Queen's Bounty

by FIONA BUCKLEY

  ‘You mean something had been stolen?’

  ‘No, not that, as it turned out. But I saw straightaway that someone had been at one of my saddlebags, because although it was still strapped shut, the strap was fixed at the wrong hole. I mostly use the same one, and there’s a mark on the leather. I saw that the mark was on the hole below, and that wasn’t how I’d left it. Of course, I thought: thieves. But when I looked into the bags, nothing was missing. Something had been added! There was a little drawstring pouch I’d never seen before, very pretty, with gold embroidery and little white beads on it, and when I had a look inside, believe it or not, there was a rope of pearls in there.’

  ‘Had someone put it in your saddlebag, thinking it was his?’ I asked.

  ‘Maybe. There were other saddlebags there. But it’s lucky I found it. I took it straight back inside the inn and handed it to the landlord, and just in time, because in came a fellow – I don’t know who he was – shouting that a rope of pearls had been stolen from him. It belonged to his mistress, he said. He’d come to Woking to collect it from a jeweller after it had been restrung. He left his horse and his bags at the Lion while he went on foot to fetch it, and when he came back with it, he’d put it in his saddlebag. He was sure that a man who was just bringing a brown cob in had seen him do it. It was in a pretty bag that caught the light, he said. He’d had a bite to eat and then gone to saddle up for home and thank heaven he’d had the sense to check his saddlebags because the necklace was gone! And then he pointed at me and shouted, “That’s him, he saw me put that pretty pouch in my saddlebag, he’s the thief!” In fact, he tried to lay hold of me. I had to grapple with him to get free, then and there, in the entrance hall of the inn!’

  ‘Brockley!’

  ‘The landlord promptly produced the pouch and the pearls, of course, and said that far from being a thief, I was an honest man who had brought it to him the moment I found it, and please would this fellow stop shouting. Here was the jewellery safe and sound in its pouch, and he ought to be thanking me, not pointing fingers. Well, the wretched man did thank me,’ said Brockley, ‘though none too gladly. I’ve never in my life had anyone say thank you to me, for anything, with such a scowl! I apologized to the landlord for the disturbance, though it was hardly my fault, and then I walked out – and I checked both my saddlebags all over again to make sure I hadn’t got any more little strangers in them. Then I came home. But it was a near thing, madam.’

  ‘I should think so. Thank heaven for your sharp eyes, Brockley.’

  ‘Madam . . .’

  ‘What is it, Brockley?’

  ‘That letter. From the Countess of Northumberland. It threatened me as well as you.’

  ‘You think it was an attempt to get you taken up for theft? That the pearls were put in your saddlebag deliberately – it wasn’t a mistake?’

  ‘That man said I’d seen him put the pouch away in his own bag. I hadn’t. He wasn’t in the stable at any time when I was, so I couldn’t have seen him put anything away anywhere. I didn’t make a to-do at the inn. I didn’t want to upset the landlord any more. But that fellow was lying.’

  ‘He could still have been mistaken,’ I said. ‘Perhaps he confused you with someone else who was there when he was.’

  ‘Brown Berry was the only brown cob. There were three other animals there – one grey pony, one big chestnut and a little bay mare.’

  ‘Look, Brockley, I don’t know what to make of all this. I shall tell Master Stannard and Sybil, and I suppose you’ll tell Dale, but warn her not to gossip. I don’t want talk, and people imagining things. But just in case – keep your eyes open and take care, at all times.’

  ‘As you wish, madam.’

  When I went to bed that night, I was exhausted. Anne Percy and her letter were no longer confined to the back of my mind. They were in the forefront of it once again. I had a grim, persistent feeling that trouble was on its way.

  I did occasionally experience premonitions that turned out to be true. I sincerely hoped that this wouldn’t prove to be one of them.

  It did, of course.

  At Hawkswood, the kitchens consisted of one big room, where there were two hearths and an oven for cooking, and several smaller ones which were mostly used for storage and the messier kinds of food preparation. One of them, however, was set aside for baths. We kept a big wooden tub there, because it was handy for the kitchen fire and the pails of hot water didn’t have to be carried too far.

  On Meg’s wedding day, two big cauldrons of water were heating on the kitchen fires at dawn, and when they were ready, the tub was filled, the heat adjusted with cold water, a bottle of rose water was poured in, and Meg was brought downstairs to be ceremonially bathed.

  During the process, the room was full of steam and somewhat congested, since Meg’s helpers included myself, Sybil Jester, Fran Dale and all three bridesmaids – Susanna and Kate, the daughters of Meg’s Uncle Ambrose, together with Christina. Christina was the last to present herself for her bridesmaid’s duties, and was brought along by her mother (who, I noticed, had dressed for the occasion in a tawny gown and cream kirtle that were copies of the dress I had worn when we met at the Cobbolds’).

  Christina was still pale and looked as though she had been crying again, but she made the effort to smile, and once in the bathroom she made herself useful, helping to wash Meg’s back and fetching the warm towel when she got out of the water.

  When we had finished, and Meg’s dark hair had been rubbed as dry as possible, we wrapped her in a woollen robe and took her back upstairs to her room, where, despite the summery weather, a fire had been lit so that her hair could finish drying quickly. With that done, Dale brushed it, until it shone with the blue highlights of a blackbird’s plumage, and braided it. Between us all, we put Meg into her cream and blue wedding dress, and finally Dale coiled the gleaming braids into their golden net.

  Then we sat her on the bed and told her to keep still while the rest of us put on our festive gowns. By then, the clock that we kept in the hall said eleven. It was time to set off.

  The ceremony would be at the church in Hawkswood village. It was a good mile away and most people were to ride, though Hugh and I would use our coach. The bridegroom and his friends, who had been ordered to remain together in his room until it was time for them to set off, went ahead with most of the guests. When they were out of sight, the bride’s party started out. The steward, Adam Wilder, was staying at the house to oversee the preparations for the feast, but Roger Brockley was going to attend. He had asked for the privilege of going on foot and leading Meg’s mare.

  Meg, a competent rider, protested about this, but Brockley overruled her. A bride, he had said, was a precious being and must be safeguarded as she went to meet her bridegroom, as though she were made of bright jewels in a casing of thinnest glass. Accordingly, even though Bay Gentle well deserved her name, she must be led at a walking pace with a strong hand on her bridle. Brockley would brook no argument, even from me – not that I offered any. I was touched by his care for my daughter and told her firmly to accept his protection with grace. Which, bless her, she did.

  When we reached the church, the horses were hitched to the fence round the churchyard and everyone went inside. Meg, Hugh and the bridesmaids came last. Meg held Hugh’s arm, and immediately behind her, gravely and carefully, with no hint of sullenness now, came Christina, leading the bridesmaids and carrying Meg’s blue brocade train.

  The church had been decorated with flower garlands, and it was full of sunshine, streaming through the stained glass windows on the southern side. As I took my place near the front, I saw George Hillman look round to see Meg coming towards him, and the quality of his smile was balm to me.

  Because, joyous though this occasion was supposed to be, I still found myself, every now and then, fretting because Meg was still so young and George Hillman was about to take her away from me. I was as sure as I could be that he would look after her, but I felt almost as though I we
re angry with him. If he ever mistreated her, said a small fierce voice inside my head, he would have me to deal with, and heaven have mercy on him then, for I would have none.

  Dr Fletcher, the placid middle-aged man who was Hawkswood’s present vicar, was waiting to begin. He was new to Hawkswood. His predecessor had testified against Gladys Morgan when she was tried for witchcraft, and had tried to stir up local feeling against her when we brought her home after her pardon. He had been a fiery individual, much given to ranting sermons about the evils of sorcery and Popery. When he was excited, he was apt to lean over his pulpit, thump it with his fist, and let his voice shoot up half an octave. Hugh had persuaded – well, paid – him to seek a transfer elsewhere. His replacement, the Reverend Hubert Fletcher, was a reasonable, peace-loving soul, and we had all become fond of him.

  He smiled at Meg as she stood before the altar, and Sybil, at my side, murmured that it was nice, wasn’t it, that these days weddings could take place at the altar instead of at the church door in the old-fashioned way.

  Dr Fletcher cleared his throat. ‘Dearly beloved . . .’

  The service commenced.

  The thing was done. My little dark-haired daughter had become Mistress Hillman. A gold ring shone on her left hand; stars shone in her brown eyes. Back at home, the kitchen staff would be putting the final touches to the feast. Brockley would not lead Meg’s horse on the way back because she would be riding beside her bridegroom. All round us, there was a cheerful babble of laughter and talk.

  I wanted to cry, but I knew I must not. I talked animatedly to Hugh and Sybil as we returned to the house, which had acquired festoons of flower garlands during our absence. Fresh rushes and herbs had been laid in the hall as well. Indeed, the effect in the great hall was overpowering.

  ‘They’ve overdone the herbs among the rushes,’ Hugh said, wrinkling his nose. ‘What in the world have they mixed with them? That isn’t rosemary that I can smell.’

  ‘I think it’s mint,’ I said. ‘But I don’t think we can do anything about it now.’

  ‘A pity. I like to smell my dinner as well as eat it!’ said Hugh. He added, glancing at me: ‘Little Bear, you don’t look as happy as you should, or sound it, either. What’s the matter?’

  ‘I feel I’m losing her,’ I said. ‘Losing Meg.’

  ‘You won’t feel like that when she gives you a grandchild. Come. They’re waiting for us to sit down.’

  Hugh had hired musicians to play during the feast and the dancing that would follow, and the meal began to the sound of drum, spinet and guitar. I looked with admiration on the efforts of John Hawthorn and his aides. The centrepiece of the top table, where Meg and George were seated in state, was a two-foot square marchpane model of Hawkswood House, as I had requested. Hawthorn and Joan Flood had made it between them, and it was a great credit to their skill. Little Bessie, at the lowest table, stood up to see better as it was brought in and let out an audible: ‘Oooh!’ and I heard admiring exclamations from Mrs Seldon and Mrs Ward.

  Hugh nudged me. ‘Look hard at Bessie. She was wearing a looser dress yesterday. But now – do you see what I see?’

  ‘What do you mean?’ I whispered, and then, with a shock, I realized. ‘God’s teeth! She’s—’

  ‘Gone a little further than flirting,’ said Hugh. ‘Four months, at a guess. I wonder if Jennet and Margery have realized?’

  The feast began with soups and various pies, followed by fruit tarts, all accompanied by light wine or ale. Then, after a pause during which a red wine was brought round, the musicians fell silent so that Adam Wilder could step into the hall with a trumpet and blow a fanfare to introduce a procession carrying the roast meats which were the central item. We did not make a habit of serving feasts like this; indeed, our usual fare was inclined to be plain, and sufficient rather than extravagant. This was a striking departure from the norm. Meg looked across George to where Hugh was seated on the other side of him and said: ‘All this for us!’

  ‘My pleasure,’ said Hugh, bowing towards her.

  As host and hostess, Hugh and I did not stay in our seats all the time, but each in turn made the rounds of the tables, asking if everyone was happy, if the food was to their liking, if anything were needed. When I reached Jennet Ward and Margery Seldon, I murmured that I hoped Bessie was enjoying herself and added, cautiously: ‘You’re feeding her well; she’s plumper than when I saw her at the Cobbolds.’

  ‘Is that a hint?’ asked Jennet, though with a smile. ‘It’s all right. We know. She’s been a careless lass. It was a pedlar she met at the May Day fair in Woking, long gone on his way. But we shall look after her.’

  I told Hugh, when I returned to my seat, ‘They know about Bessie. She will be all right.’

  ‘I’m glad,’ he said. ‘I wouldn’t like to think of a young thing like that turned out with nowhere to go and a child on the way. We’d have had to offer her shelter ourselves in that case.’

  Hugh was a good man. In marrying him, I had chosen well. I gave him a smile which said so, and he smiled back.

  Wilder, who had continued to play the trumpet while the meat dishes were disposed on the tables, stopped when all were in place, and the kitchen staff hurried away to fetch the accompaniments such as the beans, the rice, the onions, extra bread and a choice of sauces. Hawthorn’s assistant, Abel Forde, however, came back almost immediately, empty handed and at a run, made for Wilder and said something urgently into his ear. Wilder’s eyebrows rose, and he put his trumpet down on a sideboard. He was far too dignified to run as Abel had, but he left the hall with rapid strides.

  I caught Hugh’s eye. He shook his head, puzzled. Lower down the hall, Brockley had risen to his feet and was looking towards the door to the entrance vestibule. And now, we could all hear the sound of raised voices out there.

  George Hillman said: ‘What’s happening?’

  Adam Wilder reappeared, still striding fast. He made straight for us. ‘Sir, Madam, Master and Mistress Hillman, a . . . a gentleman has called unexpectedly . . . Well, it’s Master Walter Ferris, and he is anxious to come in; he has something to say, publicly . . . I said I was not sure if this would be acceptable, but he is insistent and . . .’

  He certainly was. Brockley had gone out into the vestibule to investigate the situation and was now returning, backwards and expostulating because he was being, literally, pushed by the nondescript-looking Walter Ferris. Nondescript or not, he was making himself felt by thrusting at Brockley’s chest with the butt end of a hefty staff, and as he came through the door, he used the staff across my good Brockley’s chest, thrusting him aside so roughly that Brockley staggered backwards and bumped into the sideboard where Wilder had left his trumpet. It fell to the floor with a clang. Someone emitted a snort of laughter, and at the top table, everyone came instinctively to their feet: Hugh, myself, Meg, George and the vicar, Dr Fletcher, who had come back with us from the church and been given a place among the principals.

  A puzzled and indignant muttering broke out among our guests, and dear, placid Dr Fletcher said: ‘Well, I never!’ which for him was the equivalent of anyone else’s shriek of outrage.

  Ferris marched to within a few feet of our table and then stopped, staring at us. He had the kind of eyes which have no definite colour. At that moment, I thought they were like pebbles seen through water. He was not dressed as a wedding guest, but had a buff jacket and hose, with an informal, open-necked shirt. He might have been his own gamekeeper. He still held his staff at an aggressive angle, although there was a curious incongruity in the fact that under his left arm he was carrying a bundle that was big enough to be awkward.

  Hugh, white with anger, said: ‘Master Ferris! What is the meaning of this?’

  ‘The MEANING?’ said Ferris, so loudly that the muttering among our guests faded out. If his person was insignificant, his voice was not. ‘It has come to my notice,’ Ferris thundered, ‘that my son Thomas last night had a secret assignation here upon your premises, Master Stannar
d, with Christina Cobbold, daughter of Anthony Cobbold, whom I see sitting there among your guests!’ He pointed dramatically to his left, where Anthony and Jane Cobbold, along with Christina and the other bridesmaids, had been placed immediately next to our top table.

  Anthony at once jumped up, shouting: ‘Nonsense!’ but Ferris ignored him.

  ‘I am aware that this assignation took place and that what I say is true!’

  Anthony gobbled, unable to make himself heard. Christina was scarlet, biting her lip, while her mother was looking at her in horror. Hugh seemed to have been flabbergasted into silence.

  ‘I am bewildered and appalled,’ boomed Ferris, ‘by my son’s obstinacy in persisting with this improper love affair and in refusing the excellent match we have planned for him. But he is young and young people can be vulnerable. For instance, to such as YOU!’

  To my astonishment, he pointed a forefinger at me. I stared at him, agape. I saw Sybil, who had slipped out of the room just before his arrival, probably to visit the privy, reappear briefly in the doorway and then vanish once more, as if frightened away.

  ‘YOU ARE A WITCH!’ bellowed Walter Ferris. The reverberations of his voice shook the flower garlands. ‘Do not deny it! You harbour and consort with the witch Gladys Morgan! She has been tried for witchcraft and found guilty and would have hanged but for the too generous mercy of our sovereign lady Queen Elizabeth . . .’

  ‘This is most unseemly!’ Dr Fletcher for once raised his own voice and actually managed, for a few seconds, to overcome the tirade. ‘What are you about, sir? The solemn joy of a wedding should not be interrupted in this fashion!’

  ‘It certainly shouldn’t!’ Hugh came to life again and exploded. ‘This is outrageous! Whatever your purpose here, Master Ferris, I suggest that you and I withdraw to discuss whatever it is, in private. I cannot allow you to—’