by Mez Blume
Sophia’s cheeks became more and more flushed with anger as I spoke. When I’d finished, she snapped, “To think that stupid disguise pulled the wool over all our eyes! Master Van Hoebeek always gave me such an uneasy feeling. And his Dutch accent did sound very peculiar. How could I not see it before?” She pounded her fists on her knees.
“Nobody could have seen it. I only worked it out because of Sherlock Holmes … I mean, my book.”
“Thank God for Sherlock Holmes, Katie. And thank God for you! But now I must tell you some terrible news which is even more terrible after what you’ve just told me.”
I gulped. “Could anything be more terrible than things already are?”
“I fear they can.” Sophia took a trembling breath to steady herself. I’d never seen her quite so shaken. “Last night the Baron called me to his chambers. He gave me an emerald necklace and told me it was a wedding present.”
“A wedding present?” Now I was completely confused. “Whose wedding?”
“Mine.”
I went from confused to dumbfounded. Sophia looked like she might be sick, but she bravely carried on. “The Baron never meant to marry the Countess. He wants much more than Otterly Manor and the Countess’s lands. His plan was always to marry me and ally himself with the English and German Courts.”
“But you’re only a girl!” I squealed. “How can he marry a child?”
“According to our laws, I am nearly a woman, and old enough to be betrothed to a man. He says that the Countess has already agreed to the marriage, and it will take place immediately on the morrow so that the King and Queen can attend before the Court leaves Otterly Manor.”
I felt the gruel I’d forced down that morning wanting to come back up. “But surely you don’t have to marry him! You can say no …”
“That is the worst part.” She grabbed my hand and clenched it. “The Baron made it unmistakably clear that if I refuse to marry him, there will be no way of saving Frederick. He said the necklace was only a token. The real wedding gift will be my brother’s life. If I say no, Bessy will be hanged and Digby will be taken immediately to the Tower. His execution will take place just after the wedding tomorrow.”
I was speechless and shivering uncontrollably.
Sophia’s voice was hollow again. “This was the Baron’s plot all along. He’s orchestrated it perfectly, and there is nothing to be done about it. But at least there is something I can do. At least two innocent lives needn’t be lost.”
“No.” I found my voice and looked Sophia in the eye. “You can’t do it. You can’t let that conniving murderer win.”
“He won’t win. Not entirely. After all, Frederick is still out there somewhere. If only I knew where! I have been praying he has escaped to make his way home to Germany. Our papa would raise an army, though it could mean our alliance with the English Court will be broken forever, and I will be lost to my family. Still—”
“I almost forgot!” I interrupted. “I just spoke with Jack Hornsby. He says Frederick is hidden somewhere nearby, though he wouldn’t tell me where, and he’s thinking of giving himself up to save Digby.”
“He mustn’t! Jack must see that he is chained up before letting him do a thing like that!”
“I’m afraid if he hears the Baron is forcing you to marry him, your brother would break through even the strongest chains.”
Sophia pressed her palms together as if in prayer. “If only I could speak to him and beg him to take cover until he can return unseen to Germany! I can bear my marriage. I could not bear my brother’s death.”
My mind was racing again, groping for a solution, any solution! “Maybe I could speak to Frederick. If I could just persuade Jack to tell me his hiding place …”
“No, Katie.” Sophia switched into her firm motherly self just like that.
“Why not?”
“I didn’t want to say anything about it because the thought was too terrible, but before you discovered Master Van Hoebeek’s true identity, when we thought he really was the murderer and had fled, I was worried that Tom might have fled with him, possibly never to return. That you might … well … ”
“Be stuck here forever?” I finished for her.
She gave a solemn nod. “But now we know all of that was a tale, and the Baron is still right here at Otterly Manor. I believe Tom is very likely near as well. He wouldn’t go far when the Baron has his daughter captive.” She clasped my arm and looked firmly into my eyes. “Katie, you must find him and persuade him to send you home immediately. Life here under the Baron’s control has become far too dangerous. Look at your hands.” She turned over my palm, rope-burned from hauling water the day before. “You shouldn’t have to suffer like this.”
I pulled back my hand. One thing Sophia and I had in common was our stubborn streaks. I wouldn’t be so easily outdone. “Forget it, Sophia. I can’t, I won’t just leave you all in this muddle, even if I do find Tom. You said we have to make the most of our circumstances. Well you were right. I’ve come here for a reason, and I’m going to make the most of it by helping you and Frederick, and Digby and Bessy if I can.”
Sophia gave me a wary look like she wanted to protest. But she had also given me an idea.
“Actually,” — I tapped my lips, thinking — “you’re right about Tom.”
“So you’ll look for him? You’ll ask him to send you home?”
“I’ll look for him, but what I’ll ask him for is help. Like you said, the Baron has his daughter imprisoned. He can’t have wanted to help a man like that. And yet … ”
“He’s been a part of the Baron’s schemes from the start,” Sophia finished.
“Exactly. So he might just be the one to help us find proof that the Baron is guilty.”
“Yes! That is possible!” Sophia said with a flicker of hope.
“SOPHIAAA! MISTREEEES!” a lady’s voice squawked over the cackle of chickens in the stable yard.
Sophia jumped to her feet. “Oh no. I have to go.”
We hustled over to the ladder, and as Sophia gathered up her skirts and reached for the first rung, she stopped. “I don’t know when we can meet again. Speak to Jack. Whatever else happens, he must stop Frederick from giving himself up!”
“I will,” I promised, letting her hand slip from mine. “But don’t give up hope. We can still fight. There’s still time to catch the Baron in his own game.”
“You really are my guardian angel, Katie. God bless you, and grant you success!” She descended the ladder and waved a hurried goodbye from below. I waited until I heard her voice mingle with the lady’s before I crept down the ladder myself. The first thing I had to do was find Jack Hornsby.
21
The Painter’s Wagon
“I cannot. I swore on my life I would tell no living soul.” Getting information out of Jack was proving more difficult than I’d anticipated.
“But Jack, this is a matter of life and death. If you won’t tell me where Frederick is, then it’s up to you. You have to keep him from coming out of his hiding place … at least until I can find Tom.” I’d meant to say the last bit to myself, but Jack perked up.
“Tom? Tom did you say? Who d’you mean?”
He knew something about Tom. That much was obvious. “Tom the gypsy painter. He was working for Van Hoebeek. His daughter is the one accused of being the witch who aided Frederick in the Earl’s murder.”
“A lot of God-forsaken poppycock.” Jack spat into the corner of the horse stall we had made into our secret consulting closet.
“Yes, it is. And if I find him, I may be able to prove it’s all a lot of … you know.”
“Poppycock?”
“Yeah. That.”
Jack scratched his beard with twitchy fingers. He removed his hat and wiped his brow. I recognised the symptoms. He was having a debate with himself, and part of him wanted to help me.
“I reckon I never promised not to tell ’em where he was,” he muttered to himself, the part of himself I w
as rooting for to win out. Then he nodded as if he’d come to his decision. “Alright, mistress. I can’t tell you where Frederick is, but I can tell you that this Tom you’re seeking, Tom Tippery, is here in the park, by the river. His place won’t be easy to find — let’s just say he’s decorated it to match the forest — but look for smoke.”
“Smoke?”
“That’s all I can tell you, Mistress Katie.”
“That’s all I need!” I was so excited, I grabbed his hand and shook it. Without knowing it, he’d told me exactly where to find Tom. I lowered my head and rushed out of the stable, eager to be on my way to the ivy-covered shepherd’s wagon I’d come across near the river.
But first, I needed my bag. If I was to run a proper interrogation on Tom Tippery, I would need my spy notebook; there was simply no going without it. But getting it was not going to be simple. After all, I was no longer free to wander the corridors of Otterly Manor. My place was the kitchen now, but getting to my room through the kitchen was hopeless — Mary Hayes would pin me down with duties the moment she saw me. I decided to risk suspicion by going around through the main gatehouse entrance as I’d always done as a chambermaid, through the courtyards, and into the Great Hall’s main entrance. I walked past every servant I met with complete confidence, and, amazingly, nobody questioned me!
The Great Staircase brought me to the familiar old Portrait Gallery. There was not a soul around. I couldn’t remember the exact panel Nurse Joan had opened in the wall, so I pushed on one after the other. Finally, the right one gave way. At the same time, I heard a clop clop clop at the end of the corridor and my heart leapt like a Mexican jumping bean. I pushed the panel open, threw myself inside and pushed it shut again, hoping against hope she hadn’t seen me. Then, without looking back, I flew down the twisting stairway, down the dark corridor and into my room. The thought of Nurse Joan on my heels did me a favour by driving out all other fears. I threw on my backpack and ran right through the kitchen without even scanning for Mary Hayes, through the kitchen gardens, past the jail, and out into the open fields of the park.
I didn’t stop to catch my breath until I was well down the sloping dirt carriageway and out of sight from the house.
After four journeys to the river, my feet knew the way without needing to consult my brain. That’s probably why I was too deep in thought imagining how my conversation with Tom would go to notice the earth rumbling beneath me and the swelling clamour of dogs howling. Not until a bushy white stag plunged out of the bracken and halted in the road right in front of me did I become aware. The stag stopped just long enough to give me a wild look that seemed to mean “Run!” Then he bounded into the undergrowth on the other side of the road.
I stood frozen like a deer in the headlights. The rumble of hooves and yelps of the dogs sounded as if they were heading right for me. I felt like I was being hunted. My brain went blank except for that one word: Run!
Down the hill, zipping through birch trees, I didn’t look back, but I felt them getting closer. I could hear men’s shouts now, the Baron’s voice calling “Halloo ahead!”, the swoosh of bracken being ripped up by an army of hungry hounds. I couldn’t outrun them, so I slid into a hollow made by vines growing thick over a tall bush. I ducked down in the bracken and waited, my heart and lungs in flames.
In a minute, the yelping was so close it made my ears ring. Then it was sniffing. A chorus of sniffing noses so close their breath made the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. Sniff … sniff sniff. Then WOOooooo! The hound over me let out a howl that made my teeth chatter. I clasped my hands over my ears and clenched my eyes shut, wondering if the Baron or the King would be the one to mistake me for a deer and shoot me. After all, if something so intelligent as a dog could make such a mistake, there was not a chance the Baron wouldn’t. Or maybe the dog just smelled the ball in my backpack.
The ball! I let go of my ears and tore my bag off my back. As the earth quaked with hooves trampling down the hill, I pulled out my only weapon: Oscar’s plastic ball sling. I took careful aim and fired.
The hound over my head went silent. His sharp eyes followed the ball’s curve, far away across the hillside; then he lunged after it with every passionate muscle in his canine body. The rest of the pack sprinted after him, and soon the thunder of the hunting party’s horses died away as the Baron, the King and all the King’s men pursued old Oscar’s tennis ball.
I had to laugh when I reached the river and found my fellow prey, the white stag, enjoying a relaxed drink. “Looks like we both outsmarted them this time.” He raised his head to me, which I took as a “thank you”. So I curtseyed back, and we went our separate ways, he slipping through the curtain of bracken and I turning right towards the ivy-covered shepherd’s wagon where a thin ribbon of smoke promised someone was home.
The little glade where the wagon was tucked away was so quiet, my own footsteps might as well have been alarm bells. Every cracking twig, every crunching beechnut echoed. Even so, I did my best to creep up on the scene, not wanting to give Tom a chance to lock himself inside and hide away from me. I pressed my back against the long, vine-covered side of the wagon and inched along its length until I inched myself around the corner.
I had been looking behind me, making sure I wasn't being followed, so when a puff of hot breath blew against the back of my head and neck, a scream caught in my throat, and I threw my arms over my head. Thankfully (or I’d have given away Tom’s location to the entire hunting party) I choked on the scream. The thing was, that blast of breath felt so familiar, I didn’t even need to look to know where it had come from. I could picture the two fleshy nostrils in my mind’s eye. I smiled, relieved, and lowered my arms to find, just as I’d expected, a horse gazing back at me. Not just any horse. Vagabond.
He pawed at the earth and whinnied under his breath, agitated. “Shhhh. You’re alright. You’re safe,” I whispered. Without even thinking twice, I reached out my hand to stroke his neck, then remembered what Digby had said about the horse being a biter. I held out my hand to him, palm up. He smelled it and lowered his head, his nose nuzzling my shoulder, and I knew he wasn’t going to bite me. When I laid my hand against his warm hide, it felt like magic. My fingers glided over the two raised scars as I stroked Vagabond’s strong neck. “No wonder you’re angry. How could they do this to you? And how on earth did Jack get you down here?”
“Hornsby said you sent him.”
I gasped and spun around. There behind me, never making the slightest peep, sat Tom Tippery at his easel with a brush in one hand and a little wooden box of paints on his knee. I laid my hand on my chest to stop my heart from its sudden tap dance.
Tom smiled softly, almost timidly. “He only arrived some moments before you did. Still settling, I think. You’re the first person I’ve seen stroke him like that.” He paused to dab his brush into the box, carrying on with his business. “’Tis Katherine, is it not?”
I was still searching for words and breath, so I nodded. “And you’re Tom?” I muttered.
He gave me another kindly smile and dip of the head, then returned to his painting. After a few brush strokes, he propped his brush hand down on his knee and looked at his picture, thoughtfully cocking his head to one side and fingering the small hoop earring he wore in one ear. “I’m not sure I’ve really captured it. Would you care to have a look?”
For the second time since coming to the wagon, I found to my surprise that I felt completely at ease. Tom sounded so gentle, like a bashful young boy, and his eyes had a sad puppy quality about them. Here sat a sad, lonely man whose daughter’s life was now in danger. And what could he do but sit there and paint? I was sure Tom, like Vagabond, meant me no harm.
The dying fire crackled as I stepped closer to him to look over his shoulder at the canvas. The last bit of breath went out of me when I saw what was on it. “It’s the painting,” I breathed. “The one that brought me here.” It was all there just as I’d remembered it: the park with its rolling hills and fo
rests, the tiny hunting party in the distance, the big black horse beside the wagon, and Tom hunched over his canvas, his eyes twinkling in the sun rays that crept through the tree branches. And there was the strawberry-haired girl I had wished was me. I half-smiled to myself, still bewildered as it dawned on me: it was me the whole time.
“How did you do it?” I asked. “It’s not … you know … black magic, is it?”
Tom stood up and walked around me to poke the fire with a stick. “I’m no saint, Mistress Katherine. But I read the Scriptures and commit my soul to the Almighty. This —” he waved his hand at the canvas — “this is God’s gift, not the devil’s … though I cannot claim innocence for having never sold God’s gift to the devil,” he mumbled into the fire.
“You mean the Baron?” I had now completely forgotten the spy notebook I’d risked so much to get and my carefully pre-planned investigation questions. Now, I just genuinely wanted to know how someone so ordinary and seemingly kind — just as Sophia had said — could take part in such a dark, horrible plot. “But why? Why would you help him murder someone and take all the credit for your work at the same time? It doesn’t make sense.”
Tom rubbed his scruffy chin as he gazed into the fire. He seemed to be struggling with himself, almost in tears even. He looked at me timidly with the flicker of a sad smile. “It does look grave, does it not? But in fact, it’s worse than you think. I didn’t just paint for the Baron.” He picked up his box of paints and plodded up a step ladder to the wagon’s door, opened it and disappeared inside. Was I supposed to follow? I took a few uncertain steps forward.
Tom’s messy grey head poked out of the door a moment later. “Please, won’t you come in?”
He held the door open for me. I hesitated a moment pondering what might be inside that wagon. Someone who’d rescued a condemned horse could not be dangerous, I decided, and stepped boldly up the ladder.
