by Mez Blume
Another tear followed the first into Sophia’s hand. “Oh Katie, it all makes so much sense! But what good will it do? The King has determined to send Frederick, or Digby rather, to be tried as a nobleman at the Tower of London. And poor Bessy will hang right here at the Manor unless her confession can save her. So you see, she’s bound to confess the very lie Master Van Hoebeek made her proclaim to all the Court. Telling the truth now might cost her her life.”
I couldn’t deny that this was a true predicament. What would the testimony of two little girls count for if everyone else confirmed that Frederick was guilty … unless we could persuade others of the truth. “Isn’t there anyone here who will listen to you? What about the Queen? She’s your aunt, right? Won’t she speak to the King for you?”
Sophia stroked Tannia’s head as if she were trying to rub off some luck. “Queen Anne did not attend the hearings. I think …” She swallowed, and continued in a hollow voice. “A queen must choose her connections very carefully. If my family should become disgraced in this matter, she would not wish to remind anyone of our connection.”
“But that’s terrible!” I protested. “Well then who else will listen? The Countess?”
Another tear fell as she shook her head. “Nurse Joan says the Countess is indisposed ever since watching her husband die in front of her. No one can see her. However,” — she laid a finger to her cheek, thinking — “there is someone who could speak for us. The Earl’s younger brother, Baron Buckville, has sent word. He arrives today to see to the Earl’s affairs. As the Earl’s ward and heir, Frederick should be the one, of course. But now it falls to the next in line.”
“The Baron. Oh, you mean Mr Fancy Pants!”
Sophia gave me a pondering look.
“I mean, yes. I’ve seen the Baron’s portrait. Well that’s something. Surely the Earl’s own brother will help us, won’t he?”
“I am not so certain. Lord Buckville and the Baron were not on good terms. I do not know the particulars; the Earl and Countess rarely spoke of him. But when they did, they used their own name for him.”
“What was that?” I asked, puzzled.
“Baron Black Sheep.”
“Black Sheep? Why?”
“I suppose because his family are ashamed of him. He is a hard, greedy sort of man, I think. There is tale that he drove his first wife to the grave so that he could sell her lands for profit. I know for certain that he fell out of favour with Queen Elizabeth and felt cheated when she bestowed this house on his brother.”
“Why is he coming here then? If he and the Earl never spoke, it seems strange that he would be the one to settle the Earl’s affairs.”
“Yes, but with Frederick in prison, the Baron is the closest kinsman. It may be he means to marry the Countess. She is wealthy and respected by all the Court. She would restore him to the Crown’s good graces. It is a good match for him.”
“But for her?” I asked.
Sophia huffed. “I would have to be out of my wits to marry a man my own husband loathed. But for all we know, she may be out of her wits.” Sophia’s shoulders drooped. She looked so tired. It was one of those rare moments when I remembered that under the gowns and elegant manners, she was just a girl my own age, though an extraordinarily brave girl. Seeing my friend look so helpless, my resolve to help her in her hour of need burbled up again.
“Well then there’s hope, isn’t there? Even if the Baron is hard and greedy, if he wants to impress the Countess, then surely he’ll help her ward! We’ve got to try. When does he come?”
Another knock at the door made us both look up. It was Tatty. She curtseyed before giving her announcement. “Baron Buckville has just arrived, Mistress. Says he wishes to speak to you and offer you his service.”
“Thank you, Tatty,” Sophia said, wiping her eyes with her handkerchief and straightening up to sit tall once again. “Tell him I’ll come as soon as I am composed.”
“But Mistress,” Tatty whispered. “He’s here. In the corridor.” She gestured wildly with her head as if to make sure we got the message.
“He is?” Sophia sounded taken aback. She stood and shook out her skirts, and I followed her example. “Very well, Tatty. I am ready for him.”
But I don’t think either of us was truly ready for the Baron. A slow and heavy clacking of heels against the corridor floorboards announced his coming and, for what reason I don’t know, made me hug my stomach to stop it fluttering. Tatty bowed low as the tower of a man stepped over the threshold. I followed Sophia’s lead and curtseyed, catching a glimpse of the pom-pom shoes I’d laughed at in the Baron’s portrait.
But I did not dare so much as snigger in the presence of the real Baron. He seemed to fill the room from the moment he entered it. Sure, his clothes were still ridiculously frilly. But now, in person, he looked more like a proud panther than a poodle.
The Baron surveyed the room with a look of disinterest before his pitch dark eyes ever landed on us. He did not say anything at first, but merely stroked his pointed goatee and examined us down his long, hawk-like nose. After an uncomfortable few seconds, the ends of his moustache curled up and he tilted his head in a bow, extending one silk-stockinged leg at the same time. “Mistress Sophia, it is my privilege to present myself to you, Baron Roger Buckville of Chudleigh, your late guardian’s brother.” His voice was deep but cold. “How regrettable we should meet under such … tragic circumstances.” He paused for a short moment, then continued. “As your elder brother is most inopportunely confined and awaiting trial, I have taken upon myself the oversight of Otterly Manor …”
“And the Countess?” Sophia broke in.
“Ah.” His face turned seamlessly tragic. “I fear the Countess is most unwell. I have offered her my assistance here, and she has most gratefully accepted it.”
Sophia shot me a sideways glance. So her suspicions were true. The Baron did mean to marry the Countess. She turned back and made a little curtsey. “We thank you for your service during this trying time, sir.”
“Yes.” The Baron smiled coldly before wandering over to the window, clacking with each step and stroking his beard. “My lady, in light of last night’s distressing events, the Countess is fearful for your safety.” He reached the middle of the room and spun around. “I promised her I would keep a close watch over you. And so, in honour of my promise, you shall henceforth be attended by maids from my own household, well-bred girls whom I know that I can trust.” His eyes wandered over to me as he pronounced the word trust. “Also, you will attend the King’s audience with me. After all,” — he stepped closer — “you are nearly of an age to attend Court yourself. I shall await you in the gallery while you prepare yourself.”
Sophia was as composed as a statue, but I could tell the Baron gave her the creeps as much as he did me. “And what of Katherine? My lady-in-waiting will, of course, attend with me?”
“Sophia,” — the Baron raised an arrogant eyebrow — “it is time you prepared yourself to be a lady at Court and gave up your childhood companions.” This time he looked at me directly and smiled his frosty smile. “Surely my own ladies will be company enough for you.”
“Thank you, but I will not sleep if Katherine is not beside me. I will surely be awakened by night terrors remembering the poor Earl’s death.”
The Baron’s smile had become more of a grimace by now. It dawned on me that, under all the polite chit-chat, he and Sophia were locked in a battle of wills, and I was in the middle of the crossfire. Sophia had understood the high stakes before I did. If she lost, the Baron would separate us.
He was losing his patience. With sharpness, he replied, “One of my ladies will be your bed companion from now on. They are of worthy breeding as befits a lady of your rank.”
Sophia’s chin rose a bit higher. She reached out to clasp my hand. “I’d rather have Katherine, thank you.”
The Baron did not even pretend to smile anymore. He ground his teeth together, making his pointy, bearded chin wiggle
in agitation. “Mistress Sophia, I may have failed to mention that I have certain … connections that might persuade the King to offer your brother exile rather than execution. Frederick may even be able to return to Germany.” He took a step closer so that he was peering down his nose at Sophia. “But all that depends entirely on your cooperation.”
Like a warrior, Sophia held his gaze. “What connections do you have? I thought you were out of favour at Court.”
His yellow teeth flashed in a snarl, but he composed himself, tugging at his lacy collar. “Let me make myself quite clear, mademoiselle. Do as I bid you. Your brother’s life depends upon it.”
I could feel Sophia’s heart beating through her hand. She stood frozen in a staring contest with the Baron for several seconds; then, defeated, she let out a heavy breath and my hand dropped to my side.
“Good girl.” The Baron’s cold smile returned. He held out his arm and waited for her to take it. Only when they’d reached the door did she look over her shoulder with the sorrow-filled eyes I had first seen in her portrait. Tannia padded dutifully across the floor to Sophia’s heel. The door closed behind her, the Baron’s heels clacked away down the corridor, and I was alone.
18
New Duties
Nobody ever tells you about the water maid in history class. It’s all kings and politicians, scientists and artists, and sometimes playwrights. But if ever I were to become a history teacher, I would devote a whole class, maybe even a whole chapter to the water maid. I don’t think anybody in the history of England worked harder. And I should know. I’ve been one.
Not a quarter of an hour after the Baron swept Sophia away, just when I thought it could get no worse, the last person I wanted to see in the world appeared at the door: Nurse Joan.
“The Baron has appointed new ladies-in-waiting to the Mistress,” she said, looking as close to happy as I’d seen her. “I am to show you to your new quarters and then instruct you in your new duties.” I didn’t like the sound of that. I had never doubted for a minute that Nurse Joan, for whatever superstitious reasons of her own, wanted me out of Otterly Manor. If only she’d known at that moment how much I wanted out of it too, to get out of this dreadful predicament and back into my own life. But of course I didn’t tell her that. I didn’t say a word. I collected up my few things from around the room — my book, notebook and Oscar’s sling and tennis ball — stuffed them all into my backpack and readied myself to follow her to my new quarters.
Nurse Joan eyed my backpack as if I kept a baby python inside of it. I suppose she thought my belongings as strange and threatening as she thought I was, with my devil-kissed hair; but I hardly bothered just then what she thought. I held my chin up high, the way Sophia did when she faced challenges. How could even you make the most of this situation, Sophia? How I wished I could ask her.
I nearly had to run to keep up with Nurse Joan’s soldier-like march as she led me along the Portrait Gallery. At the end of it, instead of turning right to take the Great Staircase, she turned left to face the panelled wall, laid her hands against one of the panels, and pushed. It gave a creak and opened. Just like the secret door the Green Man guarded, the hinges were invisible so that you’d never detect a door hidden in the woodwork. Behind the panel was a steep, winding staircase lit by candles on little ledges.
Nurse Joan stopped at the top of the stairs. With the candlelight gleaming in her hawk eyes, she looked as menacing as an old hag. “You will use the servant’s stairs from now on,” she said, then lifted her skirt and started down — clop, clop, clop — step after step until at last we reached the dark, cold bottom which led into a narrow corridor. It amazed me to think that I’d not even seen half of this enormous hive of a house. Normally on a tour of an old house, I find the servants’ quarters interesting; but I had a horrible sinking feeling about them now, with Nurse Joan as my guide.
No decorations had been wasted on this hidden part of the house. Plain walls and stone floors were good enough for the workers. The right wall of the corridor was lined with plain, wooden doors, evenly spaced. Nurse Joan stopped in front of one of the doors, turned a squeaky wooden doorknob, and pushed it open. The small, grey room was dark and cold. The only light came from a narrow window too high up to see out of. There was no furniture, only three straw beds tucked into the room’s cobwebby corners.
“Tatty sleeps here and Elinor there.” She made sharp gestures with her head towards two of the straw beds, then turned towards the corner with the third bed. “That one is yours.”
My throat tightened up with a hard lump growing in it; but I tried with all my might not to let my face give away what I was feeling. Compared to the red bedchamber with its ever-crackling fire, latticed windows with views of the park, and downy-soft bed, this room felt like a chicken coop.
“Well don’t just stand there gawking!” Nurse Joan barked. “Put away your things and change your clothes. The work won’t wait!” She shoved a bundle of fabric into my chest and slammed the door.
Thankfully she waited outside while I changed. I needed the privacy to take a few deep breaths to hold back the tears that were forcing their way up to freedom. I took off my fine, blue dress and pulled on a scratchy pair of woollen tights and a brown linen frock. Thankfully it buttoned up the front, and I was able to get it on myself without asking Nurse Joan for help. Finally, I tied on my apron and snuggled my precious few belongings down into the straw mattress. I will make the most of this. I will. I promised silently as if Sophia could hear me, or maybe it was my mum I spoke to. How I wished she were there instead of the prickly old woman tapping her foot impatiently outside the door.
Only when we reached the end of the corridor and came into the kitchens did I understand where in the house we were. One side of the kitchens led into the Buttery which was just off the Great Hall. The other end opened out into kitchen gardens, the brewery and — I suddenly remembered from the plaque in the window — the manor’s jail! Which meant I was within yards of Digby and Bessy’s cells. But the working part of the house crawled with servants like an ant farm. I’d never be able to try to speak to them without someone seeing me.
“Listen well, girl. You’ll take your orders from Mary Hayes, Head Kitchen Matron.”
A round woman with a few extra chins bustled over from the big blob of dough she’d been kneading. She looked me over as she wiped her fat, floury hands on her apron, nodding a bit frantically. “She’ll do, maam.”
“You are answerable to Mary,” Nurse Joan continued, clearly enjoying every moment of putting me in my place now that Sophia was not there to stand up to her. “Shirk your duties and Mary will report to me, and I will report directly to the Baron. Am I understood?”
I nodded, afraid that my voice would crack if I spoke.
“Good,” was all she said before swooshing past me. I would have breathed a sigh of relief to hear her clopping footsteps retreat down the corridor, but Mary Hayes didn’t give me the chance.
She was a woman of few words, although when she did speak, she bellowed and commanded immediate action. “Water,” she boomed, then waddled over to where a wooden beam with two buckets attached to ropes on either end was leaning against the kitchen wall. “Put this on.” She lifted the thing like it weighed the same as a toothpick; but when she set it down on my shoulders, I nearly toppled over from the unexpected weight. “Fill both pails in the river. Bottom of the hill, near the mill. Make haste!”
I didn’t have a clue how to get to the river, or that the Manor even had a mill. But Mary Hayes didn’t seem in a mood for questions, so I wobbled away, turning sideways to fit through the door. Once in the kitchen gardens, I shifted the beam on my shoulders so that I could get my balance. I had to ask three servants for directions before feeling confident I could find the mill. The first was a gardener who just said, “Bottom of the hill,” and carried on cutting his lettuces. I knew of only one hill, the one Pop had driven up that day that seemed an age away; so I headed around to the front of t
he house, taking stock of the two royal guards outside the jail as I passed.
When I got to the front of the house, I realised the ground sloped away in every direction. The river could be any which way, and I wasn’t about to trudge down the wrong hill with that ox yoke on my shoulders. I asked a servant threshing hay, who at least pointed in a particular direction. Many heavy steps later, I asked another servant grazing pigs under the trees who told me I was not half an hour from the mill, which made me want to throw off the yoke, sit down and wallow with the pigs.
I had no idea Otterly Park was so massive! It must have covered half the county of Kent! About half an hour later, after winding through tall bracken and dense forest, I finally spotted something at the bottom of the hill which I thought must be the mill at last. But when I got closer, I saw it was just the wheel of an old abandoned wagon all overgrown with ivy vines. I sat down on a rock to wipe the sweat out of my eyes before carrying on. Quite soon after, I finally came to the river and followed it to the mill where men were hauling stalks of wheat and big burlap sacks. I found a little path down the bank and dipped my buckets into the current, one then the other. When I stood again, my legs shook beneath me.
I’m quite strong from years of riding, but the walk up that hill under the weight of all that water, trying desperately to keep it from sloshing out, was without a doubt the hardest work I have ever done. When I had climbed high enough to see Otterly Manor’s battlements above the tree line, I was so relieved that I didn’t notice the wagon rut in the mud. I tripped, throwing out my hands to brace my fall. Before I could stop it, the beam slipped off my shoulder and both buckets turned on their sides. I just sat in the newly made mud, huffing and puffing and sniffling for several minutes. But at the end of them, there was only one thing to do. Back down the hill.
