn’t have been possible for me to hear what he said but danger sharpens the senses. I heard Whitely quite clearly. “You’re a fool, Tobias. She’s dangerous. It’s the last meal she’ll ever have, and if you say different, you’re out of your mind. Leave it to me.”

  I didn’t hear Tobias’s answer. But I saw him shrug. And nod.

  25

  The Bereft Barbarian

  I had expected it, of course. I had been trying not to face it, that was all—or else I was just too tired. It had been perfectly obvious since Whitely had threatened that if Pen knew too much, it would cost her her life. Instead of being married, she would end up buried in the abandoned mine, bedded not with Andrew Thwaite but—I was fairly sure of it—with Harry Hobson.

  And if they were prepared to murder Pen, then they would be prepared to dispose of me, too, rather than burden themselves with me on a long journey, during which I might escape them. No. I wouldn’t be going to France. Instead, I would be the one to share Harry’s last bed.

  I had done my best, and it hadn’t been good enough. I had stopped Mary from escaping, yes. And I had found Pen. But I hadn’t saved her and now I was going to die. I didn’t collapse or burst into loud screams only because the shock of hearing it confirmed in words was so great that it was unreal, as though I were trapped in a terrible dream.

  Where, I thought frantically, had Sir Francis Knollys got to? Why had the dogs lost my scent? Those who should have protected me had vanished into the moonlit night and I had heard and seen nothing of them since. And where was Brockley? Brockley, on whom I had so often relied and who had never before failed me, had also vanished into nothingness. I was alone among enemies and . . .

  So was Pen. Standing there, rigid with hopelessness, I looked across the room and saw that Andrew Thwaite had her by the hand and was leading her toward the stairs. He called to his father: “It’s a strange time of day to be off to my bed, but it’s a special occasion. Maybe you’ll see to my jobs for me, just this once? Getting a son’s just as important as t’milking.”

  Pen was going with him, perforce, but her face was terrified. Will Thwaite was laughing and saying he would see to the cows, never fear. Over the couple, he sketched the movements of a blessing. At the foot of the stairs, Pen balked, crying out that she had taken no vows; she had said I won’t not I will. She didn’t want this marriage. She wasn’t married. She wasn’t going up those stairs with Andrew. She wasn’t . . .!

  Andrew laughed and picked her up bodily. She struggled and cried but in vain. He carried her easily up the stairs and when Rosie and some of the Grimsdale family made to follow them up, presumably to see them bedded in traditional fashion, Will Thwaite barred the way.

  “Best they make friends on their own. Leave Andrew t’it. He knows his business,” said Andrew’s father with a dreadful grin and another spray of saliva.

  Even in my own extremity, I stared after Pen with pity. She was still crying; I could hear her. Poor child. Poor, poor child. Happy is the bride who is so in love with her groom and desires him so intensely that she melts to him without fear or pain at their first joining. Happy is the maid whose first lover knows how to awaken that desire.

  Pen had no desire for Andrew and I did not think he was the man to create it. Oh, Pen. Poor Pen.

  And now, very soon, poor Ursula. Surreptitiously, I put my hand over the outline of my dagger. I would fight for my life, to the very last moment. I edged a little, toward the door to the passage. The horses in the byre were still saddled. If I could slip out and loose a horse and get astride it, I might just manage to bolt out of the byre and across the courtyard before anyone could stop me. If only the gatehouse had been left open. I inched another step or two.

  I was close to the wall now but the door was still several paces away, on my left. Turning my head a fraction, I could see through into the passage. The outer door was open and the light of daybreak was now pouring in. Another step and I could see a segment of the courtyard, and part of the gatehouse. And the gate.

  It was closed. My heart sank in renewed despair. I would never do it. Whitely was already looking my way.

  I’d got to try! Undoing a gate can be tricky from the back of a horse, especially a horse one doesn’t know well. The problem was to slow down the pursuit. Could I create a distraction . . . overturn some furniture, perhaps . . . enough to confuse people and get in their way while I rushed across the passage, slashed a halter rope with my dagger, scrambled up, clattered to the gate, undid the bolts, and made a dash for freedom?

  Not very likely. But I was still going to attempt it. If I flung down the p
latter I was holding, caught hold of the table and threw it over, and all the wedding breakfast dishes were strewn over the floor . . .

  In the byre, one of the horses whinnied. And then, with a surge of thankfulness so great that it weakened my knees and almost caused me to do what I hadn’t done when I first realized Whitely’s intention which was to keel over in a faint, I heard another horse whinny from beyond the gate, and a stentorian voice shouted: “Open in the name of the queen!” and someone began a thunderous hammering.

  The wedding party froze. Full mouths stopped chewing; chicken legs and slices of pie and tankards of ale were halted halfway to people’s lips. A horn blew commandingly and the command to open was repeated, even more loudly than before.

  “Huh!” said Will Thwaite. “Thee said they’d be out lookin’ for Mistress Pen, Master Littleton. Seems thee were right. Well, well, they’re too late. And there’s nothing against t’law in a young pair gettin’ wed. As well you and Master Whitely hurried things on. God’s teeth, they’ll have that gate down in a minute! Better let them through afore they knock it flat.”

  The shouting outside was being repeated yet again and a further furious pounding on the gate was making it shake. Brushing past Tobias and Whitely, who appeared to be stricken immobile, Thwaite strode out to the courtyard, bellowing: “Wait! Wait! I’ll undo t’door!”

  The hammering stopped. Thwaite unbarred the entrance and as I stood there, leaning on the wall now for support, Sir Francis Knollys in person rode through. Crowding after him, fully armed and looking as impressive as an army, were a dozen of his own men, plus John Ryder, Tom Smith, and Clem Moss.

  Whitely, regaining his powers of movement, suddenly made toward me, perhaps with some notion of using me as a shield while he made his escape, but I hurled my platter at him, dodged through the door, and sprinted for the courtyard, shouting: “I’m here! I’m here!” and a moment later was being thankfully embraced by Ryder as he threw himself off his horse and grabbed hold of me.