A Perilous Alliance

by FIONA BUCKLEY

  She paused, overcome by her tears. But she shook them off and looked at me wretchedly. ‘You hardly knew her, Ursula,’ she said. Only in moments of stress did Sybil use my Christian name, but this was one of those moments. ‘You only saw her when you met her at the pie shop in Cambridge, and then she was distracted and being bullied by her father. But there are two sides to her. One is kind and practical: a good girl, helping in the pie shop; a girl who made a good wife and a loving mother. She cares so much for her sons! But also, there’s this other side, a romantic side … as a young maid, she was in love with love, wanting to be in love, to be carried away by it. I think that because marrying John was a convenient thing to do and everyone approved, she persuaded herself that he was her shining knight, though he was really a rather dull man. And now this! She thinks she’s in love but I think she just wants to be, and he can offer her such a glamorous life … I … Can you understand? And forgive her?’

  Forgive her! Except that Ambrosia had hurt my much-loved Sybil, I could have fallen at her feet in gratitude, had she been there to receive gestures of thanks.

  I gave Sybil the assurance she wanted, while my mind absorbed the wonderful change to my world. The sky was still grey but for me, the sun was shining. There would be no wedding and I would not be the one to call it off. Brockley appeared, a paper in his hand. ‘Madam, has the news been broken to you? Yes, I see that it has. Here is the note Count Renard left for you. You left it behind, Mistress Jester.’

  ‘I meant to bring it but I forgot. Reading Ambrosia’s letter overset me!’ Sybil was still tearful.

  ‘No matter.’ Brockley handed the count’s note to me.

  It was a brief letter, in educated French: I could hear Gilbert’s voice in my head as I read it. He was sorry to leave me in such a fashion, but he had fallen in love with Ambrosia and she with him and sometimes these things happened. Perhaps it was as well, for now that he had learned to know me better, he did not think we would ever be truly happy together. The difference in our religions troubled him. He had never been truly at ease with the idea of being married by the Anglican rite. He did not wish to persecute Protestants but he could never become one himself. He wished me well with all his heart and begged me to wish the same for himself and Ambrosia. He intended to marry her honourably, in his own home, and would leave her untouched until their union was made lawful. He would take care of her and do all he could to reunite her with her children. Please would I and her mother believe him. And so, my dear Mistress Stannard, farewell.

  I folded the missive up and said: ‘Have they all gone – the grooms, Pierre Lestrange, Father Ignatius? Their horses? Ambrosia’s pony?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Brockley shortly. ‘And how they got them out without being heard, I can hardly imagine. Simon and Netta have the room above the stable block where their horses and mules were kept.’

  ‘They probably wrapped the animals’ hooves in sacking,’ I said. ‘There are plenty of old sacks in that block – they’re piled in that empty end stall. Anyway, Simon and Netta these days are either up in the night looking after their baby, or else fast asleep. Netta says they wake when the baby cries, but otherwise the broken nights make them sleep like the dead.’

  This theory was confirmed very soon, when Dale had got me dressed and we had all adjourned to the great hall because after all life must go on and everyone needed breakfast, all the more because of the upheaval. Arthur Watts came to say that a pile of cut-up pieces of sacking had been found a short way along the track leading to our gatehouse. Gilbert and his companions had silenced their mounts’ hooves and made their getaway unheard in the depths of the night. They were heaven alone knew how far away by now.

  ‘We must go after them!’ Sybil was distraught. ‘We must get Ambrosia back!’

  ‘She may not agree to come,’ I said. ‘She is a widow, not a young girl, and she can dispose of herself as she wishes.’

  ‘He may cheat her! Who is to say he will really marry her? And besides, she will have to live as a Catholic!’

  ‘So would I have done,’ I said tiredly. ‘Though as the count does sympathize with the rights of Protestants, to the point that he got himself thrown into exile for it, I probably wouldn’t have been obliged to do more than attend Mass now and then. Neither will Ambrosia. And Sybil, I for one am thankful that the count has gone. I don’t want to see him again.’

  ‘Nor any of us. Good riddance, I say,’ said Gladys, expressing, as so often, the opinion that others were too polite to put so roundly.

  ‘You mean we are not to pursue them? Oh no, I can’t believe this of you! I can’t believe you would deny me! Why can’t we give chase?’ cried Sybil, and burst into wild weeping, there in the great hall, just as Adam Wilder was putting out fresh bread and cold lamb chops on the sideboard.

  ‘Sybil, don’t,’ I pleaded. ‘Let me think! And let us all eat.’

  Over the meal, at which Sybil just picked miserably, I pointed out that even if we did give chase, and caught the count and his party up, we could do nothing to force Ambrosia – or any of them – to come back to Hawkswood. No crime had been committed, at least not as far as we knew. ‘What about Joan Flood?’ Sybil screamed, and was echoed by Ben Flood, who was in the hall as well, helping Adam.

  ‘The inquest verdict was accidental death,’ I said. ‘Would I have agreed to marry the count if there were any lingering doubts?’

  Brockley gave me a shrewd look but held his peace, whereupon Gladys helpfully expressed his thoughts for him. ‘To please the queen, you might, indeed you might. Reckon you did.’

  I glowered at her. ‘Hold your tongue, Gladys!’

  But she had spoken the truth, of course and every single person in my house probably knew it as well. We finished the meal in a difficult silence. At the end, I told Wilder to send Phoebe and Margery upstairs to clear out the abandoned guest rooms, and told Netta to see if the count’s two grooms, who had been in a stable loft next to the one where she and Simon slept, had left anything behind. I then retired to the little parlour, to be alone, and savour the fact that I was not going to be married to Gilbert Renard or anyone else, today or ever, if I could help it.

  Before withdrawing, I told the household, including Sybil, that I was not to be disturbed unless the house actually caught fire. She went away still weeping and I felt guilty but I still wanted, thirsted for, a little solitude. I would comfort her presently, I told myself. I would go up to the nursery later, and collect Harry and Tessie for a walk in the grounds. Sybil might come with us; it would help to calm her and put things in perspective for her. But just for a little while, I must have stillness. I must have peace.

  I had it for just ten minutes, before Phoebe was in the room. She had a dustpan in her hand and Margery was behind her, peering excitedly over her shoulder.

  ‘Phoebe,’ I said. ‘I told everyone that I wanted to be let alone for a while. What are you …?’

  ‘Madam,’ said Phoebe, deferentially but firmly, ‘I think you should see this.’

  NINE

  Giving Chase

  ‘This’ turned out to be a sheet of crumpled paper, slightly singed. Phoebe slid it carefully from the dustpan on to the small table in the middle of the room, adding as she did so, that it might come to pieces if handled roughly.

  ‘It was at the back of the French gentleman’s fireplace, when I brushed the ash out. Likely he tossed it in when the fire was low, and it went over to the back and didn’t all get burnt. I can’t make out much of it but – well, I still thought you ought to see, madam. I think it’s to do with Master Spelton, that stayed here one night, and then there’s a word … I think it says Huguenots …’

  ‘Thank you, Phoebe.’ I went to the table and stood resting my fists on it while I read without touching the paper.

  It seemed to be rough notes of something. The paper had been scorched at the top, but the first line began with Chris. Then came a lost portion, and then, further to the right, were the letters elton. That meant C
hristopher Spelton, surely. Phoebe, who was literate, had seen it at once. Below, a number of words had been lost where sparks had burnt the paper, but enough was legible to be interesting.

  It was in French. The first line began with Preten. After a few burnt letters came besog and then something that definitely translated as two royal houses.

  The second line began with what was surely Confidentiel, though a few letters were missing. Then came encourage, followed by a further burnt hole and then came Huguen … symp.

  I stared at them. Could Preten be the first part of pretendu, meaning pretended or alleged? What about besog? Didn’t besogne mean something like task? Alleged task … Ostensible mission? As for the next line … encourage … that was virtually the same in both tongues. Yes, Phoebe was right; it was surely to do with encouraging Huguenot sympathizers, which was one of Spelton’s purposes in France. I stared and stared and the missing words seemed to appear within my brain, bridging the gaps.

  Ostensible mission is to encourage friendship between two royal houses

  Secret mission, to encourage Huguenots and their sympathizers.

  These notes, in fact, reflected precisely what Spelton had told me in what should have been complete confidence – except that I had reason to believe that somebody had listened at the door.

  And I didn’t now believe it was Joan. The whole odious pattern shook itself and took on a new shape in my head. Joan had not been the eavesdropper when Spelton talked to me. She had said she thought it was Lestrange and that made sense. But she had eavesdropped on Gilbert Renard and she had made out something, although I wouldn’t let her tell me what it was. My quarrel with her had been conducted in shouts and, indeed, was known to everyone in the house. If I had wanted to inform Gilbert that Joan had been eavesdropping on a private conversation of his, I could hardly have organized things better. And if Joan had been listening to a conversation about the things that Christopher Spelton had said to me, might that have put her in danger? It was plain enough now that Gilbert knew about Spelton’s missions in France.

  He had no business to know about them and couldn’t have done so unless either he or Lestrange had had an ear to the door when Christopher was talking to me. He knew Spelton already and could well have known that he was an agent and wondered what had brought him here. And tried to find out.

  And I, by losing my temper and shouting at Joan, had obligingly told him that he too had been spied upon.

  And now, Joan was dead.

  Ben had not been harmed, but I had ordered Joan not to repeat, even to him, anything that she had heard, and my angry voice had probably told Gilbert that too. Besides, if he wished to get away with her murder, he would stand a better chance if he didn’t strew the landscape with multiple bodies.

  Gilbert and his companions were said to have been in the garden at the crucial time but what of it? Any of them – even the elderly and cheerful Father Ignatius – could have slipped briefly back into the house by one of the rear entrances. Lestrange was the most likely. The count would probably prefer to give orders rather than carry out such tasks himself and Father Ignatius, because of his calling and his age, seemed an improbable candidate.

  I found myself working it out. Had Lestrange been waiting his chance? Drifting in and out of the house? Caught her alone and persuaded her somehow to go to the upper floor on some errand, and then seized his opportunity when she was about to come down?

  Yes. It was clarifying now. It was quite possible that Gilbert’s property had only been restored to him on condition that he did some spying on behalf of the French royal family. Especially on behalf of the queen mother, I thought. She had a devious reputation. When the deputation came to me at Withysham, to propose the marriage, they had mentioned the danger that an unknown spy at court posed to England. It now seemed, ironically, that Gilbert Renard might be that spy.

  Gilbert had been oh, so willing, to say that when we were married, we would spend a good deal of time in England. And might visit the court.

  I looked round at Phoebe and at the excited Margery. ‘I want everyone in the great hall, the entire household, as soon as possible,’ I said. ‘Go and tell Adam Wilder. The grooms are to be there as well – Netta can tell Simon and get him to bring the others. Quickly, now!’

  When I had them all assembled, I told them briefly what I believed I had discovered.

  ‘As you must all realize, there will be no marriage today,’ I declared. ‘Count Renard ran off in the night, taking all his own people with him and also my guest Mistress Ambrosia Wilde, and not only that. We have found some notes in the count’s room – he had meant to burn them but probably it was at the last minute, with the fire burning low, and they didn’t catch alight properly. The count and his companions are bound for France and it seems that he has been spying for France, and is taking with him information which the French should certainly not have. It will put an honest man, a servant of her majesty, in grave danger.’

  I paused, suddenly overcome by alarm, not for myself but for Spelton. I remembered his trustworthy air and his pleasant brown eyes. I remembered too, the feeling I had had that here was a friend. If harm came to him because of treachery in my house, I would feel responsible for evermore. I also reminded myself that I must be careful what I said. No one else must guess at the nature of Spelton’s purpose in France. One never knew.

  I resumed. ‘Poor Joan Flood, we know, listened at the count’s door and he and whoever he was talking to would have heard me accost her, heard us quarrelling. I forbade her, loudly, to tell me what if anything, she had learned, but if it was very secret, he may have feared that she might still do so. It looks as though poor Joan may have died, if not at Count Renard’s hands, then on his orders …’

  ‘I knew it, I knew it! That count killed my Joan or told that man of his, that Lestrange, to kill her and when I get my hands on them …!’ Ben shouted, shaking his fists in the air, and was then overtaken by Sybil crying out that we had got to get Ambrosia back; she had to be rescued from the hands of a murderer, ‘She must, must, must!’

  ‘We certainly have to give chase,’ I said, when I had managed to wave them both to silence. ‘Tell me, do any of you have the least idea of the direction they could be taking? From here, there are a good many possible routes. The count may choose not to make for Dover or any of the Thames’ ports, simply because they might well be his likeliest choice and pursuers would know that.’

  They all looked puzzled. I said: ‘Did any of you ever hear, from him or any of his party, including his grooms, anything that might give us a clue? Did you ever hear mention of, say, friends living in such and such a place between here and Dover or London or the south coast? Or any reference at all to the Thames, or the name of any port? Anything that might help us decide which way to go?’

  I waited for a moment but most of them just looked bewildered. A few whispered to each other, but all the whispers seemed to be accompanied by shaking heads.

  ‘Please,’ I said, ‘think hard and speak up at once if anything occurs to you. We have to set out quickly. The count has had many hours’ start. I shall go, and Mistress Jester, and we shall take the Brockleys with us, and Joseph …’

  ‘And me!’ Ben Flood burst out. ‘You can’t leave me behind! If they Frenchies killed my Joan, then I want to get at them!’

  ‘You can’t ride, Ben,’ I said. I looked at him gravely. ‘I’m sorry,’ I said, ‘but even if you could, you had better not come with us. If we catch up with them I don’t want you attacking anyone physically and I suspect that you might. We want to retrieve Mistress Wilde and stop the count and Lestrange from leaving England. They must not get away to France.’

  ‘But if it was them hurt my Joan …!’

  ‘No, Ben! That’s enough! I’m sorry but I mean it.’ Ben subsided, with tears in his eyes. ‘Joseph, you and Arthur can help by saddling horses in readiness. We’ll carry essentials in saddlebags; we won’t need pack animals, they’d only slow us up. Go out to the
stable now – that is, if you have nothing to tell me. Did the count’s grooms never say anything useful?’

  ‘They never said much at all,’ Arthur Watts informed me. ‘Surly pair, they were. Efficient in their way, but not as patient with their horses as I like a groom to be. I wouldn’t have had either of them in my stables.’

  ‘I agree with that,’ said Brockley.

  ‘Most of you should stay here and talk for a while,’ I said. ‘Something may occur to one of you. Hush, Ben. Try to be calm. I shall be in the little parlour for a short time, alone – in case for some reason one of you wants to see me privately. Some of you must start the preparations to leave, though, as well as Arthur and Joseph. Dale, go upstairs and pack, for me and you and Brockley. You know what to take for a hurried journey. Sybil, you must pack too. Simon, fetch the saddlebags up to them, if you please.’

  I left them. I had taken them by surprise and if they had time to think and remember, something useful might emerge. Time was not something we could afford to waste and the sooner we were on the road, the better, but although sitting there in the little parlour with folded hands felt like wasting it, it was not. If we could possibly establish the right direction for our pursuit, it would be worth a short wait.

  So I sat solitary, looking out at the garden without seeing it, going over in my head the final things I must do before leaving, instructions I must give to Adam Wilder about the household, and to Tessie about the care of little Harry, and of course I must say farewell to Harry, who must be reassured because he always cried if I went away. I did not expect anyone to come to me, but I hoped for it just the same. And then came a tap on the door and in answer to my call to come in, Ben Flood appeared.

  His eyes were still wet and he was as white as a corpse or a ghost, even including his bald head. He closed the door behind him and came forward nervously, an incongruous figure in his stained leather apron and hose and his patched working shirt. Joan must have done those patches, I thought distractedly. Who would do them now? I said: ‘Ben? Have you something to tell me? If you want me to change my mind, I have to say that I can’t. You can’t ride, and we shall have to ride fast and that alone would be enough. I am truly sorry but …’