The fate of the ringleaders was the news that Cecil had brought to me. They had fled into exile. Thomas Percy, Earl of Northumberland, was in Scotland, and his ferocious wife Countess Anne was in the Netherlands. And although the Pope had issued an alarming Bull telling English Catholics that they must turn traitor to Elizabeth or risk damnation, it hadn’t caused any further risings. People like Walter Ferris were more open than they had been about their Catholic observances, but the authorities had sensibly not interfered too much, but as far as possible left things to settle.
The country was at peace, and as I had now decided that it was right to let Meg marry her George at once, I was at peace as well. All unaware of the evil that by then was already on its way towards me, a finger stretching out from the past, from someone who did not intend to let me enjoy my peace. Or even my life.
THREE
The Extended Claw
The wedding day was to be Wednesday, the twenty-third of August. As we made ready, the house hummed with excitement. Meg was so radiant that I could hardly believe in my original objections. They seemed churlish now.
Our well-publicized need for extra servants produced results. Two excellent assistant cooks, a married pair called Joan and Ben Flood, joined our kitchen. Whereupon, our chief cook, a large and highly gifted individual called John Hawthorn, and his skilled young assistant Abel Forde, at once set about teaching the newcomers their most elaborate recipes, so that at the wedding feast exciting food could be served in quantity. John liked to instruct and regretted that in the ordinary way he rarely had an opportunity to create his more exotic dishes. This was his chance both to show what he knew and to transmit it. Indeed, he became so inventive and enthusiastic that when we had to decide on the subtlety which would be a display feature at the top table, he and I had an argument.
‘It is a marvel, madam, and I know how to do it, for I was taught it, and I helped to do it several times before I came here. It is a model, in good, thick, stiff marchpane, of a stag, with golden antlers if possible, but the antlers can be made of wood and gilded with paint. The stag’s body is hollow and is filled with red wine. One leaves a hole between the antlers, to be plugged with more marchpane when the wine is in. That must be done just before serving, for fear that the wine will soak through the marchpane if there is any long delay. The stag has an arrow sticking out of its side – a golden arrow, or what looks like one. When everyone has had a chance to admire the model, the arrow is pulled out, and the red wine flows like blood, and all who are near enough may hold out their wine cups to be filled . . .’
‘No, Hawthorn. It isn’t the kind of scene I want for my daughter’s wedding feast. I would prefer a marchpane model of Hawkswood House.’
‘We could vary it and use a model of a crossbow bolt,’ said Hawthorn yearningly.
‘No!’ I said. ‘A marchpane house, if you please!’
‘But, madam . . .’
‘No, Hawthorn!’
I had reason, later, to be glad I had said no, especially to the crossbow bolt.
Hawthorn got his revenge by presenting me with an astonishing list of the ingredients he required for the feast and the startling quantities in which he required them. When I visited London to buy gold net and embroidered damasks for Meg, I also had to order numerous spices, some of them hitherto unknown to me. We used merchants in Woking and Guildford for such things as flour, sugar, salt, lamp oil, candles and ordinary dress materials, but extraordinary spices were beyond them.
They were expensive, too. ‘Marrying off a daughter seems to be a costly business,’ Hugh remarked. ‘Just as well there’s only one of her, Ursula, my love.’
To help with Meg’s trousseau, we also acquired a young sempstress and embroideress called Dorothy Beale. Dorothy was no more than eighteen, and she was a skinny, undersized, mousey-haired little thing, but she had magic in her thin fingers. Oddly enough, she had come to us from the Ferrises, the family we couldn’t invite along with the Cobbolds.
‘Well, they’ve not had much work for me lately, and when I arst if I could look round for another place, they said all right,’ Dorothy told me when she presented herself to be interviewed. ‘They’ve given me time off for lookin’ round. They treat me well enough, but I do like bein’ busy.’
I gave her some work to do as a test and, after seeing how skilled she was, snapped her up.
‘I never thought there could be so much detail in planning a wedding,’ Fran Dale said to me as we were cutting out sleeves for one of the trousseau dresses. The big hall table, which was ideal for major sewing projects just because it was so large, was strewn with pieces of material, bobbins of silk, and embroidery designs. We had eaten dinner in the larger parlour and would have supper there as well. ‘But dear Meg will look like a princess in that wedding gown,’ Dale said. ‘I’ve never seen such lovely damask.’
‘Where’s Meg now?’ I said as I began to cut out the second sleeve from a length of tawny satin. ‘I asked her to come and help us.’
‘I believe Mistress Jester and Dorothy wanted her to try on the wedding dress again. They’ve finished making the ruff that goes with it. I think it was so right to decide on a small ruff. She’s just a young girl, after all. They wanted to do the fitting before the day got too hot. It wouldn’t do to have sweat stains getting on to the damask.’
‘It’s hot already,’ I said and laid down my shears to go and open the side door to our main courtyard. I paused in the doorway to look at the activity outside. A cartload of fresh rushes had just come in, and Roger Brockley, standing four-square with his hands on his hips, was overseeing the business of unloading.
Brockley’s position in the household was unusual. Long ago, he had been a soldier, and after that, for a time, a groom. Since then he had been my companion through many adventures and eventually, before my marriage to Hugh, had become my steward at Withysham, my Sussex home. He had done well as a steward, since he was a dignified-looking man, straight-backed, with a high, intelligent forehead, lightly dusted with gold freckles, and he had a calm demeanour.
However, after my marriage to Hugh, Brockley chose to resign as Withysham’s steward because Hugh and I would often be at Hawkswood and he wished to be where I was. Now, Withysham had a new steward, while at Hawkswood we had Adam Wilder, a grey-haired widower in his fifties, who had been in Hugh’s service for years. Brockley had reverted to being my personal manservant, though he would also act as a courier or an escort, oversee deliveries, or do anything else which presented itself as necessary, and he still helped out in the stables on occasion. In any case, he always looked after Brown Berry himself.
‘He’s my horse and comes to my whistle if he’s out in the field; I don’t want anyone else looking after him,’ he had told the other grooms.
He was a straight-faced man who did not often smile, and yet a strong vein of humour ran below his surface. He was conventional and was often scandalized by the unusual tasks that I carried out, but his adventurous instincts would take over as soon as there was need of them. I valued him highly. There had been a time when he and I had come dangerously close to being more than lady and servant or even comrades, but that was far behind us now. Now, we were simply friends.
As I watched, the unloading finished and Brockley entered into earnest discussion with the man in charge of the cart, probably ordering a further delivery before the wedding date. Our lake could supply some of the rushes, but not enough, though the sweet herbs to mix with the rushes would come from our garden.
I could trust Brockley to see that all was done as it should be. I was turning away when our two guard dogs, Hero and Hector, set up a noisy barking, and I saw that a horseman had arrived at the gatehouse and was talking to our gatekeeper. A moment later, the gatekeeper stepped back and the rider came on into the courtyard. My first impression was that both horse and rider looked tired. As soon as it was allowed to stop, the horse let its head droop, and the rider descended from the saddle as if he were thankful to be out of
it.
Brockley went to speak to him, beckoning a groom to take the horse. Then, seeing me in the doorway, he brought the man towards me.
‘A courier, madam. Master Twelvetrees from Norwich. He says he has an errand to you.’
‘Bartholomew Twelvetrees at your service, madam. I’m a Norwich man, earning my living as a messenger,’ said the newcomer. He was a big, tow-headed young man with a broad, sun-reddened face. He was plainly dressed in brown, with a linen collar open at the throat. I recognized the up and down cadence of East Anglia in his accent.
‘I was hired by a man off a ship that docked in Norwich two days ago,’ he said. ‘He give me this for you.’ He held out a small scroll with a seal. ‘He said it was urgent.’ He added, with an air of embarrassment: ‘I’m sorry that’s a bit dirty. Getting my saddlebags off the horse, at an inn, I dropped one and it weren’t done up proper and this here letter fell out. The inn yard was muddy, like.’
Offering the scroll to me, he pointed out the smear of dirt and flicked at it vainly, with a broad forefinger.
‘I expect the inside is all right,’ I said. ‘Don’t worry. Two days?’ I looked at him sharply. ‘You can hardly have been out of the saddle. You were probably tired when you dropped your saddlebag. Who was the man who hired you? Where did he come from?’
‘The Netherlands, he said, madam,’ said Twelvetrees. ‘Said he had to get back at once. He paid me in advance. I got a reliable reputation, and someone recommended me to him.’ He spoke with a pride that I found rather endearing, and he radiated reliability. Most messengers wouldn’t have bothered to point out the dirty mark.
I looked at the scroll. The mark was on the outside and didn’t matter. My name and direction were written there, but it hadn’t touched them. The seal was unbroken, which was more important. It was a plain seal, however. There was no device stamped into it. Someone did not wish to advertise their identity. But it had come from the Netherlands. The first sense of unease came to me then, a small, cold coiling in the pit of my stomach. I would read this in privacy.
‘Look after Master Twelvetrees, Brockley,’ I said. ‘I’m taking this to the study.’
After a brief word of explanation to Dale, I made for the study and there opened the letter. It had no outer wrapping but had simply been rolled up and sealed, and it was written on ordinary paper, not parchment. I frowned as I broke the seal and unrolled it, and I glanced first at the signature. The guess I’d instinctively made had been right.
The chill inside me intensified. I sat down to read.
Five minutes later, Hugh, who had been in the rose garden cutting off dead blooms, came in and found me. ‘Ursula? Brockley says a messenger’s brought you a letter from the Netherlands. He clearly doesn’t like the idea of messages to you from there.’ He studied my face. ‘And by the look of you, he was right. Ursula, you’re as white as paper and your eyes . . . your eyes are hazel, but when you’re ill or upset, they look like pools of ink. They’re like that now. What in God’s name is wrong? What’s in that letter? Who sent it?’
I handed it to him. ‘It’s from Anne Percy,’ I said.
‘Anne Percy . . . The Countess of Northumberland?’
‘The exiled Countess of Northumberland,’ I said grimly.
He looked at the letter again and then, slowly, read it out:
To Mistress Ursula Stannard, bastard sister of the usurper and heretic Elizabeth and enemy to the true queen of England, Mary Stuart, greetings. In the north, greetings is a word with another meaning. In the north, to greet means to wail and weep. In that sense I wish you many greetings and long, lasting until your death.
When in the north those who are faithful to Mary Stuart and to the true religion rose to fight for them, and met with so fierce a resistance from the usurper’s forces, it was largely through you that the last hope of turning the tide in our favour was lost.
Because of you, my husband is now a prisoner of the heretics who have so much influence in Scotland and I fear they will sell him to Elizabeth. Because of you, I too had to flee to Scotland, riding hard although I was with child. My daughter was born in Aberdeen, far from her home. She has never seen her father, nor has he ever seen her.
Now she and I are in exile in Bruges, dependent on the charity of King Philip of Spain for money on which to live. I see no future for us.
I hold you to blame, you and your manservant Brockley, who between you destroyed both my hopes and my dignity. I have the right to vengeance. It is the only hope of joy that I still possess. You and he have done as much as your vixen of a sister to keep our sweet Mary from her lawful throne. For Queen Mary’s sake, I have placed a bounty on your head. There are those whom I will gladly reward if they bring you down. King Philip will pay the reward on my behalf. He has promised.
Oh yes, Mistress Stannard. If you thought that here in exile I have no claw that can stretch out to reach you, you are wrong. I know those who will act for me, gladly and without question. Soon, trouble and dread will overtake both you and your servant (or is he your lover?). And when they have wrung the last juices of hope and happiness from you, death and damnation will complete my vengeance.
Anne Percy, Countess of Northumberland
The handwriting of the signature was noticeably the same as that on the rest of the letter. It hadn’t been dictated to a secretary. In the grip of a deeply personal rage, Anne Percy had penned it herself.
Hugh had read it in even tones, even the suggestion (I silently thanked God it was not true) that Brockley and I were lovers. But I stood trembling. Ill will rose from that sheet of paper like a stench. For the first time, I understood why Gladys Morgan’s curses had frightened people to the point of hounding her and even demanding her death. Curses carry hatred and malice, and they do have power. At this moment, they were shrivelling my very bones. Hugh put a hand on my arm. And then we realized that Brockley was in the doorway. ‘How long have you been standing there?’ Hugh asked him sharply.
‘Your pardon, sir. I didn’t think I should interrupt you while you were reading aloud. I heard most of it. If I shouldn’t, I’m sorry, but—’
‘I would have told you anyway,’ I said. Most of it, anyhow. I wouldn’t have embarrassed Brockley by telling him quite all of it. I also knew that he must have heard the phrase I would have omitted, and that he would never refer to it.
He showed no sign of embarrassment now, but said calmly: ‘I’d like to say some words of reassurance.’
‘I wish you would,’ I said. My voice shook.
‘Madam, I find it hard to believe that, away in the Netherlands, Anne Percy has any means whatsoever of carrying out these threats. All those who knew her, who were loyal to her, are exiled or dead or afraid to put their heads above any battlements. I think she is simply full of anger and resentment and wishes to frighten you. A matter of wounded pride, I fancy.’
Brockley suddenly grinned, his rare, broad grin that made his lightly freckled face look boyish and far younger than his middle-aged years. ‘I would remind you, madam, of how the countess looked when we caught sight of her through that kitchen window, just as we made our escape from Ramsfold.’
‘Dear God, yes!’ Suddenly, my heart lightened. ‘Hugh,’ I said, ‘I’ve told you how when Brockley and I were in the north last year, we were imprisoned by Anne Percy in a house called Ramsfold. You know that we escaped from the cellar where she had put us, but she and her henchmen came on us and chased us into a kitchen. We’d thrown pepper into their eyes to put them in check . . .’
‘How very resourceful of you,’ Hugh said. ‘I don’t believe you’ve told me those details before. You just said the two of you had escaped from the cellar. You said that the other man in your party – Carew Trelawny – had stayed free and dropped the cellar key to you through a grating and had your horses ready. But Trelawny was killed when you were pursued, and that upset you so badly that you didn’t want to go on talking about it.’
‘No, I didn’t,’ I agreed. ‘That wa
s tragic, and I remember, I did find it distressing to talk about it when it was still so raw. But Trelawny did more than get hold of a key and saddle our horses. He gave us advice. He was the resourceful one! He told us to do something that he called using what’s there. Turning anything handy into a weapon. That’s how we came to think of throwing the pepper. And some pewter plates as well. And because we did that, we managed to hold up the enemy for long enough to let us get away through the kitchen, and we set a trap there before we rushed out of a door to the open air and got to our horses. We poured olive oil on the kitchen floor and balanced some things over the door our pursuers would come in by. Using what was there, you see. And the countess was caught by the trap . . .’
My sudden lightness of heart had faded when we spoke of Trelawny, whose death had been a bitter blow to all his companions, but now it returned. I found myself laughing. Brockley was laughing too.
‘Anne Percy’s a well-dressed, commanding woman,’ I said. ‘With a clear, commanding voice. Much aware of her dignity. And vindictive. Brockley and I were roughly handled when she had us in her power. When we were escaping, we caught a glimpse of her through a kitchen window, sitting on the floor with a colander on her head and cold pottage splashed all over her. It was one of the loveliest sights I’ve ever seen,’ I added reminiscently.
‘You certainly never told me that!’ Hugh chuckled. ‘No wonder Anne Percy hates you. I know that type of woman. The colander and the pottage probably infuriated her nearly as much as the part you played in defeating the rising and driving her into exile. But I fancy Brockley is right. There is nothing she can do to you now. This ugly letter –’ he flicked it disdainfully – ‘is nothing but an attempt to disturb your peace. The lady is in exile and dare not emerge from it. I’ve been wondering why her courier came from Norwich. Dover would be the natural port of entry for her messenger. But I fancy Dover is being watched. Wouldn’t you think so, Ursula?’
Queen's Bounty Page 4
