A Perilous Alliance

by FIONA BUCKLEY

  ‘Master Ferguson meant what he said, I think,’ Brockley remarked. ‘If we try to leave the grounds, those tactful guards would stop us.’

  ‘I want to try,’ said Sybil, though half under her breath, and more to herself than to us.

  ‘I don’t,’ said Brockley. ‘It would be five men – six if the lodge-keeper joins in – plus two mastiffs, against me, Joseph, and three women. And if we did escape, we wouldn’t have our horses.’

  Sybil said no more. We wandered about for a little, looking at the flowerbeds in the formal gardens behind the house, not that there was much to see though no doubt they were pretty when they were in bloom. The day was dull and cold. After a while, we went back indoors and withdrew to our rooms, where Sybil and I – and probably the Brockleys as well – lay down and tried to make up for lost sleep.

  From the moment we rose that morning, I had set about trying to mend the rift, and Sybil had been trying, as well. We had to make the best of things. The Brockleys, without saying so, seemed to concur. We were all in this together, after all. We were all gentle with Sybil and though for the most part, she was silent, when she did speak to anyone, including myself, she was polite. We made ourselves ready for dinner and went down to the hall in good time, to find, however, that Ferguson was there ahead of us. Before we were even seated, he told us, with an air of great thankfulness, that Captain Nathaniel Garnett would be ready to sail for France the next day, and had said if the wind held as it was now, we’d have a smooth crossing to Calais. ‘And thank heaven for that,’ said Ferguson. ‘Something’s going right, at least. I’m tired of trouble.’

  I could sympathize with that.

  Dinner was served. Apparently it was once more Kate’s turn to feed her grandfather and although this time she didn’t actually try to refuse, her face was sullen and her father kept giving her angry glances. The sweet course consisted of omelettes filled with hot jam, and Kate, sullen or not, dutifully performed her task, until a drop of jam fell on her grandfather’s hand, whereupon he let out a cry, struck the spoonful she was offering him aside and then swore at her. His attendant, Peters, left his seat and came to the rescue, signalling Kate to hand over to him. Ferguson’s mouth tightened and when the meal finished, he told Peters to help Ferguson senior away. Peters did as he was bid. And then Hamish Ferguson exploded.

  ‘I have had enough! Trouble all the time and now there’s to be an end to it. It’s bad enough having a corpse in the house and finding out that when he was alive I was entertaining a spy. I feel I’m practically a traitor myself, now! On top of all that, I have a son who challenges a French count to a duel and says he wants to marry a tavern wench!’

  He shot a glare at Duncan, who was just getting up to leave the table and now left it all the faster. His father promptly turned his ire on to Kate. ‘But you!’ He pointed a furious finger at her. ‘Sulky and difficult, you don’t like helping in the house or even helping to take care of your grandfather. You ought to be married with a household of your own! Well, I’m putting a stop to your nonsense, at least. You’ve a good dowry; I can get you married within three months and maybe sooner and I’m going to and this time you won’t say no, because if you do, I’ll do what I have never done, and beat you till you consent!’

  ‘Please behave yourself better, Kate,’ said Mrs Ferguson, sitting stiffly at her end of the table. ‘How often have I begged you to? You are impossible. You mix with unsuitable people – worse even than Duncan’s choice of company! The tavern girl at least has an honest reputation!’

  ‘You’ve asked about her?’ said Ferguson, looking startled.

  ‘I wanted to know,’ said his wife. ‘If my son wants to marry, I want to look at the wench. There’s nothing against her except that her father keeps an inn while we farm and invite the Constable of Dover Castle to dinner.’

  Mistress Ferguson, it seemed, for all her stiff manners, had some human attributes. Duncan, it seemed, might have an ally in his mother.

  And so might the younger girl, Sheila, who had been listening in a bright-eyed silence, which contrasted strongly with Kate’s glowering one.

  ‘Does this mean I can marry soon, as well?’ she now asked. Kate turned her scowl on her sister but Sheila ignored it.

  ‘As soon as your sister reaches the altar,’ said her father reassuringly. ‘We might have a double wedding! Now, that would be fine. Wouldn’t it, Kate?’ There was a touch of pleading in his voice.

  ‘No, it wouldn’t,’ said Kate, and with that, threw herself out of her seat and followed her brother out of the hall.

  Mistress Ferguson looked at her husband, who passed a hand across his brow and then said: ‘I must do it now. Don’t plead for her! I don’t want to escort a bride to the altar who has stripes on her. I shall show her I mean what I say and that I won’t tolerate any more resistance.’

  ‘We could lock her in her room for a few days on bread and water,’ said Mrs Ferguson.

  ‘We’ve done that in the past but she turns sickly. Better the short, sharp option.’ Ferguson rose to his feet and left the hall with determination in his step. His wife said nothing more, but sat biting her lip. The servants were coming in to clear away. I glanced round at the others and we left as well, returning to our rooms, where, on my recommendation, we distracted ourselves by once more collecting our cloaks and going out into the wintry garden.

  I encouraged us to hurry, reminding the others that on our earlier expedition outside, we had found a side door that opened straight into the formal garden. But we didn’t move quite quickly enough. As we made our way towards the back of the house and passed the foot of the main staircase, we heard, upstairs, the sound of an ominous swishing and Kate’s voice, crying out in pain.

  ‘Might do her good,’ said Brockley. ‘She’s not what I call a dutiful daughter. Though I can see why she doesn’t enjoy feeding that disagreeable old man!’

  ‘So can I,’ I said. ‘And I’m sorry for her.’ The aunt and uncle in whose house I had grown up had been free with the birch, and for all her wilfulness and sulky airs, I couldn’t dislike Kate. I had probably resembled her when I was young. I had been unhappy and I thought Kate too was in some way discontented with her lot, though by most people’s standards, her parents were responsible and patient. But that distressing sound made me pity her.

  ‘I know what it feels like,’ I said.

  SEVENTEEN

  An Act of Betrayal

  Throughout all this time, I think we had all been alert for the sound of hoofbeats, for the arrival of an armed authority from Walsingham, which would take the situation in hand. But there was still no sign of any reinforcements when we left Whitefields the next day to go aboard the Lucille.

  We started out through a sea-mist that shrouded Dover and muffled our voices, but before we reached the harbour it had lifted and the sun came out. We rode as far as the quay, escorted by Ferguson and a couple of grooms who had come with us to lead our horses back. The Brockleys and I were travelled enough to know something about shipping and saw at once that the Lucille was a sturdy brig, although she looked as though she could do with a fresh coat of paint.

  ‘She’s a bit weathered. I hope she’s comfortable,’ Brockley remarked as he and Joseph and the grooms heaved our saddlebags off our horses. We were carrying our belongings that way, for we would hire horses for travelling in France.

  We said our farewells, took our baggage and made for the gangplank. Our approach had been observed and at the top we found a tall man waiting to greet us. He had a drooping moustache and eyes so deep set that they were surely forever in shadow. His smile was broad, revealing splendid teeth, which sounds attractive but was not. He introduced himself as Captain Garnett, and for once I found myself agreeing with Mr Ferguson, in that I took an instant dislike to him.

  This redoubled when, as he led the way along the deck, he was bumped into by a ship’s boy who had suddenly emerged from a companionway. Captain Garnett grabbed the unfortunate youth by the scruff of his ne
ck, shouted at him for carelessness and then spun him round and literally kicked him back down the stairs, shouting: ‘Now you’ll have to come up again and this time look what you’re about or it’ll be the cat for you!’

  A sailor who was coming along the deck just then exclaimed in protest that the boy was his nephew and there was no need for that, Cap’n.

  ‘He gets no special treatment for being the first mate’s nephew, Bones,’ Garnett barked at him.

  ‘Nor should he. He just needs fair treatment,’ said Mr Bones. I noticed that his body stiffened as he spoke, and that his voice had a pleading note in it. He was a lean man of around forty, with untidy dust-coloured hair and a thin face with a sharp chin. He looked mature and not timid but I sensed that he feared the captain, and that only concern for his nephew had made him speak.

  Garnett, however, merely growled: ‘You talk too much, Bones, as I’ve told you often enough!’ and brushed past him, followed by me and my companions still clutching our baggage and glancing at each other with raised eyebrows.

  We had to wait to get down the companionway, as another sailor came up it just then. This one was stocky and swarthy with a black beard and black hair tied back in a queue. ‘Standing up for your nevvy again, Bones?’ he called, addressing the retreating back of the first mate.

  ‘Well, he is my nephew,’ shouted Bones, over his shoulder, and strode on.

  The lad in question emerged from the companionway again at that point, gave Captain Garnett a scared glance and carefully dodged round him before following his uncle back along the deck. As we at last began to descend the stairs, Brockley muttered into my ear that this didn’t strike him as a happy ship and it wouldn’t surprise him if Captain Garnett used those lovely teeth of his for eating people who had annoyed him.

  ‘I know,’ I muttered back. ‘I’m glad it isn’t a long voyage to Calais!’

  We were shown to our quarters by Captain Garnett. ‘I carry passengers from time to time and I’ve had cabins fitted out for them,’ he said. ‘There was no room to make them spacious but I did my best since I knew I’d be carrying ladies now and then. Here we are.’

  The accommodation certainly wasn’t luxurious. A single door led into a kind of suite, consisting of three cabins leading into one another. They were poorly lit, though each had a narrow, sealed window high up, near the ceiling. Two of the cabins were small, with a couple of bunks not made up except for thin mattresses, and one was larger but had no bunks, just a pile of straw pallets. It also contained some barrels and a pile of pinewood planks, roped together. It looked as if the cargo had overflowed from the hold.

  When the captain left us, I said: ‘Since we won’t be aboard long, I think we can all camp in here.’ Instinctively, I wanted to keep us all together. If I had been challenged to explain myself, I couldn’t have done so. That I had witnessed the captain bullying a ship’s boy, considered that his teeth made him look like a cannibal and disliked the manner of just one of his crew, hardly accounted for this sudden unease, but as soon as we had been left for ourselves, I learned that I wasn’t alone in it.

  ‘I don’t take to that captain,’ Dale said. ‘I can’t abide seeing a harmless lad treated like that and I didn’t take to that fellow with the black pigtail either. I’m glad we’re all staying together.’

  ‘I agree,’ said Brockley in sombre tones. ‘I’ll be glad to step ashore at Calais. I wish we could see out.’

  ‘So do I,’ said Dale in heartfelt tones. ‘One of the things I can’t abide about sea travel is the way one can’t see out.’

  ‘It won’t be for long,’ said Brockley comfortingly. ‘I think we’ll have a good wind for it.’

  ‘I wish it were longer, and going north,’ said Sybil, half under her breath. No one answered her.

  Joseph hadn’t been listening. Instead he was examining the pallets and now remarked that they seemed comfortable enough, and he’d found a cupboard with blankets in it.

  ‘But no sheets or pillows?’ said Dale.

  ‘Seemingly, no,’ said Joseph. ‘But I expect the captain has them on his bed.’ Dale and Sybil looked depressed but Joseph, unperturbed, remarked: ‘Well, the blankets are good. The thing is to keep warm,’ and I remembered that it had never occurred to me to provide the Hawkswood grooms with sheets. Perhaps I should have done. When we got home …

  And when would we get home? I didn’t want to be here, didn’t want to go to France. I wanted to be back at Hawkswood. What was Harry doing now? His nurse Tessie would take good care of him but was he missing me as I was missing him? I wished I could be alone to cry.

  But I was not alone and home was far away. Elsewhere in the ship, there were sounds that I recognized: orders being barked out, hurrying feet. The ship stirred and we began to hear the sound of the wind in the rigging. The wooden walls of our cabin started to creak. Our journey to France had begun.

  We all began to fret because we couldn’t see out, and after we had been under way for a while Brockley said we ought to go out on deck. ‘We can breathe the fresh air and watch the white cliffs dropping astern.’

  ‘I wouldn’t call that a treat,’ Dale said. ‘I never see the white cliffs disappearing without wondering when I’ll see them again. But I’d like some air and something to look at.’

  ‘So would I,’ I said, and with that I went to the door and lifted the latch.

  Without result, as the door appeared to be stuck.

  Brockley came to my assistance but the door would not yield even to his added strength and he stopped, saying: ‘I was afraid of this.’

  I had stepped back too. ‘What do you mean?’ I asked.

  ‘When our good captain left us here,’ said Brockley grimly, ‘I thought I heard a bolt being quietly shot. I hoped I was imagining it but I wasn’t. We’ve been locked in.’

  The words went through me like a crossbow bolt, rousing up the uneasy feeling that had made me want to keep us together. I looked at the others. Joseph’s eyes were wide; Sybil was biting her lip and Dale was wiping away a tear. I said: ‘It could have been a mistake of some kind. We could hammer on the door and shout.’

  ‘I don’t think it was a mistake,’ Brockley said. ‘And I don’t think pounding on the door will bring anyone to release us, with apologies. Someone might bring us food, presently …’ For the sake of the others, I didn’t say, What if they don’t? ‘… and then we may learn more. Anyway, we’ll soon be in Calais and they’ll have to release us then. Let’s not make a disturbance just yet. We don’t know what all this is about.’

  ‘Some crafty scheme by Ferguson, I’ve no doubt,’ sniffed Dale. ‘He said he didn’t care for Captain Garnett, didn’t he? But maybe he’s using him.’

  ‘For what?’ I asked. ‘It can’t be to keep us from going to Scotland! What does he suppose we might do? Jump overboard and start swimming up the North Sea? This doesn’t make sense.’

  ‘No, it doesn’t. Master Ferguson didn’t strike me as a very likeable fellow,’ said Brockley, ‘but he did strike me as honest. I think we had better be wary. We don’t know what we’re dealing with. For the moment, let them think we haven’t realized.’

  Dale said: ‘I’m frightened.’ Nobody answered, which meant of course that we all were.

  We each pulled out a pallet, set them on the floor and sat on them, since there was nothing else to sit on, and then we followed Brockley’s advice for what seemed like a century while the rectangular patches of sunlight from the little high windows moved gradually across the floor, their shapes slanting over the floor and walls and narrowing until they had almost vanished. Brockley, who was watching them, suddenly stiffened. ‘What is it?’ I asked.

  ‘It’s the light.’ Brockley got up. ‘Joseph, help me move one of those barrels under that window there.’

  Joseph obliged. The barrel was clearly heavy, for they had to heave and strain, but when it was done, Brockley clambered up on top of it and was able to peer out, turning his head this way and that, as though trying to se
e fore and aft.

  ‘What is it?’ I said again.

  ‘This is a starboard side,’ said Brockley.

  Sybil said: ‘Starboard?’ in puzzled tones.

  He said tersely: ‘I mean they’re on the right-hand side of the ship. The left-hand side’s called port.’ He twisted his neck again. ‘This is all wrong,’ he said grimly.

  ‘What is?’ said Dale anxiously.

  ‘Our course,’ said Brockley. ‘It’s about noon. If we were sailing to Calais, at this time of day the sunlight ought to be coming from this side, at least mostly. Well, it isn’t. It’s ahead of us and even tending to the port side. I can see the ship’s shadow on the water. I’d estimate that we’re sailing more or less south-west. I think we’re off course.’

  ‘But – then where are we going?’ cried Sybil.

  ‘No one knows,’ said Brockley ominously.

  I drew a sharp breath. I was remembering the day that Sir Francis Walsingham, Sir Robert Dudley and Sir William Cecil arrived at my Sussex home of Withysham to propose the marriage between me and Renard. I had recalled the conversation at the dining table that evening.

  I said: ‘Brockley, if we’re no longer making towards Calais and have turned south-west, then either we’re making for somewhere else in France, or we’re going to turn west and go zig-zagging against the wind in the English Channel. In that case …’

  Brockley’s eyes met mine. Dale said plaintively: ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘Nor do I,’ said Sybil. Joseph seemed bemused.

  Brockley said: ‘I’m guessing. I could be wrong.’

  Shortly after that, we at last heard feet approaching our door, and heard the sound of bolts being slid back. Captain Garnett came in, smiling, followed by two other men, the one with the pigtail and the other by contrast small and wiry, with red hair (a much brighter shade than the ginger hair of the Ferguson men). His eyes were unusual, being almost amber in colour, and the effect was oddly unpleasant, though more because of their expression than their yellowness.