Queen's Bounty

by FIONA BUCKLEY

  The farmer directed us to the nearest main track, and once on it, we encountered other riders, including a group of young men who were able to tell us that we were on the right road for Hampton Court. Getting there took a long time, however, because Brockley’s left ankle needed gentle treatment and he couldn’t press it into its stirrup with any kind of force. We arrived at nightfall, only to learn that the court, taking Cecil with it, had shifted to Whitehall. No one was left at Hampton Court except the permanent maintenance staff, who were now engaged in cleaning it, and the cesspit engineers. There was no accommodation for us.

  ‘Well, there is this,’ I said as we went in search of an inn for the night. ‘If the court’s at Whitehall, Cecil’s most likely living in his house in the Strand. We’ll probably find him there.’

  We did find him there, though not until the following evening. We actually reached his house during the morning, having found a barge for hire that was equipped to carry horses. That way, we could travel to Cecil’s private landing stage by river and save Brockley’s aching ankle. We were welcomed pleasantly, by Cecil’s dignified and learned wife Mildred, but Sir William himself, she said, was with the queen at Whitehall Palace, attending a meeting of the Royal Council and a banquet for a visiting diplomat from Sweden and wouldn’t be back until late. Meanwhile, we could wash and rest, and perhaps, said Mildred, I would join her for dinner.

  Brockley was impatient at the delay, but the frightening day just behind us had left its mark on me. I had slept badly in the inn at Hampton. I was thankful for a good meal and a chance to rest.

  ‘So. What brings you to me that’s so urgent?’ Cecil asked, when at last Brockley and I were summoned to him in his study. He had come home so late that it was well after dark. It was chilly, too, and a fire had been lit for us. We gathered round a table with a triple candlestick on it, and by its light I could see how haggard Cecil looked after his long day at court, coping with his fellow councillors, emissaries from Sweden, and my intelligent, subtle, moody and capricious half-sister. The line between his eyes was a long, black trench in his skin. I felt sorry to be there, sorry to be worrying him when he must be longing to be left to spend what remained of the evening in peace with his wife.

  ‘It’s this,’ I said and handed him the letter that Hugh and I had put together. ‘It explains everything.’ I was glad that we had put it all in writing. Despite my hours of rest, I still felt too jaded for complicated verbal explanations.

  Cecil read the letter with his usual attention and then looked up. ‘My wife says you were attacked on the way here. I understand that you have an injured ankle, Brockley.’

  ‘It’s only a wrench, sir,’ Brockley said. ‘We were ambushed by a crossbowman. Close to where the Ferrises live.’

  ‘You think that Walter Ferris inspired the attack?’

  ‘We never saw who it was. It was someone skilled with a crossbow, if not quite skilled enough. But he killed my horse.’ There was murder in Brockley’s voice, and his face darkened as he spoke.

  Cecil looked down at the letter again. ‘I am horrified to know of these ugly threats from Anne Percy. It was remiss of you to keep it from me, Ursula. I would have arranged protection for you. Lady Northumberland is a bad enemy.’

  ‘I know,’ I said, remembering how she had treated us when we were her captives. ‘But we didn’t think she could really do any harm,’ I explained. ‘Not while she’s exiled away there in Bruges. And we were all taken up with getting Meg married.’

  ‘No doubt. But you were still unwise. However, we must deal with things as they are. You want to know of any link between Walter Ferris and Anne Percy of Northumberland. That’s the main point here.’

  ‘Yes. Perhaps tomorrow one of your clerks could look up the family trees for her and her husband. I imagine that it’s part of court records?’

  ‘No need for clerks,’ said Cecil. ‘I can tell you the answer straightaway. Anne Percy was born into the Somerset family, who are Catholic. Walter Ferris, who is also a Catholic, is related to the Somersets by marriage. One of his father’s cousins married into the family. It’s hardly a close link, but Walter Ferris and Anne Percy have met. It wasn’t long before the rising in the north. Ferris was visiting a kinsman near Corbridge in Northumberland, one of the Earl’s houses. Thomas Percy and his family were there at the time and holding regular, illegal Catholic services. They would let anyone attend them – open house, as Queen Mary Tudor used to do. Ferris went to one of the services and made himself known to the family.’

  ‘How do you know?’ I asked, amazed.

  Cecil smiled. ‘I don’t have a paid informant in your home, Ursula, though I have reports from Dr Fletcher, as you know. I do, however, have paid informants in a number of big houses, especially Catholic ones. I know who visits whom. Ferris was made welcome by the Northumberlands and was invited to dine. They apparently got on well. The link is there, slender though it is. I am sorry you had to ride so far – and run into danger – just to ask me such a simple question! Now, this other point – about the courier who brought the former Countess’s threatening letter to you, Ursula. You say here that you want to trace him.’

  He glanced at me questioningly, and I said: ‘If Ferris really is her cat’s paw, then she must have contacted him. It may not have been at the same time as her letter to me, and she could quite well have used a different courier. But it could be worth finding out. Hugh thinks it is. I can’t suppose that she tried to make use of the Cobbolds, though. I can’t understand what Jane Cobbold has done.’

  ‘Perhaps we should go and ask her, madam, just as we’ve come here to ask Sir William for information,’ said Brockley.

  ‘I would discourage that,’ said Cecil. ‘Your best course, in my opinion, is silence. Don’t shake the tree; you never know what might fall out on your head. Heron probably won’t make a move without further encouragement, and the less stir you create, the better. Let Jane Cobbold alone and leave everything to me. I’ll have this man Bartholomew Twelvetrees found. I agree with you there. But I don’t want you, Ursula, starting any hares on your own account. Wait on events.’

  ‘Can’t Master Ferris be brought in and questioned?’ Brockley wanted to know.

  ‘I can’t order that without bringing Mistress Stannard’s name into it, and that’s just what I don’t wish to do,’ Cecil said. ‘Besides, on what grounds can he be questioned? Anne Percy’s letter to you, Ursula, doesn’t mention him. All we have, according to this –’ he tapped the letter we had given him – ‘is the so-called confession of a girl who is now dead and may have been merely delirious, and Ferris’s admittedly disgraceful behaviour at your daughter’s wedding. But from what Dr Fletcher told me, he ranted at you because his son had had a romantic tryst with a Cobbold girl on your premises! He could claim that his outburst was simply a fit of temper, and it would be hard to prove otherwise. People in a rage often do the most extraordinary things.’

  ‘Could his house be searched for incriminating letters?’ I asked. ‘On the excuse of looking for signs of Popishness, perhaps?’

  ‘No,’ said Cecil firmly. ‘It can’t. That’s about the only excuse that could justify a search, and just now it won’t do. The queen doesn’t want to be seen to encourage persecution of Catholics. That odious Papal Bull has made the whole religious question too delicate. If she starts hunting down people who are essentially loyal citizens but hear an occasional Mass in private, it will make her seem panic-stricken, and oh, how that would encourage the Pope and those of his English followers who really do want our queen deposed! Also, it could turn some of the loyal Catholics against her. I could not agree to anything of the sort. However, precautions for your safety would be wise. My wife says that after Brockley’s horse was killed, you hired another from somewhere called Longfields Farm?’

  ‘Yes, Sir William.’ Brockley’s face once more showed anger at the mention of Berry’s death, but he spoke quietly enough. ‘We promised to return it soon – and collect Berry’s saddl
e. It didn’t fit the animal we hired so we left it there. But I must get it back. It was expensive.’

  ‘I’ll send a couple of grooms to take the hireling back. They’ll pick up your saddle and deliver it to Hawkswood. I’ll lend you a horse from my own stable to get you home and send an escort with the two of you. Also, I have a physician here who will look at that ankle for you, Brockley. Take my advice, Ursula, please. Tread softly. All this may just melt away, and it’s perfectly possible that Ferris has not been asked by Anne Percy to avenge her. He may really have burst into Meg’s wedding feast because of a fit of temper about his son and the girl Christina.’

  ‘Dorothy . . .’ I began.

  Cecil shook his head. ‘Dying . . . half out of her mind . . . hardly able to speak . . . You could have misheard, or she could have been rambling. We can’t place too much reliance on that. But Ferris getting into a fury over Christina Cobbold; yes, that’s believable. If all I have heard about the Cobbold–Ferris feud is true, I fancy it goes deep,’ said Cecil.

  Brockley’s ankle was easier the next day, and we made good time. However, four miles from home, we met Arthur Watts, who was riding out on Hugh’s orders to see if he could learn any news of us along our route.

  ‘Master Stannard was that worried, and so was Dale – Mistress Brockley – seeing that Hampton Court was only twelve miles away,’ Arthur told us.

  ‘We had to chase Sir William to Whitehall,’ I said. ‘My husband knew that something of that kind could happen, and so did Dale!’

  ‘They got in a fuss, just the same,’ said Arthur. ‘Almost as if they’d sensed something wrong, especially Dale. And now here you are, with Master Brockley on that big black horse that ain’t his, and with all these!’

  All these were the well-armed, six-man escort Cecil had sent with us, as protection. ‘We’ve a tale to tell,’ I admitted to Arthur. ‘But let all that wait till we’re home. You can turn back with us now.’

  When we clattered through the gatehouse arch at Hawkswood, Dale was there in the courtyard. She ran forward, crying out Brockley’s name. He was out of his saddle at once, to embrace her and wipe away her tears of relief. She noticed at once that he was limping.

  ‘You’re hurt! Roger, you’re hurt! What happened? I knew something had happened; I felt it! Mistress Jester kept saying oh, they’ve had to wait to see Sir William, he’s always attending the queen, but I knew! And why are you riding that black horse? Where’s Brown Berry?’

  ‘Brown Berry,’ said Brockley grimly, ‘is dead. We have a report to make to Master Stannard. I have a twisted ankle and the ride has made it ache again, but it isn’t serious.’

  ‘I will talk to my husband first. You can join us later, Brockley,’ I said. I had seen how hungrily Dale was watching him. ‘Dale! Take Brockley to your room and look after him. A cold poultice might help that ankle. I will send dinner up to you. Brockley can see Master Stannard later.’

  Hugh, arriving from the rose garden where he had once more been occupying himself during this time of anxiety, gave me an approving look and said: ‘We will be in the small parlour after dinner. Brockley, you may come to us there.’

  Dale took her husband away. Hugh and I set about making the escort welcome. When they and their horses had been handed over, respectively, to Adam Wilder and Arthur Watts, we went indoors. As we walked through the hall, Hugh said: ‘What happened? Dale was obviously right when she said that she was convinced something had gone amiss. Cecil didn’t send you back surrounded by six armed men for nothing.’

  ‘We were attacked on the way, just the other side of Priors Ford. A hidden crossbowman took a shot at Brockley and hit Berry. He bolted for nearly a mile and then dropped dead. Brockley is furious. And grieved. I never saw him cry before.’

  ‘Good God!’

  ‘There have been no reports of footpads or robbers hereabouts for at least a year,’ I said. ‘Or not that I’ve ever heard about.’

  ‘If it was footpads or robbers,’ said Hugh, understanding.

  Brockley presented himself in the small parlour shortly after dinner. He had changed into fresh clothes and was wearing slippers instead of riding boots, so the binding round his left ankle was visible.

  ‘Sit down, man,’ Hugh said to him. ‘You can’t stand long on your left foot, anyway. That’s obvious. Now, my wife has told me more or less everything, but I would also like to hear it from you.’

  Brockley accepted the offer of a seat with obvious relief and embarked on a description of our adventures, an account which more or less repeated mine until he reached the death of Berry, when he burst out in renewed fury and savage threats against Berry’s unknown slayer. Hugh took several minutes to calm him, before asking for the rest of the story.

  ‘So,’ my husband said when Brockley had finished. ‘Now we know. The Ferrises really are connected to Anne Percy. And Cecil intends to have Master Twelvetrees found? He was definite about that?’

  ‘I think so,’ I said, and Brockley nodded agreement.

  ‘I wonder,’ Hugh said thoughtfully. ‘Could you have been attacked to prevent you from taking that letter to Cecil?’ But his voice faded at the end of the sentence, and he shook his head. ‘No. That makes no sense. From what you say, only Brockley was the bowman’s target. And how could Ferris know about the letter, anyway?’

  ‘It was no secret in this house that we were writing to Cecil about something,’ I said. ‘But we didn’t discuss its contents with all and sundry, and anyway, if one message failed to reach Sir William, we’d just send another, better protected. That can’t have been the reason.’

  ‘But our attacker was lying in wait for us,’ Brockley said. ‘As if he had been warned that we’d be riding that way.’

  ‘That would mean that we have another Ferris spy here,’ I said angrily. ‘I hope that’s not true! One was enough.’

  ‘But it was no ordinary robber either. They don’t work that way,’ Brockley said. ‘They stop you on the road and demand your goods. They sometimes kill, but it’s nearly always at close quarters – because the traveller they’ve stopped won’t take his rings off or shows fight. Master Stannard, I think this was an attempt to assassinate me, personally. It wouldn’t necessarily mean that there’s a spy in this house. Someone in Ferris pay could have been out and about, watching for an opportunity.’

  We were all remembering the terms of Anne Percy’s letter:

  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.

  ELEVEN

  The Art of Picking Locks

  ‘Let us leave it for a while,’ Hugh said. ‘I wish to think all this over, quietly.’

  The sun was out, and as I had known he would, he returned to do his thinking in the company of his roses. I sent Brockley back to Dale and then went to find Sybil, to acquaint her with the latest news. I looked for her in the bigger parlour and then tried the hall but found only Gladys, mumbling over some sheet hems.

  ‘Mistress Jester’s gone to Woking, said she wanted to see the physician there,’ Gladys informed me. ‘Wouldn’t say why. Didn’t look sick to me. Rode off on one of the coach horses, on her own, and that’s funny, look you, for she don’t care for riding. And what’s this tale that’s going round that someone shot Master Brockley’s horse? No one tells me anything these days. I get tired of that. Maybe I’ll put a spell on you all, to loosen tongues!’ She let out one of her dreadful cackles.

  ‘Don’t talk like that!’ I said sharply. ‘And no one keeps anything from you that you’ve a right to know, and you can’t cast spells, you old fraud; you just pretend you can, and look where that sort of thing got you not so long ago!’

  Gladys cringed at once. ‘All right, I know; you got me out of that death cart . . .’ She shuddered all over from head to foot at the memory and seemed to shrink inside her decent brown dress. ‘And it’s a-cause of all that, tha
t you’ve been accused of witching; don’t think I don’t know it. I’m the excuse, and I’m sorry, and if you want me to go away . . .’

  ‘No, Gladys, I don’t want you to go away; we said we’d look after you, and as my husband told you not so long ago, we’ll keep our word. Besides, you’ve been valuable to us at times, and we know it.’

  That was true. Once, Gladys had helped us to the solution of a most mysterious business. I was sorry I had frightened her. I sat down beside her and began to tell her about our expedition and Brown Berry’s death, and what Cecil had told us. Just as I finished, there were quick footsteps outside, and Sybil came in, a little flushed from the open air.

  ‘I’m not late for dinner, I hope, Mistress Stannard. I am so glad to know that you and Brockley are safe, and that you have news.’

  ‘Yes, but Sybil, what took you to the physician in Woking? Gladys says that’s where you went. To Dr Hibbert, was it? Are you ill?’ I asked anxiously.

  ‘No, I’m perfectly well.’ Sybil sank down on to the nearest stool. ‘I went to find out if something I’ve been considering could be true. Dr Hibbert thinks it can. He isn’t sure, but he’s very experienced, and he says yes, it’s possible.’

  ‘Sybil, what are you talking about?’ I demanded.

  ‘He thinks it’s quite likely that clothes or sheets – things like that – that someone has used during an infectious illness, like leprosy or smallpox or plague – anything that’s catching – can hold the contagion and pass it to anyone else who uses the things afterwards. After all, most people do boil sheets, or even burn clothes that have been used by someone with such illnesses. Mostly because the things are so stained, but I know I’d do it even if there weren’t any stains – I’d feel they were unclean.’