by Jane Ashford
“Hello, Lally,” said Fenella.
“You’re her ladyship,” replied the girl.
“Yes.”
“The lady of the castle.”
Fenella nodded, not certain where this was going.
The child turned to look at Roger. “But he’s not the Sheriff of Nottingham.”
“No, he’s the Marquess of Chatton.”
Lally frowned as if this didn’t make sense. “What about the other one?”
“He’s the Earl of Macklin,” said Fenella.
“Like I told you,” said Tom to the girl. When Fenella raised her eyebrows, he added, “I promised her this Nottingham fella wouldn’t be here.”
Lally caught sight of the arrow that had wounded Fenella. Macklin had told them to display it for this interview, and she had complied. The little girl stared at it. “It looks just like hers,” she said.
Fenella saw Roger start. He took a step forward, but Macklin caught this arm and held him back. She approved. She suspected that this was a delicate moment, and she understood that she was to be the questioner. “Hers?” she asked.
Lally examined her, looking torn. “Did she really shoot you?”
Despite being struck by the female pronoun, Fenella merely pulled back her shawl and showed the bandage. “Someone put an arrow through my arm as I was driving along in my gig. On my way home.”
“When you wouldn’t stand and deliver?” asked Lally.
Did the girl think it had been a highwayman? Fenella wondered. That didn’t make sense on a seldom-traveled country lane. There’d be too few people to rob. Even if a witless highwayman decided to use a bow. “No one asked me,” she said. “I didn’t see anyone. Only the arrows. Two other shots missed me.”
Lally frowned as if this was puzzling. Fenella could see that Roger was itching to push her, but she stopped him with a look.
Whatever struggle Lally felt appeared to resolve itself. She stood straighter. “It’s true,” she said. “That looks just like one of Maid Marian’s arrows.”
“Maid Marian?” Fenella looked at Tom, who shrugged.
Lally nodded. “I met her in the wood. The Greenwood she called it.”
“Maid Marian did.” Fenella held the girl’s eyes to keep her attention off the men’s incredulous frowns.
“Yes. She was practicing with her bow and arrows like that.” The child pointed at the broken missile.
“Archery?” Fenella glanced at the others to warn them to stay silent.
“Yes.” Lally showed a hint of enthusiasm. “Robin’s band has to be good at it, you see. All of them. Even Maid Marian. Especially her, because she can’t fight with a sword.”
“Are you talking about Robin Hood?”
Lally nodded. She looked oddly proud.
“And she gave you some letters to take about?” asked Tom.
Fenella couldn’t tell if he already knew the answer or was guessing.
“To plan Robin’s forays,” agreed Lally. “Forays.” She visibly savored the word. “He steals from the rich and gives to the poor.” She looked around the room. “You’re rich, I reckon.”
“But he doesn’t hurt people, does he?” Fenella put her hand on the bandage. “If I hadn’t bent over right after this happened, the second shot would probably have killed me.”
Roger jerked as if someone had stabbed him with a hatpin. He never liked hearing that part.
“And no one tried to take my money,” Fenella added.
“That ain’t right,” replied Lally.
“No. So we would like to speak to Maid Marian and find out why that happened. I expect it was a mistake.” As soon as she said this, Fenella worried it was a lie. Still, it was nothing compared with the tale the archer had told the little girl.
Lally frowned.
“Do you know where she lives?” Fenella added.
“In the Greenwood,” the girl said, as if this was obvious. “In a secret hidey-hole. She can’t tell anyone where it is. That would risk everyone.” She shook her head. “It’s like a fairy mound, I reckon. I couldn’t find no sign of it anywhere about.”
This from a child who undoubtedly knew every corner of the nearby forest, Fenella thought. Which proved that her assailant was not living in the woods. “What did she look like?” she asked.
“She couldn’t let me see that,” answered Lally, as if this was obvious. “What if I saw her unexpected when the sheriff’s men were about and gave some sign? Not that I ever would!” Lally brooded over this for a moment. “She wore a hood, like.”
“A cloak?” asked Fenella.
“Nobody could shoot a bow in a cloak,” replied Lally scornfully. “It was just a hood. Separate.” She shaped her hands around her head. “Came down low about her face. I’m going to make myself one.”
“Could you show us where you met her practicing archery?”
Lally turned to look at the men. “Are they going to arrest her and turn her over to the sheriff?”
“I only want to find out why I was shot.” Fenella was aware that this was a partial answer. But she wanted to find this woman—madwoman?—who had deceived a gullible child and used her for malicious purposes. That felt almost as objectionable as the attack.
“I guess I could. I haven’t seen her there for days and days.” Lally drooped a little. “She said mebbe I could join Robin’s band. She was going to ask and see. But I don’t think she did. I think mebbe she fooled me.” Pale lids dropped over her big brown eyes.
It was like seeing the curtain drop on a rather melancholy play, Fenella thought. One returned to reality with a brush of heartbreak when those eyes opened again.
“Let’s go and have some of Cook’s cakes,” said Tom to the girl. “I reckon they’re out of the oven by now. She said you could lick the icing spoon, remember.”
Lally turned to him with a forlorn dignity. “I am very fond of cakes,” she said.
Tom escorted her out, giving the group a nod as he passed through the door.
“I must find something to do for that girl,” said Fenella.
“You don’t think she’s…a bit touched?” Roger replied.
“She’s beset by an oversized imagination,” said Macklin.
“Yes.” That described it exactly, Fenella thought.
“And a lack of judgment?” asked Roger.
“Perhaps.” The older man shrugged. “The same might be said for some of our finest artists. And a great many rational adults as well.”
“She’s only, what, nine years old,” said Fenella. “An adult who really wanted to might have fooled any of us at that age.”
Roger looked dubious. “She gave us a clue at least. We can begin to track down this demented woman.” His expression was fierce. “I’m trying to remember if any neighbor of ours is a skilled archer. Can you recall anyone, Fenella?”
“Sara Haskins liked it. But she has lived in Devon for years.” Watching Roger’s face, his intense concentration, Fenella thought how much she loved him. She ought to tell him so. As she certainly would, as soon as she found the right moment.
“She hasn’t been back?” Roger shook his head. “I would have heard. And what reason would Sara have to do any of this?”
“None,” said Fenella. “What reason does anybody?”
Roger’s response was near a growl.
Later that day, Lally led a party from the castle to a patch of forest in the area. They found signs of activity and a tree that had been pierced by many arrows, but there were no clues to the identity of the inexplicable Maid Marian.
Eighteen
And none were found as the month came to an end, and the day of the historical pageant on Lindisfarne arrived, with scudding clouds and breezes that held a taste of autumn. The last of August was near the turn of the season this far north, and the occasional sharp g
ust foreshadowed winter storms.
The pageant now represented a running dispute for the newly married pair. Roger continued to argue that they should withdraw. But Fenella insisted that they not be intimidated into hiding. They would be surrounded by friends and members of their household. No one would dare shoot arrows into a crowd, and anyone who tried would be seen and captured at once. Her arm was much better. And they had promised to be a part of this neighborhood effort. In the end, Roger gave in. But he arranged to post a party of men from his estate to watch for threats.
The Chatton household set out early, so that all those who had roles would be in place well before time. The timing of the pageant had been arranged around the tides that could make passage to the island treacherous, allowing everyone to come and then go at the lowest ebb. Those attending expected to make a day of it, and people had come from far away to see the pageant. Many had employed small boats, Roger noticed as they arrived, which would free them from the demands of the sea.
They found everything arranged around a wall of the ruined priory on Lindisfarne Island. One side of the line of vacant stone arches was set aside for spectators. Macklin and Roger’s mother staked out a perfect spot for viewing, and the servants who’d come along furnished it with rugs and chairs, hampers of food and sunshades.
The performers were gathering on the other side of the ruined wall, where a large tent had been set up to serve as dressing room. Mrs. Thorpe was received with acclaim and led away to her own curtained corner. The others were directed to the separate areas for men and women to put on their costumes.
As Fenella donned the long skirt, heavy tunic, and cloth headdress that marked her as a Saxon matron, she wondered about the whereabouts of her attacker. Was the sneaking Maid Marian nearby? It was lowering to think the archer might be lurking in the shadows, burning with inexplicable malice. Not because she feared another assault. Fenella truly did not believe that would happen here, where the woman would be caught at once. She’d been so careful to avoid exposure. It was the idea of hatred aimed in her direction, perhaps by someone she knew, that depressed her spirits. Adjusting the last details of her costume, she determined to shake the feeling off.
The series of scenes and tableaus began with establishment of the religious center on the island many centuries ago. John’s part came early, and he seemed very much to enjoy being slathered with mud from head to toe. He received the homily from St. Cuthbert with commendable humility, as well as the bucket of water poured over his head—partly hygienic and partly baptismal. When his bit was finished, however, he veered into the audience. As people edged away from his filthy, dripping figure, he rushed up to Wrayle and threw his arms around the valet.
He might have been a child overwhelmed by the attention and seeking comfort. Indeed, when Wrayle pushed him away with a disgusted exclamation, some parents in the crowd frowned. But Fenella suspected that this was a prank her nephew and Tom had planned to pay Wrayle back for some of his spite. When she glimpsed Tom’s smirk, nearly hidden by the hood of his costume, she was certain. And she couldn’t say that Wrayle didn’t deserve it. Thwarted by William’s continual presence, Wrayle had been doing all he could to make John’s stay at Chatton Castle a trial.
The day progressed, and history moved forward, the scenes shifting smoothly from arch to arch.
The Viking Age came fairly soon, rife with shouting men waving swords and axes. Fenella wielded her broom with enthusiasm and was carried off by her dear, familiar marauder. Their scene was well received, with cheers and a few hoots and whistles. Out of sight of the crowd they laughed together, in relief that it was done and that no intrusion had marred the occasion.
Monks wound through the arches, chanting. A melee with sword and axes was roundly cheered. A speech very like a sermon was not. The Normans arrived and recited bits of local history. Henry VIII’s troops came to abolish the monastery and make it into a naval store before building a castle. After that it was chiefly the Scots and the English grappling over the border. Both sides had partisans in the audience.
Finally, as the sun neared the horizon, it was time for Mrs. Thorpe’s contribution. Her recitation was not strictly chronological, as Macbeth had lived in the eleventh century. She came last because everyone had envisioned her recitation as the crowning moment of the show, a professional performance to cap the sprawling drama. Fenella found a good spot to listen at the far side of the audience just under one of the arches. She was still in her costume, awaiting the end of the pageant when all of them were to line up and be acknowledged together. Roger, sitting with Macklin and his mother, beckoned, but Fenella stayed where she was.
A deep drumbeat began out of sight. The sound gradually drew the attention of the crowd. There was a pause, building anticipation. Then Mrs. Thorpe drifted into a vacant, candlelit archway like a phantom. She wore a simple black gown and a peaked headdress. Such was the power of her presence that stillness spread out from her position over all the people present. Only when all was quiet and every eye had turned to her did she speak, in a ringing voice that reached the far edges of the gathering.
“The raven himself is hoarse
That croaks the fatal entrance of Duncan
Under my battlements. Come, you spirits
That tend on mortal thoughts, unsex me here,
And fill me from the crown to the toe top-full
Of direst cruelty! Make thick my blood;”
Fenella was transfixed. The power of Mrs. Thorpe’s voice and expression was undeniable. One couldn’t look away. Her gestures were small and subtle, but riveting. She commanded attention.
“Stop up the access and passage to remorse,
That no compunctious visitings of nature
Shake my fell purpose, nor keep peace between
The effect and it! Come to my woman’s breasts,
And take my milk for gall, you murdering ministers,
Wherever in your sightless substances
You wait on nature’s mischief!”
“Yes, exactly that,” hissed a woman’s voice in Fenella’s ear. A loop of thick cord fell over Fenella’s face and down around her neck, quickly tightening until it was painful. The cloaked and hooded figure beside her leaned close and pressed the barrel of a pistol into her side. Fenella had thought this person was part of the pageant, one of her fellow actors. Now, the cord was jerked, forcing Fenella to move out from under the arch into the gathering darkness behind the ruined wall.
The cord dug into her neck, choking her. Fenella tried to get her fingers under it and pull it loose. But the cord was too tight. The pistol’s barrel came up and banged against her temple, leaving her momentarily dazed. Her captor dragged at the cord again. Fenella gagged and stumbled along in her grasp as Mrs. Thorpe continued.
“Come, thick night,
And pall thee in the dunnest smoke of hell,
That my keen knife see not the wound it makes,
Nor heaven peep through the blanket of the dark,
To cry ‘Hold, hold!’”
“Oh yes, a woman can kill,” her captor muttered as she forced Fenella along. “You know it. You lured my poor gentle daughter out into a storm so that you could take her place.”
“Daughter?” Fenella tried to say. It came out as a croak. She couldn’t speak.
“Inflammation of the lungs,” the woman growled, jerking on the loop of cord. “A broken heart more like.”
Could this be Mrs. Crenshaw? What was Arabella’s mother doing here? And what was she doing?
“She wrote me that you were her friend, you know. ‘I’ve found one friend here,’ she said. Poor deceived lamb.” She stumbled, and the cord loosened a bit.
“I did try to be her friend,” Fenella managed, her voice barely above a croak. “I tried to keep her from riding out that day.”
The pistol struck her again, painfully, as the cord tighten
ed. “Don’t give me your lies! My cousin heard Chatton say it, out loud at White’s club. Thought you’d rid yourself of my Arabella and take him for yourself, but I’ll see that ended tonight.”
They’d come to a dip in the ground, well past the end of the ruined arches. Fenella could hear the sea streaming over pebbles nearby. Mrs. Crenshaw jerked at her, and they both nearly fell. But she recovered and pulled Fenella downhill.
Fenella clawed at the cord and stumbled over rocks. Water poured over her ankles. And still her captor yanked her on. Fenella felt a trickle of blood where the cord had cut into her neck.
At last, when a larger wave made her captor sway, Fenella got hold of the cord and managed to loosen it. “Help!” she cried. Her voice cracked. She doubted it could be heard over the sound of the surf.
Mrs. Crenshaw hit Fenella with the pistol again, a ringing blow that left her reeling. Grasping Fenella’s tunic with her free hand, she dragged her into the sea, releasing the cord for a moment.
“The tide hasn’t gone out,” Fenella croaked. “We can’t leave the island now.”
“Leave?” The older woman’s laugh was grating. “Depends on what you mean by that.” She wound her free hand in Fenella’s hair and twisted as the waves surged around their knees.
“We’ll both go under.”
“You think I care if I die?” The woman’s eyes burned into hers as she tightened the cord again. “I deserve to die! Arabella was my only child, my darling, and I wanted a grand title for her. And so I thrust her into this terrible place of plotting killers.”
She thrust her face closer. It was twisted with hate. “My poor mite! She wanted to marry a mere mister, and I dissuaded her. Pointed out the young man’s faults, said her papa would cut her off, described the perils of poverty as if they’d be living in a hovel. As if he didn’t have a penny when he was well enough to pass.”
