‘Not big enough for me,’ laughed the porter.
Again, Amy wheeled. ‘I have fine ears and a fine tongue too,’ she hissed. ‘And I’d be happy to use it to tell your wives what hungry eyes you have.’
The two men shrugged, folding their arms, and drawing their eyes off her. Perhaps she was a shrew, she thought, as she continued down. It was a long walk through woodland towards the little stream that had been siphoned off from the River Dove, but she wanted to be alone for a while.
Hearing that the maids disliked her had been an annoyance, but it was only the latest amongst many. Since coming to Tutbury everything had seemed off. It wasn’t just that she rarely saw her husband – lots of women in service and out had to deal with that – but that when she did see him he seemed to have changed. That in itself was no great surprise. Jack was just like that, as she had known since she met him. It was how he had changed that bothered her. That strutting little peacock Heydon had put ideas in his head – and what they were she didn’t even want to know. Probably, she thought, that he had the makings of a gentleman. Probably that he could better himself and improve his lot. Yet, if she were honest, it was plain and simple jealousy that was eating into her. Jack was hers, not some gentleman’s toy. They were supposed to muddle through life together, doing their jobs but not liking them, and escaping at the end of each day into each other.
For a moment she hated everyone. She hated her fat little co-servants. She hated the Scottish queen and all the trouble she caused. She hated the earl of Shrewsbury and his castle full of leering men. She hated Philip Heydon. And she hated Jack most of all, because his distance from her was the betrayal that pinched the hardest.
She stepped over broken branches and the myriad half-frozen dead things that carpeted the floor of the parklands. The water would be freezing, but she would enjoy thrusting her arms into it, enjoy the shock. The musk of wet leaves and soil was a tonic. Then a sharper smell hit her. Something rotting. Some of the ground at her feet was stained – the waste parts of a hunted deer littered the ground and she drew carefully around it. She slowed her pace and paused, getting a better purchase on her armfuls of bedding.
It was then that she felt the iron band of an arm encircle her waist. She dropped her load and opened her mouth to scream. Before she could cry out, a brown-gloved hand clamed over her mouth.
‘Peace, woman,’ a metallic voice purred into her ear on a wave of heat. ‘I don’t want to hurt you. You’ve been watching me, haven’t you?’
2
Jack looked out for Amy that evening but didn’t find her. That was odd. Normally during the evening she would be holding court amongst the maidservants, and she would at the least give him a smiling nod. Instead, supper seemed to be an ad hoc affair as the process of installing Queen Mary’s household separately from the earl’s led to confusion and grumbling from everyone. Jack gave up wandering the halls and decided to make his way back to his sleeping corner. No one would want horses late on, and if he was with the male staff, they could reach him if he did.
Yet he found his feet taking him towards the rooms which had been allotted for the Scottish queen. He reasoned that perhaps Amy had been drafted in to sweeten the royal chambers, but he knew deep down that he wanted another glimpse of Mary Stuart. At the entrance to the apartments – or rather the small collection of rooms that had been given tapestries and furniture – he found a gaggle of boys arguing with a harassed-looking soldier. He brushed his fringe away and watched.
‘You have no right to enter here. Orders are orders,’ he snapped.
‘The earl said the queen should be entertained in all majesty,’ said one of the boys. Jack recognised them as the household musicians. Not one of them was near puberty.
‘The earl,’ repeated the soldier, as though the word tasted bad. Then he faltered, apparently unsure of who he was supposed to answer to. ‘Go and fetch me one of the earl’s men, then, and have him tell me that.’
‘We are the earl’s men,’ piped one of the smaller boys.
‘You are the earl’s whelps! And I doubt the Scotch queen wants to hear a parcel of beardless lady-faced lads whine about their mistresses having no faith in them! Come back when you have some bollock hair and you’ve touched a bloody woman.’
Jack watched as the door opened behind the soldier and a woman stepped out, a halo of soft light framing her. She was handsome, in a way – or she would be if she didn’t have such a haughty and arrogant air. ‘Tush! Whit be the tulzie withoot?’ she snapped.
‘Pardon, my lady,’ said the guard. ‘Some lads here wanting to sing for the queen.’
‘Then let them sing,’ she said. Then her face softened. To Jack’s surprise, she took the soldier’s arm and began to walk with him – away from the door. ‘Come noo, my man. If the earl’s boys wish tae gie tae the queen’s majesty a wee bit comfort, it’s a hard heart should say no.’
The soldier evidently had little idea of what the woman was saying. In fact, she seemed to want it that way. He stepped around the massed boys willingly. ‘And could ye no’ mebbe go and find a man o’ the earl tae make things smooth?’
‘If … I … yes, my lady. I’ll find a man at once.’ He snapped a salute and moved away, passing Jack without a glance. When he had gone, the woman dropped her mask of civility and turned. Putting one hand to her chest, she snapped the fingers of the other. The boys took this as their cue to enter, the lead already starting to sing. As they slipped in, Philip Heydon stepped out.
‘Thank you, Mistress Seton,’ he said. She gave a stern smile and he made a sign of the cross before he spotted Jack. Annoyance crossed his face, replaced quickly with a smile. ‘Be at peace, mistress – he is one of us,’ he said. The woman, Seton, gave Jack a cold look before nodding and disappearing after the boys. The door to the royal rooms thudded behind her, robbing the outer hall of some of its light.
‘You following me?’ said Heydon. Then, before Jack could reply, ‘come on, let’s be away from here. Now, before that bloody soldier comes back.’
Heydon led them outside into the black, freezing evening. ‘Too many will be about in the dorm,’ he explained, his voice low.
‘I wasn’t following you, mate,’ said Jack. No, he thought – he still couldn’t pull off the easy manner in which Heydon said it. It sounded forced and he cringed a little. ‘I was just … I was looking for Amy.’
‘Amy? She wasn’t there.’ Heydon barked a laugh. ‘You know what they say about a man who loses control of his wife?’
‘I was just – I haven’t seen much of her. What were you doing in there?’
Heydon blew out an audible sigh, and then threw his head back. ‘Ah, it was nothing. I …’ He looked down towards his chest and then pinched at his forehead. ‘To the devil with it. I reckon I’ve been honest enough with you, mate. The truth is … well, the truth is, I am not just a secretary. I’m not just a gentleman who was looking for a place. I’m … when I travelled abroad, I was ordained in Douai last year. Amongst the first. I’m a priest, Jack. I was going to tell you.’
‘You’re a Catholic priest,’ said Jack, without expression.
‘You’re a sharp one, mate. Don’t tell the world, will you? I was going to tell you when I was surer of you. I have to ask you now if you’re in with us or not. There’s no more time to think. Will you pledge yourself to the faith?’
‘I … I mean I don’t have to do anything, do I?’
‘You just have to believe. You just have to accept that the heresies that you said your family loved were in error. That’s all.’
‘I suppose I have to call you priest, then. Or father?’ God forbid, he thought.
‘Nothing wrong with Philip.’ Amusement played across his face. ‘My son,’ he added, before breaking into a grin.
Something flared in Jack. He had always despised what his father had stood for – everything about the man was to be scrubbed out. ‘He was in error,’ he said. He let his eyes wander up the castle walls. Few lights wi
nked: the shutters were all closed against the cold. They might have been standing in the middle of nowhere. ‘Yes, Philip. I’ll join you, if that’s what you want.’
‘Bless you, Jack Cole.’ Heydon reached up to his face and, very quickly, drew the sign of the cross on his forehead. ‘Now you are truly in God’s mercy, I can open your eyes to all number of truths and mysteries. But remember – you can’t say a word to anyone, not until we have achieved what we must.’
Behind the dried-up well in the centre of the courtyard, though neither Jack nor Heydon could see her, Amy crouched. Tears in her eyes, she turned and crept off to pull down the still-wet bedclothes she had unsuccessfully tried to dry out in the old hunting lodge.
***
Jack found her a quarter of an hour later, crossing the courtyard towards him, her head bent low. ‘Amy,’ he said. ‘Where have you been? I’ve been looking for you?’ That, he supposed, wasn’t a lie – he had been on the hunt for her, though for the last fifteen minutes he had been standing staring into space, wondering if he had done the right thing. Heydon had gone, but his parting words had been that soon Jack would feel the Holy Spirit rising within him. He had waited, figuring that it would find him more easily outside than in. Hardly anyone was about – just a disinterested gardener grunting as he took armfuls of dead shrubbery towards the middens. Jack ignored him and tried to focus his mind. Useless. He had felt nothing, although he would have to say otherwise if Heydon asked him.
‘Good evening, husband,’ she said. Her voice came out in a strangulated whelp.
‘Hus – are you well? It’s cold. Where have you been?’
‘Laundry.’
He reached out a hand to her and she pulled away. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘Nothing. Why should something be wrong?’ She seemed to collect herself, shaking her head. ‘I’m fine. I’m well. You?’
‘I’m … I’m very well, Amy.’
‘Good. Been spending time with your friend?’
‘I have. He is a good mate.’
Something tensed in her, and an odd look came over her face. He didn’t like it. ‘Why are you talking like that?’ she asked.
‘Like what?’
‘Your accent. You’re talking different. Can you not hear it? Talk right, won’t you?’
‘What? What do you mean?’
‘Just there – you’re sounding like him. Like Heydon.’
Jack bit down. Consciously, he made his voice what it always was. ‘I sound the same as always, don’t I?’
‘If you say so,’ she said, shuddering. ‘You’re right, it is cold. What did you want me for?’
‘Just to talk. To see how you fared. That’s all.’
‘Right. Well, then, now you know. Jack, I … you know, you can tell Mr Heydon that you’re too busy for friendship. At the moment, I mean.’
‘What? Why? I couldn’t – I –’
‘Life’s full of folk doing things they say they won’t or wouldn’t or can’t.’
‘Your mam?’ Jack raised an eyebrow, and Amy pulled a face.
He wanted to ask her why she was behaving oddly, but something in her manner stopped him. And he didn’t care for her commenting on how he spoke. ‘Well, anyway, good night to you then.’ He considered whether he should kiss her or not. At length he did – a cursory peck on her cheek.
‘Goodnight, Jack,’ she said. Then, ‘be careful. Please.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You’re getting yourself into something too big.’
Fear gripped at him. Had she been watching? For how long? ‘What do you mean,’ he repeated. ‘What are you talking about?’
‘Just what I say.’
Shrugging, he left her standing shivering in the cold as he made his way to down to the stables and his sleeping hole. Even if she had overheard him joining with Heydon, it shouldn’t concern her. What did it matter what group of friends he had, so long as he went to the damned church every Sunday and listened to the sermons? He would prefer if she joined in, but he knew she did not care about religion either way. So what did it matter?
Yet one thing rankled. Catholics, the world knew – or said, at least – wanted to return England to the old faith. They wanted to force Queen Elizabeth down in London to accept them, to accept that her religion was a broken toy. But Heydon had said more than that. He had said that the year would see a Jezebel deprived of life. He hadn’t given it much thought at the time, but if his friend was a priest, if he was part of a whole chain of priests, did that mean that they planned to kill the old girl?
He pushed the thought aside. Even if there was some dream of killing off the queen, it was just that. Dreams were things you hoped would happen, not things that did. And Heydon had said, after all, that he need do nothing more than believe.
3
As winter petered out, the news rippled throughout the household that Queen Mary had become ill. Precisely what the complaint was, no one knew, but Jack found himself less and less required to ready horses for her. Couriers would sometimes appear at the stables, nameless and badgeless, and sometimes pass him packets with dramatic flourishes. ‘For the Scottish queen’s eyes alone.’ ‘It is to be burnt after reading.’ Some came from Norfolk, and he passed them to Heydon or others he trusted to have access to the royal apartments. But he didn’t get to see her himself. Her escorted trips out into the parklands for exercise ceased entirely, and so he had to live on memories of her graceful hand slipping into his as she mounted and dismounted. He had no other touch of a woman, except for once, when, flushed after helping the queen to ride out, he had taken Amy into a rotting closet into the old hunting lodge. That hadn’t been like him at all, and he had felt ashamed after it, but she had been curiously unprotesting. A man had conjugal rights, he supposed, but he didn’t like to think of himself as one who would demand them.
As the weeks passed, he had spent a good deal of time with Heydon too. His fried had opened up his mind to the sheer number of men in the north who had embraced the Catholic faith – or who, rather, had never given it up. There were stacks of them in every household – the earl of Shrewsbury even had relatives who were willing to take up arms in defence of it. And wouldn’t Jack like to count himself amongst such a noble number? He had said that he would. And wouldn’t Jack like to be part of a great revival of a world before schism? Of course.
Jack knew he was a compliant man. He neither liked nor disliked it: it was just a fact of who he was. Trying to alter it would be like trying to fashion a whole new person out of nothing. In the past he had even reasoned that it was part of service to be an empty vessel in which a master could brew whatever he liked. That was better than thinking that he was tainted, touched by madness and inhumanity.
Even so, Heydon had a remarkable way of making him agree to anything. Perhaps, he supposed, that was the working of the Holy Spirit. At any rate, this faith – this ancient faith which men and women had died for – might finally be the making of him. Jack Cole, he thought: no longer a man who stands for anything and everything, but a man who stands for something. When people spoke of him in the future it wouldn’t be as the weird, smiling mope who would agree with anyone, no matter the contradictions, but as a man who stood proudly up for what he believed in. The broken little shell of old had been traded in for steel. The only dark spot was his friend’s insistence that their discussions be kept secret: that some spy in the household, more perceptive even than the stupid soldiers, was watching them. But probably that was just the natural fear of anyone who knows that their beliefs are persecuted by the ungodly.
With no horses to ready, he had nothing to do. The letters from Norfolk had dried up, the soldiers immediately arresting any man who appeared and searching him. If something had come in, it hadn’t made it through Jack’s hands. It was a Saturday – the day allotted for emptying the sewage pits, and men and women were grimly milling around the courtyard with muck-caked sacks tied around their feet. Swarms of flies buzzed around the yard in a c
loud. There, thought Jack, was proof that winter had really gone. Thankfully joining in was now beneath him, but he watched the procession of people with buckets. The queen, he knew, hated Tutbury. Her two rooms – the rooms into which Heydon had gained access – were mean, the windows opening out only on to the curtain wall. When she wasn’t able or permitted to ride, Mary was obliged to take her exercise walking around in circles in a potato patch. People had come and gone – an Irish gentleman in late February – to gawk at the captive queen, but her misery was infectious. Not only her own household but Shrewsbury’s seemed to catch it. Amy certainly had it.
Across the courtyard, Jack spotted the earl emerge, Woodward the steward at his heel. Shrewsbury looked more tired than ever. His usual stoop had deepened, and with each step he grimaced. From master to servant the unhappiness reflected. Shrewsbury took a few steps into the courtyard then, seeing the activity – the servants quickened their steps – he shook his head and went back inside. Woodward, however, paused. Catching Jack’s eye, he beckoned with a finger.
‘Mr Cole,’ he said. ‘The Scottish queen shall have her own master of horse shortly.’ Jack felt his heart sink, his brief star as a royal servant falling into eclipse. ‘I should think you will be relieved of the burden.’ The sarcasm was heavy. ‘For of this sort are they which creep into houses, and lead captive silly women laden with sins, led away with divers lusts.’ Jack started. ‘The second epistle to Timothy. Think on it.’
Inwardly, Jack smiled. Stupid, Bible-spouting heretic. How much better was Latin – a language that buried the irksome lessons of the words in music. ‘Anyway, you should be free of that lady’s influence by the time we reach Wingfield.’ He mopped his forehead with his hand. ‘Jesus, but it shall be a good thing to be quit of this evil place. The poor earl, too – the damp is doing nothing for his humours.’
A Dangerous Trade Page 7