Queen & Country

by Shirley McKay

  Hew had questioned, at the time, the direction to the custom house. ‘For surely, nothing sent there can be thought secure?’

  ‘It will never reach there,’ Phelippes had assured him, and the answer, sure enough, which Hew awaited eagerly, had never graced the place to which it was directed – ‘Her Majesty’s customs at the port of London’ – but came to him direct, shorn of string and seal, from Seething Lane itself. Giles had written also under some constraint, in phrasing Hew felt certain had been overlooked in Scotland. Giles and Meg gave thanks to God that Hew was safe. They prayed that by God’s grace he would be returned to them. Sir Andrew Wood, the crownar, had captured four men who took part in the raid on Hew’s party at Dysart; the four men had been hanged at the side of the moor, where their corpses hung still, to creak in the wind, a warning to all who passed by. One had caught fire, by itself; a sure and certain proof that they were now in Hell. Before they were hanged, the four men had confessed; they had slaughtered the king’s men for their bright swords and doublets, and had left Hew for dead. Therefore his escape must be thought fortuitous, and nought to do with them.

  Andrew Wood, as it seemed, had hanged his own men. Why had they confessed? Because, as Hew supposed, the killing of the king’s men was an act of treason, and there were other, less appealing, ways to die. Andrew Wood the sheriff hanged them quick and high. He caught them with the bridles of the horses in their hands, and that was his prerogative. Perhaps, the king would say, his actions were impetuous, his hastiness presumptuous. Sir Andrew would reply he acted out of loyalty to his Grace, a will to keep the peace, in that unruly place, a thirsting for revenge. He trod a dangerous path. In his waking consciousness, Hew remembered little of the dark and frantic night, when he was wrested from his captors’ grip on Dysart Muir, the outer vale of Hell, where earth was turned to fire. Two of the king’s men had perished in the fray. Of those others, who fled, God knew what hopes they had now.

  Phelippes had asked him, what was the matter, conscious of the shadow that had crossed his face.

  ‘Six men died to bring me here. Two that were guards of the king, and four that were charged with their deaths.’ Hew had no control, no kenning of the ambush, and as little hand in what was his own fate, yet that did not absolve him of his sense of guilt.

  ‘Then let us hope that you are worth the cost.’

  The rest of Giles’ letter dealt with slight domestic things: the land at Kenly Green, the keeping of the farm, ‘We pray to God that all may be restored to you, as you must be to us. Sir Andrew Wood attends to us, and takes care of our claim. God willing, you may once again find favour with the king.’

  ‘Amen to that,’ Phelippes had said.

  The channel had been opened then. And there were further letters, to and from both Giles and Meg. It was a relief to him to know when they were safe, which as the years had passed, he had not always known. Yet relief had been tempered with guilt. He had carried those deaths on his conscience for days. Phelippes, while he mocked, was sharp enough to see where a man might be most vulnerable, and careful enough to attend to his needs. He had taken Hew out to drink at the Bull, drowning his sorrows in sack. There he had asked him if he had a lass, someone back at home. Hew had not thought of, would not think of Clare, and had answered, no.

  ‘In a service such as ours,’ Phelippes had observed, ‘a man should have a wife, or at least a wench. It does not serve him well, to be quite alone, as you seem to be.’

  ‘You and I are the same,’ Hew had pointed out. ‘For I do not see you with a wife yourself.’ In age and education, they were both alike, then twenty-eight years old.

  ‘That is a fault that I intend to remedy, now that I am home. But for you, whose life is thrown in turmoil, I can recommend the widow of a friend, who will keep you company these chill winter nights, and offer consolation in your present grief.’

  ‘I thank you,’ he had answered, ‘but I do not want a whore.’

  ‘Audrey is not a whore. And, if she were, you could not afford her. She will like you, I think, and you will like her. She is a breath of fresh air.’

  She was not that. But what she was, was billowing, open and voluptuous. He found between her sheets a dark, familiar scent, sweaty, stale and sweet, fleshly warm and comforting. Audrey’s husband had been killed in the service of Lord Cobham’s brother, while he was ambassador in Paris. It had not, Phelippes said, been a glorious death; he had lost his life in a drunken brawl, but Sir Henry had been moved to subscribe to a small pension, in view of Audrey’s plight. She had given birth to her husband’s child, eleven months after his death (her womb being stopped on account of her grief). The infant was lodged with foster parents landward from the city, and on Sunday afternoons, she would walk out to see it, sometimes taking Hew, to admire its fat fists and fair apple cheeks. She had taken Hew to bed with a willing heart; she had sorely missed a husband’s conversation, by which she meant nothing he said.

  Audrey’s conversation, vigorous and frank, had restored Hew to himself, and brought relief from a burden that could not be shared. Phelippes had been right. There was comfort in the flesh. Thomas, for his part, had wanted something more. He had sought a wife in whom he could confide. His parents’ choice had not been Mary, who was dark and saturnine. Frances had confessed, she found her cold and strange. She was, in every way, a perfect match for Phelippes. They shared an inner life, of perfect understanding. And Mary doubtless knew what Thomas did at Chartley, while she lay bereft, in his father’s house.

  Chapter 4

  Chartley

  Hew arrived at Stowe-by-Chartley five days after leaving London, in the afternoon of the eighteenth of July. On departure from Caxton, the grey horse had slowed, weathering listlessly in the fierce sun, which gathered in force as the steep road inclined. Somewhere north of Stamford, they had left the track, diverting to the west through a maze of paths, to follow on the trail of the post from Loughborough. They came into that place to find the post long gone. A farmer’s boy, eventually, had walked with them for miles through thickets, weeds and mud, straddling streams and ponds, and left them in the village leading to the hall, in shadow of the castle higher up the hill. Grey Gelding, plodding softly through a haze of heat, came to rest at last. The manor here belonged to the earl of Essex and the family Devereux, whose crest was traced on every door and lintel post in gold and crimson lake. His mansion was built around a cobbled courtyard, settled in a moat that on this summer’s day sank deep and still and soundless as the sky above. Like the scattered cottages the manor overlooked, its timbered slats were closed, and seemed to be asleep. No one took the air, or water from its fountain, no one kept the watch above the wooden parapets, cock-eyed and incongruous upon its gabled roofs. A path had been cut to the edge of the moat, felling and clearing the earl’s copse of trees, and here Hew dismounted and let the horse loose. He walked on alone to that smooth flank of water, and stood there a moment, reflective, to look, when he sensed at his back the stirring of leaves, and catching the sunlight, the glint of a sword.

  ‘If you care for your life, do not move.’

  Grey Gelding, driven from the shelter of the wood, harried by his halter in a stranger’s hand, passed by him so closely he caught his hot scent, the sliver of sweat, a diamond-drop glistening across his sleek back. ‘Please treat him well. He has come a long way.’

  There were four men at his back. Doubtless, they had watched him as he rode up through the wood, hidden by the trees. One among them asked. ‘What business have you here?’

  ‘I have a letter,’ he said, ‘for Thomas Phelippes.’

  ‘Who told you he was here?’

  ‘The man who sent it to him.’ He had learned from Phelippes how to be impassive, to present a coolness, stubborn and reserved, in response to questioning. He applied that learning now, and was rewarded by confusion in his captor’s face, the flickering of doubt. They stepped back to confer. They were, he thought, makeshift young soldiers, unsure of their command. One of th
em said, ‘You must come to the keep, to speak with Sir Amias.’

  Hew agreed. ‘Of course.’

  Sir Amias Paulet had the keeping of that place, and of its present guest. Phelippes ranked Sir Amias close among his friends, had served with him in France, and counted him among the few men he could trust. Sir Amias was a man who did not shirk his charge. It was likely that the soldiers here belonged to him, and not to Robert Devereux. That, Hew considered, was in some way a relief. What concerned him, most of all, was the temper of the men, who were ill at ease. They reminded him of skittish, temperamental horses, that were quickly put to flight, and could not be relied upon. There was no knowing what might fright them, or where that fright might lead. It was hard not to find their nervousness infectious.

  Hew followed to the castle, which had fallen into ruins. The moat that surrounded it, a clogged and brackish green, sank deeper than the lake which graced the nearby manor house, and its stagnant waters seeped into the rock. What remained of the walls had a penetrating dampness, and a bleak blank coldness that no sun could lift.

  The keep to this castle was more or less intact, and within it Sir Amias Paulet had installed a kind of military quarter, for the purpose of defence. It contained the one strong, fortified vault in the Devereux estate, secure against a threat. Above this vault was a small council chamber, where Hew was taken now, and stripped of his clothes. His dagger and his purse were placed out on the board, with the letter he had brought, in its seal intact. A soldier took the knife, sliced the leather buttons cleanly from his coat, and slit them from their backs. ‘I cannot imagine,’ Hew said, ‘what you think to find,’ as another man prised the soles from his shoes, and let the blade slide through the silk of his cloak. In fact, he knew all of those tricks, and a dozen more besides, that were used by people who had things to hide, and thanked God he had none. He shivered as he waited, naked in his shirt in the dampness of that keep, for Sir Amias to arrive.

  Sir Amias, when he came, did not still the fear. The burden of his charge had taken toll on him, showing in his slow arthritic gait, his face, blank from want of sleep, the dullness in his eyes. Recognising Hew from the tale he told, he sent the soldiers out before he asked. ‘How did you come here?’

  ‘On Grey Gelding, my horse. In truth, he is not my horse. He belongs to William Phillips – that is Tom Phelippes’ father, as you know. That is a good horse, and his master is fond of him. I hope that your men, who have taken him from me, will see he is fed, and take proper care of him.’ Hew answered full and cheerfully, with a smiling countenance, to encourage confidence.

  This tactic failed to put the keeper at his ease. ‘No, that is not possible. There are guards at every town within ten miles of here. No man may pass, and he is a stranger.’

  ‘I did not come from the town.’ Hew understood that what had caused the trouble was the breach in their security. ‘I came across the field. A boy showed me the way. And I beg your pardon, if it inconvenienced you. I have an urgent letter, from William Phillips to his son.’ He gestured at the letter lying on the board. Sir Amias looked at it, as though it were a thing he had not seen before, though Hew knew he must recognise the Phillips family seal.

  ‘I can leave the letter, if you will. But I believe that his father will expect him to reply. I can tell you what it says. His wife Mary, has miscarried their child. The doctors believe she will not have another one.’

  The keeper, it was clear, was moved by this. Sir Amias was a family man. He had brought his family with him to Chartley, finding them essential to the running of that house, not for profit or advantage to their interests there, but because he could not hope to serve so well without them. Without their close support, the burden of his charge would have crippled him completely, and become too hard to bear. He had in his keeping his elder grown son, with the young girl and ward he was soon to marry, and his youngest girl too, the bright baby daughter he had nicknamed his ‘jewel’. He could not imagine what his life would be without them. Perhaps because of this, perhaps because he was uncertain what was right to do, he acted on his conscience. ‘Take the letter to him. One of the soldiers will show you the way. We will look after your horse.’ Sir Amias returned to Hew the letter and his purse. Since Hew’s own were futless, he replaced his shoes. The dagger, he kept back.

  Hew was taken to a place a mile or two from Chartley, to a farmhouse requisitioned from a Catholic lord. Soldiers had been quartered there; the great and ancient hall was cluttered with their gear, and several of them cleaned their weapons with its tablecloths. Others played at dice, and swilled down draughts of beer from blackened metal cups. Thomas Phelippes was not there among them. A young man in a blue wool coat answered to his name, and claimed to be his servant. Hew had not seen him before.

  ‘You are not Tom Cassie.’

  ‘No.’ The boy had a bland, foolish face, placidly inscrutable. That he was Phelippes’ agent Hew was willing to believe; he had been trained to give nothing away.

  ‘I have a message for your master.’

  ‘I will pass it on to him. He is not free, at present.’

  Hew was aware of Paulet’s soldiers, listening in. Neither he nor Phelippes’ servant wished to give them anything to hear. ‘I would prefer to deliver it myself.’

  ‘Then, sir, you must wait, for he is occupied.’

  ‘Is he here, is this house?’ Hew persisted. The boy did not confirm this, nor deny it. ‘If you will wait in the kitchen, I will let him know that you are here. The maid will give you food.’

  It was less of a request than a command. The soldiers who stood by allowed no other course. Hew had ridden in the rough for many miles and hours, with no dinner but the bread he had wrapped up in a cloth, and the liquor in a flask he had brought from Grantham. He was chilled from his visit to the castle keep, and his limbs had stiffened to a leaden weariness. The prospect of a supper at the kitchen fire now seemed an enticing one. He followed at the heels of the bland, blue-coated boy, coming to a kitchen down a flight of stairs, where a single serving girl stood clearing dirty plates, polishing the pewter with a grimy cloth. The boy in the blue coat conferred with her quietly. Hew saw her nodding, weary in response.

  The kitchen was large, and had once been, Hew thought, the wellspring and heartbeat of a country home. From the rafters hung sharp metal hooks, where he supposed had hung bacon and hams; long rows of shelves held stone crocks and jars designed to be filled with pickles and fruits. A small sprig of rosemary, puckered and grey, was all that remained of a banquet of herbs. The kitchen girl said, ‘There is bread and cheese. The soldiers have had all the rest. There is plenty of beer, since the brewer came yesterday. But it will cost you to drink. The beer here is very expensive.’

  He felt for his purse. ‘Why is that?’

  ‘I cannot say. Perhaps it is because the brewer comes from Burton.’ The girl was very young, no more than a child. It was not stupidity, nor the serving man’s impassiveness, that dulled her curiosity, it was the exhaustion of her service to those men. Hew asked her if she worked there on her own.

  ‘There is a cook, but he has gone home.’

  ‘I can help you clean the plates.’

  ‘Do not be daft.’

  She brought him a loaf of dry ravelled bread. He took out his purse, and bought himself a friend. ‘Did you know,’ she said, ‘you have no buttons on your coat?’ In answer, he asked for her name.

  ‘Elizabeth. I was named for our sovereign lady queen.’ She had it on her tongue, like a kind of catechism tripped out many times. Perhaps she was a relict of that ancient Catholic household, waiting for a master unavoidably detained. He asked her, had she ever chanced to see that other queen, kept up at the Hall, in the manor house at Chartley. ‘For I met her, once.’

  She stared at him, and shook her head. Hoping to have drawn her out, he had only frightened her.

  ‘Do you know a man called Phelippes, who is staying in this house?’

  But she was wary of him now, and would not
play his game. ‘I do not know the names of all of the soldiers.’

  ‘He is not a soldier.’

  ‘I do not know him, sir.’

  He let her be at that, and while she worked, he watched, and brooded over three warm cups of Burton brewer’s ale. Presently, he wandered back and up the spiral stair, to find there was a soldier stationed at the top. ‘Wait down below sir, until you are called.’

  He asked for the serving man in the blue coat, who had gone without leaving his name. The guard did not move. ‘When you are wanted, you will be told.’ There was nothing to be done but to go below and wait, where the young girl risked a smile at him. ‘You can lie there, if you like.’

  She showed to him a mat that was rolled out by the fire, with a woollen blanket, to make a sleeping place. Perhaps it was the journey he had taken through the scrub or the swilling in his belly of the Burton brewer’s ale, but at that moment he was certain there was nowhere else on earth where he would rather lie, where every torn and straining sinew ached and longed to be. ‘Perhaps, but for a while. You will wake me, when they come?’

  ‘I will wake you,’ she replied.

  He did not resent the sour scent of the pillow, nor the heaving burrows of that bed without a sheet. Their torments did not touch him, for he was asleep.

  He was woken by the light in the narrow kitchen casement, and the crowing of a cockerel somewhere in the yard. His limbs felt swollen, bruised and stiff, and rusted red pinpricks speckled his shirt. He would be scratching for days. The same young girl, Elizabeth, came in with a basket of freshly baked bread, the daily ration for the house. It did not look much.

  ‘I robbed you of your bed,’ he said, sorry for it now.

  ‘It does not matter, sir.’

  He wondered where she had slept, hoped it had not been with one of the soldiers. Her apron was grubby and torn. He watched, as she buttered a slice of the bread, which she set on a tray with a pitcher of ale. On impulse, he asked, ‘Has Tom Phelippes broken his fast?’