They were left in silence. ‘What was that?’ whispered Jack. ‘She didn’t believe us, did she?’
‘Not a word,’ replied Heydon. ‘That lady knows exactly what’s what.’
‘You mean … you don’t mean she knows what we’re stealing? What did you say to her?’
‘Not exactly. Don’t worry, mate. The good countess has a mind of her own.’
‘I heard you see wean. That’s child, isn’t it, in that tongue?’
‘Sharp lad,’ said Heydon raising an eyebrow. ‘What else did you hear?’
‘Nothing. What’s it all about a child?’
‘I simply pointed out that when the little laddie they call their king grows older, he might not take to kindly to the folk – even an auntie and uncle – who let his mother suffer in a dank cell in a foreign land. Religion aside, that boy will grow up. A woman like the good countess can see that he’ll one day ask “what of my mama?”. And she’ll want to be able to say that she did what she could for his mother’s restoration. Not that she and her husband left her in a pit.’
‘She’s not one of us, is she?’ The silver and white decorations laced through Jack’s thoughts. ‘A Catholic?’
‘You ask too many questions, mate. Trust me. That lady is … she’s … a woman of practical good sense. Like her husband. No Catholic, but – well, you’ve heard what’s said abroad in Scotland? That Elizabeth will restore Mary?’ He lowered his voice to a whisper and let his light die. ‘I’ve let that lady think that all we’ve sought is means to stop that. More proof of her sister-in-law’s troublesome spirit and dark nature. But that it won’t be seen to come from her man, and so the little boy will never have cause to think dear uncle defamed his mama.’
‘And she believed that?’ Jack wasted a look of disbelief on a dark room.
‘Probably not. But what has she got to lose? If the queen was to be restored, she can say that she helped on behalf of her husband. And when Elizabeth’s dead, she can do the same. When the boy king grows up he will have no cause to punish dear auntie and uncle for ignoring his mother’s plight. Yet if Queen Mary is further defamed, she thinks she will be kept in England, and the world will think the proofs were not given by her husband’s hand. Either way, she can see herself and the regent winning. That is a rare woman, the countess – for a heretic, anyway. A woman who can see farther in time and clearer than her husband. She’ll smooth that old traitor down, I’m sure.’ Heydon threw his head back and let out a short cackle. ‘This is living, isn’t it, mate?’ A feverish excitement had crept into his voice. ‘You feel it, don’t you? Locking wits with people. Secret knowledge and secret places.’
Jack nodded, still not understanding exactly what was going on, what had passed between Heydon and the countess. It seemed to him that the lady could only get in trouble if she let something important be stolen. But then, he realised, looking at the candlestick, Lady Agnes Keith was probably more than a match for any man’s anger.
***
At Thirsk, the news Jack had dreaded reached them.
They had made slow progress south. It would not have been fair to say that they were laden with dresses and jewels. On the contrary, the countess of Moray seemed to have gone out of her way to provide them with only bits of clothing – odd sleeves, out-of-fashion kirtles – and unashamedly cheap trinkets. Some of them Heydon had tossed in the River Eden as not fit for a laundress. Jack had balked at that but said nothing. Besides, the items were only a cover for their real mission.
An unsettling feeling had come upon him that he was a pawn in some greater game, but what it was he couldn’t quite understand. His part in it, though, was key. That, he suspected, was what was really worrying him. The journey south meant time passing. Each day meant he was another day closer to having to do what Heydon had commanded of him: what God had commanded of him. To take his mind off of it, he had begun to worry about everything else that might be wrong in the world. Chief amongst those things was the death of the spy at Darlington. He hadn’t insisted on much – on anything, really – except that they took some other route south, staying at other towns and cities. Heydon had agreed, claiming it would let him grope at the minds of other northern men.
Thirsk’s main street was a welter of people, mainly women. Heydon had called down to one of them, asking what news there was. ‘A corpse found up near Darlington. Murdered, they say. And they’ll be hanging the man what did it!’
Jack’s stomach had flopped, and a lightness caught hold of his head, making his vision swim. The woman had wriggled into the crowd, sharing the news. ‘Well,’ said Heydon. ‘That’s the end of that.’ But it hadn’t been. Jack had refused to go on, unable to stand the idea that someone would be hanged for what he had done. Heydon had tutted, cursed, and cajoled, but on this he was immovable.
‘What you said – about secret knowledge. About living. The things we’re done. The things I have to do. I … well, we can do something about this.’ He was about to add ‘can’t we?’ but was sick of turning everything into a question. That was a mark of weakness, and on this he was determined to be strong.
And so they rode back towards Darlington.
Several constables were keeping order in the town, one of them the man, Wytham, that Heydon knew. Several young boys were jeering outside the town’s guildhall. They drew in at the inn and dismounted, passing the horses to an ostler before returning to the high street. ‘What’s all this, Mr Wytham?’ asked Heydon.
‘A murder,’ the constable replied. His eyes were clouded, and he had a strange half-smirk on his face. ‘Feller was found in a barrel by some lads picking through the reeds.’
‘Do you know him?’
‘Can’t say as I do. A stranger to these parts.’ He gave Heydon a meaningful look. ‘But the barrel was stolen alright. From yonder inn – the one you know well enough, my friend. We’ve got the feller who did it. Been done for stealing before. Knew another theft would be the end of him but thought he could get away with murder too.’ His thumbs went into his belt and he gave a sombre head shake. ‘From the south originally, as I hear. What else can you be expecting, eh?’
‘How do you know it was him, though?’ asked Jack. Heydon silenced him with an angry look. Then his face softened.
‘Let me speak to the constable, mate.’ He then took Wytham by the arm and walked with him towards the other constables. The group of men then moved towards the Guildhall, some of them appearing to argue, shaking their heads and waving their arms. They disappeared inside, leaving Jack standing in the street biting his nails. It had been raining in this part of England, and the ground had turned sludgy. He moved off to stand under the overhanging wooden awning of a shopfront, where he could better see the Guildhall.
After a while, Heydon emerged, this time leading a painfully-thin old man in rags by the arm. The old fellow appeared frightened, and when the boys outside saw him, they began throwing handfuls of wet mud. When one splattered Heydon, he moved towards them menacingly and they scattered, sliding through the muck.
‘Well, mate, he’s out. For now. They’ll get him again for something else if they really want him.’
‘That old man was the thief? How did you get him free? You were only away ten minutes.’
‘I’ve told you, mate. I’m a gentleman of the north. There’s nothing a gentleman’s name can’t buy. Justice included. That’s Elizabeth’s England for you. That’s the old boot’s justice. They’d hang a man just to be rid of him and free him for fatter purses.’ He patted at his purse. Jack had wondered about that. Heydon seemed to have an inexhaustible supply of money, carried in various purses at his belt. He had even had some Scottish coins, got out of Queen Mary’s growing flock of followers. Evidence of the Vatican’s infamous riches. He had heard that the streets of Rome were paved with marble and gold.
‘Thank you, Philip.’ Heydon wafted his hand through the air. ‘But won’t they be after someone else now?’
‘I doubt it. The folk around here will st
ill blame that poor old bastard. They’ll feel cheated of a hanging. It’s not often folk are found in barrels. But the law won’t touch him. Not for that, anyway.’
‘I suppose that just leaves … you know – well, the body.’ Jack wondered if that too was in the Guildhall. Probably not. Probably it was festering in an outhouse somewhere, smelling of the river. Fish would have taken its eyes. ‘That’ll fetch up in a ditch, I suppose.’
‘Not at all,’ said Heydon. ‘I’ve even left enough for a proper Catholic burial. Whoever he is, I doubt he’s a Catholic, but I think God will accept him. His death was part of the design plan for us all.’
‘You didn’t give him the last rites.’ Jack hadn’t thought about it at the time. Heydon’s face hardened, and he wondered if he had said the wrong thing.
‘The last rites are for those who confess and leave this world with their consciences clear. Not for thieves working in the service of devil’s minions and usurpers.’ Jack didn’t know how else to express his thanks and deflate Heydon’s show of fervour, so he gave him a wry smile. ‘Jesus, look at you, mate.’
‘What?’
‘You look like you’ve been dragged through a hedge.’ Jack looked down at himself. His clothes were grimy, but he had not given much thought to his appearance. Being stained and soiled was part of travelling, as much as it was part of working with horses. ‘Can’t have a gentleman’s man looking like that. What would Queen Mary say, having such an ill-kempt ruffian in her service? Let’s get you to the barber. Don’t want you looking like a beast if you’re to be a hero either, do we?’
Jack felt his heart sink again. He had managed, in the sudden reverse ride to Darlington, to forget about that.
Heydon had his way, and Jack was barbered and shaved in a shop not far from the inn. The barber even had the luxury of a small, chipped looking glass. When he held it up, Jack drew his breath. The fellow had cropped his hair as short as Heydon’s. His fringe – the floppy, disobedient fringe he had always had – had been shorn. What, he wondered, would Amy have to say about that?
4
Amy had lost track of how long Jack had been gone. After all, it seemed as though he had been drifting away from her even before he had been sent on his foolish little trip to Scotland. His absence had been made even more keen by the fact that she was at Chatsworth again. It was here that they had had their separate berths in a private chamber, before Mary Stuart had walked, legs-shackled, in her mind at least, into their lives, prancing little priest waiting. If she wanted to smile at the image of the queen in chains, the realisation that she thought now of their lives rather than their life prevented her.
They had not been at Chatsworth for long. The countess had insisted they go to let her husband recuperate from an attack of gout, which the nearby Buxton baths would help with. In reality Amy suspected that the mistress of the house was simply fed up of Wingfield and eager to see if the workmen were lazing on the scaffolding at Chatsworth or not. But they couldn’t remain for long. Wingfield was where Queen Elizabeth apparently wanted them. Where there were lots of workmen and walls of scaffolding, after all, there were lots of opportunities for escape.
The moves between houses had taken on a different complexion. Amy rode in the phalanx of women near the back, with only some carthorses dragging luggage behind. Ahead were some soldiers, with Queen Mary’s retinue ahead of them. Near the front was the queen herself, still milking her illness in a litter, the countess at her side. An armed troop formed the vanguard. All were assembled and ready to return to Wingfield, except the earl.
The chatter that always accompanies large groups gave way to grumbling as the morning wore on, and still there was no sign of Shrewsbury. Eventually Woodward appeared out of the door to the house’s great hall. He held open the door and the earl hobbled out on a stick. He nodded thanks to his steward and then took a few faltering steps forwards. He smiled up at the assembled staff, and some of his household gentlemen broke away and moved towards him, offering arms. He waved them off and then winced. The wince turned into a grimace, and the grimace turned into a fall. As he went to his knees, his male servants all fell to the dust beside him, and a chorus of cries rose from the waiting servants.
Shrewsbury was carried back into Chatsworth, leaving confusion behind. The countess went after him, but no one seemed to think of the servants, still in their riding garb. Without orders to disband, they could do nothing but wait. Amy turned to the girl riding beside her – Alice, one of the girls she had caught talking about her and insulted in turn. They were not quite friends yet, though finishing The Tragical History of Romeus and Juliet had thawed things somewhat. ‘What should we do?’ asked Amy. She knew it was a stupid question. Alice would have no idea. But she felt the need to say something. ‘It’s going to be too hot to stay out here for long.’
It was true. Already the sun was riding high. It beat down on the courtyard, turning the mud to dust, and reflected heat off dozens of windows. The smell of sweat had already begun to make its presence known, moving amongst the densely packed people in noxious waves. Flies were swatted, and horses fidgeted. The servants had gone quiet, all eyes fixed nervously on the house. Their silence eventually became an uncomfortable noise unto itself, punctuated by occasional jangles and the odd impatient whinny.
Eventually, the earl’s usher appeared, crying out, ‘make way, make way’. He led the liveried gentlemen, who between them carried a litter similar to the one in which Queen Mary was still lying shielded from the sun. Amy craned her neck for a look and saw Shrewsbury, a look of abject humiliation twisting his already pain-contorted face. Bess and Woodward followed, the countess with her arms folded.
At Amy’s side, Alice whispered, ‘he’s not been poisoned, do you think?’ Instantly, Amy regretted reading the story to her. Stories filled people’s heads with foolish ideas about what might really go on in the world.
‘It’s just gout,’ snapped Amy. Then, remembering she was supposed to be mending fences, she added, ‘he’ll be well enough, Alice.’ Privately, she thought that the decline in the earl of Shrewsbury had begun with the arrival of the crying and demanding Scottish queen. If this was the state he had reached in – what was it? – about six months, who knew where he would be before the year was out.
***
Jack and Heydon rode into one of the two courtyards at Wingfield Manor. A porter made a desultory attempt to salute them, but there was no kind of security. It was clear to Jack that the household was not in residence; only a small crew of those needed to stop the place crumbling would be about. He wondered if Amy would have been left behind and suspected not. Sheets didn’t need laundered in empty houses.
‘Well this is a fine welcome,’ said Heydon. ‘You might do one last duty as my man, mate. Stable these poor brutes. They must feel that like they’ve been to hell and back.’
Jack thought, but didn’t say, ‘I know I do.’
They parted, Jack leading the horses down to the stables. For reasons he couldn’t explain, he was glad to be away from Heydon. It was a good thing having a friend, and better still one who knew your secrets and had the power to forgive them. But there was something tiring about living cheek to cheek with the same person. With a wife it was different. With Amy he could meet her at night when their sleeping arrangements allowed and be off at their own business during the day. Not only that, but there was something frightening about Philip Heydon. It lay in his intensity. In his ability to court danger and encourage others to do the same.
Jack was enjoying breathing private air when the sound of an approaching cavalcade drew him out of his own thoughts. He left the stables and watched as the riot of banners and noise picked its way uphill, like a giant, colourful centipede. Behind the soldiers at the front he saw two horse-drawn litters, the unmistakable figures of the countess of Shrewsbury riding between them.
He watched as the soldiers escorted the queen indoors, wondering at what plagued her. The earl’s gentleman followed, his wife barking or
ders at them. It was only when Mary’s retinue began to break up, some entering the house and others leaving for lodgings in the village, that the servants began to disperse. Jack considered helping with the horses, but the team of grooms who had travelled with the troupe was already about its business. Instead, he passed the lines of dismounting people and reached the laundresses.
‘Amy,’ he said, unable to contain his grin. ‘I’m back.’
‘Jesus,’ she said, her eyes wide. She had been bent forward, brushing down the front of her old grey dress. As she rose, she seemed to look at him as though he were a monster. His smile died on his lips. ‘What have you done to yourself?’
Jack ran a hand ruefully over his cropped head. ‘Don’t you like it?’
‘No! I mean … no. You look like Heydon.’
‘Do I? I suppose I do a bit. Well it’s only hair.’
‘But it was your hair, Jack. Yours.’ He frowned at her, not sure what she was getting at. It was, as he said, only hair. She had never said she even liked his old brown mop. She shook her head slowly. ‘Never mind. How was your journey? Did you get what you went for?’
‘Yes,’ Jack nodded. ‘Oh yes, the dresses and jewels. We got them.’
‘Well that will make your little friend happy, then. And your little royal one too.’
Jack crossed his arms. He had wanted a happy reunion, but something seemed to have put her out of sorts, making her tiresome. Making her forget her place and run at the mouth. He tossed his head in irritation, forgetting that he no longer had a lock of hair to flick away. For some reason that seemed to get a faint smile out of her. ‘We should speak somewhere, Amy. I have something to tell you.’ He cast an eye around. The other servants were busy unloading their mounts and carrying bits and pieces of household stuff towards the buildings. No one took any notice of a husband and wife greeting one another. Still, what he wanted to say required privacy.
A Dangerous Trade Page 14