The Reluctant Assassin

by FIONA BUCKLEY

  Brockley said: ‘There is a village within easy distance. And a farmhouse. But they would both have been screened from you by woods and by folds in the land. So, you tried to plan. What happened next?’

  A pained look appeared on Harry’s face, a line between his young brows. ‘Once, when a cart came out of the stable yard as I was playing ball in the courtyard, I was left there, as though I had been overlooked. The cart stopped, and the driver – it was the fat man, John – got down and went back through the stable yard arch as though he had forgotten something. I thought: now is my chance! There was a leather cover on the cart – they used to draw it over the goods when they brought them back. I got under it, quick as a trout darts! And then I heard John come back and there were shouts and running feet and the cover was thrown back and I was dragged off, by the woman. She slapped me and John stood there glaring at me and saying, Yes, we thought you might try to escape. We decided to test you. So now we know!

  ‘It was a trap.’ His mouth shook again. ‘They marched me indoors and up to my room and John held me down and Lucas … he beat me. It hurt … it hurt so much … and I think he enjoyed it. He …’

  I felt a surge of rage. I had never allowed Harry’s tutors to beat him; I never wanted him to know what I had once, miserably, known myself. I wished that the soft-voiced brute was here, bound and at my mercy. I would make him cry for it.

  To Harry, I said: ‘Don’t brood about it. It’s all over now. Go on. How did you get that letter out?’

  ‘Well, it was just after that, that the drain had to be mended. The next day, I think. It was Jeff, the tumbler and juggler, who saw to it. He came in from doing it, and I was there, downstairs in a dark little dining chamber, eating some pottage. The woman was watching me, and Lucas was there too. I wasn’t taking any notice of them. I hated them!’

  His voice rose in bitterness. He swallowed and then said: ‘Jeff came in, not into the room where I was, but into a sort of vestibule adjoining it. I heard fat John’s voice, asking if he’d done the job all right, and Jeff said yes, and it was a good thing they were all fairly handy with little jobs because they shouldn’t need to call in anyone from outside.

  ‘But that night,’ said Harry, ‘there was a gale and a couple of slates crashed off the roof. It gave me a fright, I can tell you, because the slates came from just above my room! And next day it was clear that one job none of them felt equipped to do was climb on to the roof and put the slates back. I thought it was odd; they’re all so … so good at physical things, but not one of them felt safe on a roof. So they had to bring someone in from outside, because the roof was leaking into the attic just above my room and I heard Jeff say that other slates looked loose, too.

  ‘They locked me up when they were planning to get the roof mended but it took them all day to find someone and one of them – yes, it was the leader, the one who did card tricks, said that if I wanted something to pass the time, why not do some study? Had I been studying Latin? I said yes, and he brought me some books and said see if you can translate any of this into English! One of the books was the one by Livy that I was working on with Master Sandley, the one about bringing elephants over the Alps. I said all right, I would. They gave me some paper and a quill and some ink. Then I got the idea that I could write a note and somehow get to speak to the roof mender and ask him or trick him into taking it. I wrote the letter and rolled it up. I used my belt knife to cut a lace from my shirt and tied it with that. And I waited and hoped and I was lucky. I never came face to face with the man – there was only one – who came to do the work but he left a jacket hanging on a ladder leaning against the wall near my window. The window was narrow …’

  ‘Yes. Very old-fashioned,’ I said.

  ‘But I’m thin. By twisting sideways, I did manage to get halfway out and get hold of the jacket and drag it in. It had a pouch inside, like the pouches you have in some of your over-dresses, Mother. I put the letter into the pouch. I couldn’t get the jacket back to the ladder but I just let it fall, as though it had slipped off. And then,’ said Harry simply, ‘I prayed.’

  ‘And the workman – Master Ashley – found the letter and sent it on, from Stratford,’ I said thoughtfully. ‘He must have wondered how the scroll came to be in his jacket!’

  ‘Your name was known to him, madam,’ Brockley said. ‘You are known to many now as a relative of the queen and trusted by her. Well, he did send it on. He probably felt as though it would burn a hole in his jacket if he didn’t. And we have Harry safe.’

  FIFTEEN

  Old House With Ivy

  But all that was later. For the moment, as I led Brockley to the room where Dale was repairing the hem of my favourite tawny gown, my son was still lost to me, and in danger. All I knew, or guessed, was that he was in an old house, with a slate roof and ivy on the walls, and that it was probably not far from Stratford.

  ‘I’ll have to find somewhere for you two to be together,’ I said to the Brockleys, as Dale cast aside her work and went, tutting, to divest Brockley of his cloak and remove his travel-splashed boots. ‘Look after him, Dale. I will try to make some arrangements for you.’

  I went in search of Bess and found that she had left her ladies, withdrawn to the study and was conferring with her dignified steward, William Cropper. I explained that my man, who was the husband of my maid, had arrived with news for me, and that they would need – were indeed accustomed to – accommodation of their own. Cropper suggested a room in the same tower as me, just above me, in fact.

  ‘It isn’t used often, being up such a long stair, but it can be made quite comfortable. I will have it prepared if you wish.’

  Clearly he wasn’t going to recommend more convenient accommodation for two mere servants, and neither was Bess. However, they would be near me and they would have some privacy. I agreed and the steward went off to give the necessary orders. I asked to see the room, however, whereupon Bess shouted for a page and when Walter Meredith appeared, told him to show me the way. And as I followed him up a spiral stone stair that would certainly get Dale out of breath, the irrepressible Walter asked if I really had had news of my son.

  ‘As a matter of fact, Walter,’ I said dampingly, ‘your parents have it all wrong. My son is on a visit to his married sister, my daughter Mistress Hill. But I really don’t want my private business shouted to the wide world.’

  I had been sorry for him when I saw how frightened he was of Bess of Shrewsbury’s threats, but it was possible that she had a point. ‘Please hold your tongue! And do go slower! These stairs are like a precipice!’

  The stairs explained all too well why the room at the top wasn’t much used, but the room itself was quite sizeable. In the early evening, however, when Brockley had had a sleep and I had been graciously allowed to share a game of cards in Mary’s apartment, I brought the Brockleys to my chamber. I closed the door and as so many times before, we were in conference.

  ‘What next?’ I said baldly.

  ‘I think,’ said Brockley, ‘that I must go back to Stratford. My enquiries there, after a roof mender called Ashley, were no use, but we have to find that house and the best way is to find the man Ashley. He may be a Warwick man – Warwick is only eight miles or so to the north of Stratford and is a bigger town. I would have pursued more enquiries there at once, except that I wanted so much to get to you, to give you Harry’s letter. I shall go back to Warwick now and see what luck I have there. I’ll have my eyes wide open for old houses with walls round them, too.’

  He looked at me gravely. ‘I don’t think you can come on this hunt, madam. You have to stay here and – pretend about things, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes, except that I don’t see how,’ I said worriedly. ‘I can’t think how I can pretend to try to kill Her Grace! I daren’t do anything at all in case it goes wrong – how awful if I arranged a riding accident or some food poisoning and did kill her, by mistake! The queen might be pleased,’ I added bitterly. ‘But I wouldn’t. I’d never forgive myself
and suppose I were caught! The law would have to be upheld, I think. Even Walsingham might find it difficult to get me out of it.’

  I wondered if he – or the queen, or Cecil – would actually sacrifice me and realized to my horror that although it wasn’t likely, it wasn’t impossible, either.

  ‘But if I don’t make a move soon,’ I said, ‘I endanger Harry. We have to find him! We have to find that house!’

  Brockley ruminated and then said: ‘Is this perhaps the moment to go to the county sheriff – or to Sir George Talbot? To get official help?’

  ‘I’d like to,’ I said. ‘But there’s the threat to Harry if there’s a public hue and cry. If a number of men begin making enquiries about lonely houses and roof menders called Ashley, the news might reach the wrong ears. I have a bad feeling about this … this gang. I’m afraid of them, and that’s the truth. For Harry’s sake, not mine.’

  ‘So I must do my best,’ said Brockley. ‘Very well, madam. I will find that house if it’s humanly possible. I promise.’

  We were interrupted then, because Walter Meredith came tapping at the door with a message from Mary. Would I attend on her and Lady Shrewsbury? I left the Brockleys and went to Mary’s rooms, where I found that the new wall-hangings had now been completed and the pieces stitched together, and that Mary and Bess were shaking out lengths of silvery satin and discussing what to embroider on them.

  ‘I think just one colour, blue. Blue on silver,’ said Mary, ‘would be very charming for a kirtle.’

  ‘With sleeves to match,’ said Bess. ‘I have an idea about the pattern. Bluebells, some in silhouette and some filled in … I have a rough drawing here …’

  We settled down to the feminine task of planning the pattern. I found it hard to concentrate.

  It was too late for Brockley to set off again that day. When I was free to go back to them, I told him to rest again, bade Dale take the greatest care of him, and arranged for food to be brought to them so that they need not run the gauntlet of curiosity and questions in the castle dining chamber. I went to supper as usual. I tried to appear normal but must have had a worried air, just the same, for, to my annoyance, Russell Woodley came to my table, sat down on the bench beside me and asked me, with an air of concern, how I did. ‘For you look pale, Mistress Stannard. Are you not well?’

  ‘I am a little tired,’ I said. ‘Nothing more.’

  ‘You are sure? You look troubled to me. You can’t tell me what the trouble is?’

  His blue eyes were scanning my face as if hoping to read there the news I wasn’t telling him. He was about the same age as me and I recognized, all too clearly, the warmth in his gaze. Well, I could only blame myself. I had gossiped with him, hoping to learn something useful – perhaps some little detail that could point to whoever might be a spy on behalf of Harry’s captors, and he had interpreted that as encouragement. I now regretted it very much. I was so very, very tired of being pursued. After Hugh’s death, as a woman of substance with money and two good houses, royal connections and the possibility, still, of bearing children, it was inevitable that I should be, but I didn’t enjoy it. I wanted to remain, to live and to die, as the widow of Hugh Stannard, and leave it at that.

  It was true that since Hugh’s death, I had had that one extraordinary reunion with Matthew de la Roche, the husband I had before Hugh. From that, Harry had come and I could not regret that. But I didn’t want to repeat it, either. It was also true that in another world, Brockley and I might have been a couple – might have had a son like Philip – but that other world did not exist and never could. It was further true that I had once, briefly, considered marrying my friend Christopher Spelton. But Christopher had changed his mind, had instead fallen in love with my ward, Kate Lake, and was now married to her and very happy with her at West Leys, their farm not far from Guildford, and with his little stepson and his own tiny twin daughters, and I had found on thinking it over, that I didn’t regret that either.

  I did not want Russell Woodley. I was through with passion. Nor, I felt, was it becoming in a woman of my age. I was nearly forty-seven, after all.

  The queen was older, and was locked into a half-betrothal to the French duke, Francis of Alençon, and, I knew, was half in love with him and half desperate to escape. My personal view was that escape was the right thing for her. There comes a time when loving and mating are things of the past.

  I didn’t answer him, but he seemed to be good at guessing.

  ‘You are a half-sister to the queen. I know that,’ he said. ‘That relationship may well be a burden at times.’

  ‘And too many people know of it,’ I said waspishly.

  He nodded. ‘I will say no more.’ He frowned. ‘Is your hidden trouble something to do with your son? I believe he is missing, or some such thing?’

  ‘There is too much tittle-tattle in this castle,’ I said with irritation. ‘Has young Meredith been tattling?’

  ‘He is a terror, that way,’ said Russell. ‘Well, yes, he has. He always seems to know a lot. Don’t be anxious. I shan’t talk about it if you don’t want me to. I understand the meaning of the word discretion. But, Mistress Stannard, believe me, if there is anything I can do to serve you, I will gladly do it. I am here if you have need of me.’

  ‘My son is not missing,’ I said patiently. ‘He is visiting his elder sister, my married daughter. If he were missing,’ I added righteously, ‘I would hardly be likely to be here, now, would I?’

  Brockley, dear Brockley. May God speed your search.

  In the morning, before Brockley left, I went to the stables and inspected the hired nag he had arrived on. It was a depressing animal, with hairy heels, a goose rump and a massive roman nose. One at least of its recent ancestors had assuredly been one of the heavy horses formerly bred to carry knights in plate armour. Returning to our rooms, I gave Brockley some money from the hoard I had brought and recommended him to buy a good horse before he left Sheffield.

  ‘If you’re going to make for Warwick,’ I said, ‘I know it’s nearer than Stratford, but you still have a long ride ahead of you, and then God knows how far the trail will lead you.’

  ‘It’s a good eighty miles from here to Warwick,’ Brockley said. ‘If one were a crow, at that.’

  ‘So you need a good, reliable horse under you. The grooms here will know the best dealer,’ I said. ‘Tell me which Stratford stable produced that dismal animal, and Eddie will take it back. He can lead it and ride one of our coach horses.’

  Brockley departed on this errand and was back within three hours, bringing with him a good-looking bay gelding, with the deep chest needed for stamina, a good tail carriage to round off sturdy hindquarters and the dish face that meant Barbary blood. It carried its head well, too.

  ‘He’s called Jaunty,’ Brockley said. ‘On account of the way he holds his head and tail, apparently.’

  ‘A pleasant name,’ I said approvingly. ‘And a good horse, I fancy. You must miss Firefly!’ I gave my old friend and retainer a smile and then said: ‘Brockley! You haven’t shaved today!’

  ‘Madam, if I find the house, I may also find some of those players who came to Hawkswood and they might recognize me. I have been thinking of ways to change the way I look. Growing even the start of a beard might help.’

  ‘So it might. That was well thought of. Well, Brockley. Godspeed!’

  And now, once more, I must hand over this narrative to another person for I dared not leave Sheffield. This part of the tale belongs to Brockley.

  SIXTEEN

  All Unknowing

  Since he wasn’t using remounts, Brockley did not reach Warwick until almost the evening of the second day. Jaunty was a very good horse but Brockley didn’t want to press him over-hard. Time mattered, though. Every day that Mistress Stannard had to stay at Sheffield without taking action to please the enemy increased the danger to Harry.

  The weather, however, was not too kind. On the first day there was a short but fierce downpour which soaked him
thoroughly, despite a good cloak and a stout green hat. The inn where he spent that night was not good, either. His supper was poor and his bed lumpy. He set out on the final day of his journey in an irritable temper.

  In the late afternoon he was approaching Warwick and was relieved at it because he was beginning to feel shivery, the result no doubt of his soaking the day before. He was thankful that the sun was now out, and could warm him a little.

  He was interested, as he rode, to notice a fine black and white house on the left-hand side of the track. Its white plaster and jet-black beams looked as though they had been newly refurbished, and there was a man on the roof, apparently putting on new thatch. Old thatch lay in heaps in front of the building, and the thatcher was aloft, working busily, with a big basket of thatching straw tied to a chimney, and a long ladder behind him, reaching to the ground. Brockley pulled up, wondering suddenly if this, by any unlikely chance, would turn out to be Master Ashley himself. He was about to shout to the thatcher when another, younger-looking man appeared round the side of the house, peered at the ladder and began to adjust it, whereupon the thatcher shouted to him to let it be, it was properly positioned already.

  ‘But it b’ain’t, sir,’ the second man, presumably an assistant, shouted. ‘One foot’s on a loose stone; it’ll likely slip if you put your weight on it! I’m making it safe!’

  The thatcher retorted with a fierce statement that he had been positioning ladders since before you were born, you young idiot; what do you mean by interfering? After which, his voice subsided into angry muttering and Brockley changed his mind. This was the wrong moment to interrupt with enquiries about identity and besides, he was really beginning to feel ill. He wanted to reach shelter. He could come back tomorrow, after all. He rode on.