The Betrayal

by Mary Hooper

  ‘Oh,’ Beth cried. ‘So that’s why you didn’t like the pretty lady with the velvet boots.’

  ‘Hush!’ I protested. ‘You’re talking nonsense. Tomas is not my sweetheart.’

  ‘I shall ask him the next time I see him,’ Beth said.

  I took both her hands in mine and spoke to her seriously. ‘Please do not,’ I said. ‘’Tis but a joke between me and Isabelle.’ I shot a look at my friend. ‘Is it not?’

  Isabelle nodded vehemently. ‘’Tis but our playacting. Lucy has no sweetheart.’

  Beth clapped her hands. ‘Then we will find you someone here in Mortlake, and then you’ll want to stay here with us.’

  Isabelle nodded. ‘That is very fitting, for today is St Valentine’s Day. You must act as his messengers, and look about to find suitable beaux for the two of us.’

  ‘But stay within sight,’ I added.

  The idea of finding us sweethearts was novel enough to occupy the girls for quite some time, during which I filled Isabelle in on all that I’d been doing: of my dressing as a boy, of my acting with the Queen’s Players – which she admitted to be extreme jealous of, and my day as a stable hand at Whitehall Palace. I also told her of my several meetings with Tomas, though confessed that these had not really gone to my satisfaction because of Mistress Juliette.

  In the end, however, I made myself stop babbling of these things, for I had so much to tell about all that I’d done it seemed as if my life had taken off, while hers had come to a full stop.

  ‘But what of you?’ I asked. ‘Are your mother and family well? Do your brothers still work at the ostler’s? How is business in Mortlake?’

  ‘’Tis poor,’ she said, pulling a face. ‘My brothers earn enough between them to put food on the table, but I find very little to sell at this time of the year. Matters will improve in May when the asparagus is full grown and the vegetables crop, but until then there’s not much in the fields.’ She indicated the posies. ‘I hunt for fresh herbs to make these tussy-mussies, but because there’s no plague at the moment …’

  ‘For which we give thanks!’ I put in superstitiously.

  ‘For which we give thanks,’ she echoed, ‘people don’t feel the need to buy bunches of herbs.’

  ‘How about your other jobs: in the tavern, and being a funeral mute.’

  She tutted. ‘Do you know that no one really rich has died since the Walsingham boy!’ she said, and sounded so outraged that we both giggled. ‘I got a job for a few days clearing weeds from the asparagus fields, but because I couldn’t manage to work the hours that the men did, they got rid of me.’

  I pulled a sympathetic face and an idea was just beginning to form in my head – something I could do to help her – when I was distracted by the girls running back, looking very excited.

  ‘You look so pleased that I think you must have found us two sweethearts,’ I said.

  Isabelle laughed. ‘Then may they both be young noblemen, with good fortunes and carriages of their own.’

  ‘’Tis not sweethearts we’ve found,’ Beth answered.

  ‘Then what?’

  ‘It’s the someone who came to the house asking for you, Lucy,’ said Merryl.

  ‘Asking for me ?’

  ‘The two village girls sent her on her way and said you didn’t live here any more.’

  ‘And we tried to go out and speak to her, but they wouldn’t let us! They said she was just a vagrant and must go back to her own parish and not come round a-begging in ours.’

  ‘But what did she want?’

  ‘You,’ Beth said. ‘She wanted to speak to you.’

  ‘But why didn’t you tell me before?’

  ‘We forgot,’ said Beth.

  ‘We would have remembered, but you haven’t been back here very long,’ put in Merryl.

  ‘So where is this person now?’ I asked, terribly curious.

  ‘She is sitting by the milestone, selling gloves from a tray.’

  ‘Gloves! ’ I exclaimed, for this word held a special significance for me.

  By this time the girls, each holding a hand, were leading me through the market stalls.

  ‘There she is, over there,’ Beth said. ‘She doesn’t look too much like a beggar …’

  But I was already running towards the figure with my arms outstretched, for it was my own dear mother.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Sweetling!’ cried my ma. ‘At last! I knew that sooner or later I would find you.’

  I clasped her tightly, conscious that not only Merryl, Beth and Isabelle, but also what seemed like a fair proportion of the market, were watching us with interest.

  ‘How long have you been in Mortlake?’ I asked, looking at her face and thinking that she looked far more careworn than the last time I’d seen her, though it had barely been five months since I’d left Hazelgrove.

  ‘Not so very long. About a seven-night.’

  ‘You just missed me, then, for Mistress Midge and I left for London some ten days past.’ I looked down to the meagre stock on her tray and felt like crying, for she only had two pairs of gloves to sell, and they were of poor and thin leather. ‘But what are you doing here, Ma? How have you been managing?’

  She spoke slowly. ‘I’m here because I’m homeless … because of your father.’

  I nodded, for I might have known he’d be at the back of things; he with his gambling and drunkenness, bullying and bad tempers. ‘What’s he done now?’ I asked, but as I waited for her to reply I suddenly had a vision of a pile of freshly dug earth in a churchyard, a small green bush of rosemary growing in it. I hesitated. ‘He’s dead, isn’t he?’

  There was a pause. ‘He is,’ she said, and – may God forgive me – I didn’t feel a thing except relief. ‘Dead and buried in the churchyard at home with nothing to mark his grave …’

  ‘… but some rosemary for remembrance,’ I finished.

  She nodded. ‘The feeling against him in the village is such that I didn’t want to have his grave marked by his name on a cross, for fear people would despoil it. But how did you know?’

  I just shrugged by way of answer and my ma understood, for of course she knew of my dreams and premonitions. ‘How did his death happen?’ I asked.

  My mother glanced about her. ‘I cannot tell you it all here.’

  ‘Then where are you staying?’

  ‘At the Harvest Home.’

  ‘The tippling house?’

  She nodded. ‘I wash the pots for them and have a room there.’

  I looked at her in dismay. ‘What type of a room do you have?’ I asked, for I knew the Harvest Home to be no more than a run-down tavern and gambling den, filled with men and common drabs who drank, gambled and fought the night away.

  Ma answered in her usual making-the-best-of-things way. ‘’Tis a good enough place to rest my head. I tuck myself away under the stairs and sleep well enough.’

  ‘A gambling den is not a very genteel place for a woman to live.’

  Ma shrugged. ‘’Tis not too bad, and for sure I can handle a drunken man, for I’ve been used to doing so all my life.’

  I hugged her again, glad that she was away from my father and yes, glad that he was dead. ‘I’ll come to the Harvest Home tonight, and we can speak more,’ I promised.

  I felt immensely weary by the time the girls and I got back to the magician’s house and unpacked our provisions, for it seemed to me that I’d hardly stopped in the last twenty-four hours. To my surprise (for I’d hardly seen her out of the bedchambers before this) I found Mistress Allen in the kitchen, making a broth to try and tempt the mistress into eating. This was looking thin and unappetising, for she’d had very few ingredients to work with, but I was able to add a boiling fowl and some vegetables to the pot and by this knew it would last the family for at least two days. Longer, I thought, if that guzzle-belly Mr Kelly kept his nose out of the trough and went back to his own house to eat. I wondered aloud what he’d do when the Dee family moved to Whitehall (hoping
I’d hear that he was remaining in Mortlake), but Beth informed me that he’d already secured lodgings for himself and his servant very close to the house in Green Lane. This was not good news, but was no more than I’d expected, for Dr Dee believed Mr Kelly brought information from the spirit world to the land of the living, and where one of them went, the other was not far behind.

  Having settled the girls for the night I was just about to set off for the tavern when a handbell summoned me to the library. I went in, noting with pleasure that for once Mr Kelly was not around.

  Dr Dee indicated a tower of books on his desk. ‘See that you take these back to London with you, will you?’

  Inwardly I groaned, for the pile was as high as a horse. ‘Yes, Sir,’ I said, ‘although I will have to hire a handcart to convey them from the wharf.’

  ‘Then do so,’ he said brusquely. ‘These are books that I need with me at all times.’

  He made a gesture for me to go and I suddenly remembered the idea I’d had earlier. ‘About the girls, about Miss Merryl and Miss Beth, Sir …’

  He glanced up from the paper he was working on. Looking at it upside down, I could see a mathematical diagram of some sort, with a moon and sun depicted. ‘Yes? What of them?’

  ‘Excuse my forwardness in pointing it out, but I fear they are not being properly cared for at the moment. Mistress Allen is fully occupied with Milady, and the two village girls who were employed for kitchen work are not doing a proper job. Sometimes – so I’ve been told – they don’t appear for work at all.’

  He made an impatient gesture. ‘Yes, yes. But your mistress won’t allow them to go to London without her. Besides, they are still being tutored here twice a week by Mr Sylvester.’

  ‘I beg your pardon, Sir,’ I ventured boldly, ‘but his tutoring them in French and numbers is not taking care of their well-being.’

  I believe he would have liked to have dismissed me from the room for speaking so bold, but I knew that he did care about the welfare of all of his children – especially that of the baby, Arthur, whose astrological chart had predicted he would be a scryer when he was fully grown.

  ‘But what can be done?’ he asked.

  ‘I have a friend in the village,’ I said eagerly, ‘a clean and hardworking girl who knows Beth and Merryl and is young enough to keep up with their merry ways. She is a good, plain cook and …’

  ‘Let her come, then.’

  I was so surprised I went on with my reasoning. ‘… she has sisters of her own and is well-schooled in running a home.’

  ‘Yes, yes. I said, let her come. She must come in every day until we go to London, and then she can move in and take care of the house and its contents.’

  I looked at him, startled. ‘I see,’ I said, thinking that this job might better suit my ma.

  ‘There have been several robberies in the great houses around here and I can’t leave the rest of my books without someone living in to take care of things.’

  ‘I am not sure my friend would stay …’ I began, for I knew that Isabelle found the house exceeding creepy and would never, ever, submit to spend the night alone in it, no matter how much she was paid. Glancing around, I saw several sinister objects she might object to: the skull, the stuffed bird with its malevolent eye, the dangling ally-gators, the mysterious gold-banded box … As my eyes fell on this latter object I only just managed to hide a gasp of surprise, for the box, which was usually locked, was now not. Its padlock lay nearby, almost covered by the feathered end of a quill pen.

  ‘Let her come here and I’ll speak to her,’ he said, making the impatient gesture of dismissal again, and I left him, my mind now occupied with the gold-banded box, which I knew held the show-stone and the dark mirror. When I’d looked into the stone before, I’d seen a most wondrous thing: I’d seen the future …

  That evening, with Merryl and Beth safely a-bed, I walked through Mortlake village thinking about the show-stone. How I’d love to look again into its depths! What would I see? Would it show that I was going to continue in the service of the queen? Would I discover if Tomas and I had a future together? Or might I get a glimpse of something I didn’t want to see?

  I heard the bellman call that it was eight of the clock. This was late for a maid to be walking out alone, and I drew several curious glances as, well-wrapped against the cold night and holding a candle-lantern aloft, I made my way towards the tavern. I walked swiftly, taking care to keep away from dark corners, for this was in an area of Mortlake set away from the river, with mean dwellings inhabited by beggars and pick-pockets.

  I reached the Harvest Home safely, however, and pushed open the door. Inside I found two large rooms furnished with long trestle tables and a great quantity of stools, some of which were upturned on the floor. A poor fire glowed in the hearth and the floor was stamped earth, which had been puddled over with spilt ale (and probably worse) and smelled damp and unwholesome. Several men were already slumped on a table, seeming to be as drunk as lords, and another group were shouting in each other’s faces even though they were but inches apart. A man sat on the end of one table playing a violin, while two or three women danced to his tune, weaving in and out of each other’s raised arms and laughing immoderately.

  It was not the sort of place you would wish your ma to be living or working in, and – seeing her before she saw me – I noted her hunched and nervous demeanour and saw her staggering away from someone who’d sent her on her way with a shove in the back. Watching her, my eyes filled with tears. She’d endured a life of misery with my father, and now, when he was dead and she might have expected to find a little peace, she had not done so. In fact, she was not now at the mercy of one drunken man, but of forty-and-one, and probably sixty-and-one on a Friday night.

  I persuaded her to take a pause in her collecting of glasses and we went outside and sat on the low wall there. She began to tell me about the decline and death of my father, about how, before his heart had quite given out, he’d expressed sorrow for the sort of man he’d been and for the misery he’d caused in all our lives (for my sisters, too, had suffered at his hands). I heard what my ma said but I couldn’t forgive him, nor, after a while, even sit to listen to her tales of how he was truly sorry.

  ‘I can hear no more!’ I said at length. ‘I know it’s your duty to speak up for him, Ma, but I shall never forgive him for all the things he’s done to us over the years.’

  ‘You mustn’t speak ill of the dead, Lucy!’

  ‘I’m not going to speak ill of him, in fact I’m not going to speak of him at all,’ I declared. ‘I undertake never to mention his name again, nor ever to refer to him as my father.’

  She sighed. ‘Poor girl! Has he truly blighted your life so much?’

  I shook my head. ‘No, he has not,’ I said, for I didn’t want her to bear the burden of thinking such a thing. I took her thin hands in mine and rubbed them to warm them, as she oft used to rub mine when I was a child. ‘But let’s speak of other things. Tell me of how my sisters fare, and my nieces and nephews, and give me all the gossip of Hazelgrove.’

  She laughed a little. ‘Why, hardly anything happens in Hazelgrove – you know that.’

  ‘Then at least tell me why you’re homeless; why Sir Reginald didn’t allow you to stay on in our cottage for charity’s sake after … after he died.’

  ‘Sir Reginald may have been persuaded, but I didn’t dare to ask, for the rent hadn’t been paid for so many months that they were on the verge of making us go into the workhouse. Besides, Sir Reginald has not been himself lately, since he and Lady Ashe suffered the bereavement.’

  ‘Bereavement? Who was it who died, then?’ I asked, for I knew Lord and Lady Ashe had no children.

  ‘Their niece,’ Ma said. ‘Lady Ashe doted on her and loved her as her own.’

  ‘Their niece? ’ I asked, incredulous. Juliette? ‘Are you sure?’

  Ma nodded. ‘Why are you so surprised?’

  ‘Because … because her niece is at Court and
I saw her only the other day, riding a horse and as fit as a flea.’

  ‘Never!’

  ‘Are you sure it was their niece and not a cousin or someone?’

  ‘It was their niece,’ Ma said firmly. ‘The girl lived abroad – Italy, I believe – and was expected to make a prestigious foreign marriage. The whole village has been talking of it.’

  ‘She lived abroad? Then perhaps they have many nieces …’

  ‘They have seven nephews, but only one niece,’ Ma said.

  ‘And she died two weeks back?’

  ‘Just before your father.’

  ‘Do you know the girl’s name?’

  ‘I may have known it, but now I can’t remember.’ She shook her head slowly, then continued, ‘Lord and Lady Ashe went to Italy for the funeral, and their house is even now draped about with black crêpe.’

  I was lost in thought. I was quite sure Juliette had told me she was Lady Ashe’s niece. Or had I misheard and it was another, similar name? Surely not …

  Ma’s hand smoothed my cheek. ‘But how are you faring, my lass? You look fine and bonny enough – although your hair is as short as a boy’s.’

  ‘I’m managing well, Ma. I’m happy in London,’ I said, knowing I didn’t have the time to tell her about the company of actors, or of Tomas, or of my dressing as a boy.

  ‘Is it not, then, as dissolute as people say?’

  ‘It may be, in parts, but not where Mistress Midge and I are living,’ I replied. ‘The house Dr Dee has taken lies close to Whitehall, where the queen’s palace is.’

  ‘All the same, I shall not think to follow you there, for they say the smell, disarray and noise are beyond bearing.’

  A cry of ‘Where’s the pot-woman?’ came from within the tavern and Ma looked nervously towards it. ‘I must get back, Lucy. I don’t want to lose my position here.’

  ‘’Tis a shabby place you’ve chosen to live,’ I said, surveying the outside of the tavern.

  ‘’Tis not ideal. But I shall look around for something better.’

  ‘I may have something to tell you tomorrow then. And you are sure that you don’t wish to return to Hazelgrove?’