Queen's Bounty

by FIONA BUCKLEY

  ‘Course they are,’ Gladys put in. ‘Everyone knows that. Folk talk about witchcraft sometimes when all the while all they needed to do was boil a few sheets.’

  This, coming from Gladys, who loathed washing even herself, almost made me laugh, except that I had guessed what Sybil meant, and if I had guessed right, then it was no laughing matter.

  ‘What are you trying to say, Sybil?’ I asked, quietly.

  ‘That man Walter Ferris brought two used cloaks here to give to Mistress Meg and her husband. We all thought he did it just to be insulting. But what if there was more to it than that? Didn’t you say to me once that Walter Ferris had a daughter who’d just died of smallpox?’

  ‘Yes. That’s true,’ I said.

  ‘Well, I’ve thought and thought. What if those cloaks that Master Ferris brought had belonged to his daughter? What if she was using them when the illness started? What if they were laid on her bed to keep her warm? What if he brought them here to give to Mistress Meg and Master George, on purpose?’

  ‘The daft coot made a mistake if so,’ said Gladys. ‘Mistress Meg and Master George, they’ve both had the cowpox, ain’t they? That’s what Brockley said when he come back from there, the time you enquired after them. Folk get it from cows. Helped in the milking when they was young, I don’t doubt. They won’t get the smallpox now. Folk that’ve had the little one never get the big one. Milkmaids have the best complexions in the land. My mam always made sure we young ’uns milked cows regular, and that was why.’

  ‘Yes, I know that theory,’ I said. ‘And now they’re safe in Buckinghamshire, well away from Ferris and his schemes. Sybil, this idea of yours wants talking over. I’m going to fetch my husband. Will you find Brockley and Dale and bring them here as well? Gladys, stay here. I think we all need to put our heads together.’

  It was instinctive for me to bring Brockley and Dale to our counsels. We had worked together so often. We were as much a team as a hound pack. Hugh and the Brockleys listened in astonishment to what Sybil and I had to tell them, while Gladys sat nodding her head in agreement at frequent intervals.

  At the end of the recital, Hugh said: ‘Let us get it all quite clear. Sybil thinks that Ferris actually tried to endanger Meg and George by giving them cloaks infected with smallpox? Perhaps to hurt Ursula?’

  ‘It’s possible, yes,’ Sybil told him. ‘And I’ve remembered something else. Christina Cobbold caught the disease, didn’t she? Well, on the morning after the wedding, she borrowed one of those cloaks to wear while she went roaming round the garden.’

  Brockley said: ‘And if Ferris did bring the cloaks with that intent, then was he acting for the Countess Anne of Northumberland?’

  ‘I can’t see that he’d be acting for himself,’ Hugh said. ‘Why ever should he? But on behalf of Anne Percy . . . that’s different. Cecil has confirmed that Ferris and the Countess are related and are acquainted with each other, if not closely. But if the lady is using Ferris as an instrument of revenge, how are we to prove it?’

  ‘Search his house or haul him in for questioning and show him a rack!’ said Brockley savagely. ‘If he was responsible for Brown Berry . . .’

  ‘Cecil won’t,’ I said. ‘You know that, Brockley; you heard him say so. But if Cecil traces Bart Twelvetrees and he turns out to be the courier, that could give us the answer.’

  ‘And if Twelvetrees says the only letter he ever carried that came from the Netherlands was the one he brought here?’ asked Brockley.

  ‘If!’ I snorted, but then admitted defeat. ‘Well, I see no other way of finding out. Ferris knows me, so I can’t enter his service under false pretences and pry into his correspondence. If anything, that’s a relief,’ I added.

  My work for the queen and Cecil had obliged me, at times, to do many strange and sometimes dangerous things, but of all the tasks that it had brought me, reading other people’s letters was the one I most detested. It felt so intrusive, and I was always afraid of being caught, especially when I had to spend time on picking the locks of document boxes or desks or cupboards. This time, I couldn’t possibly be tempted to undertake such a thing. I couldn’t say I regretted it.

  Then Sybil, quite calmly, said: ‘Ferris doesn’t know me. I wasn’t in the hall when he burst in, and I’ve never been introduced to him.’

  I gazed at her in astonishment. I was so used to Sybil as a companion. She had been a friend for me, a chaperone for Meg, a guardian for Gladys, even a surrogate mistress of the house when I was away. But never had I asked her to take part in any of my secret tasks for Cecil or the queen. She had known hard times before we met, which in my opinion was a good reason why she should never be required to endure any more of them.

  Yet now, as though my venturesome nature were as contagious as the smallpox, she seemed to think she was expected to face danger on my behalf. But she’d had no practice at such things; I valued her too highly; and besides . . .

  ‘You were with us when we dined at his home, that once,’ I said. ‘I know it was a long time ago, but surely you were there? I must have introduced you.’

  ‘No, the invitation was only for you and your husband,’ said Sybil. ‘You came back and said White Towers was like a simple manor house trying to ape a palace, and that the dishes were more elaborate than appetizing.’

  ‘Her previous husband,’ said Hugh, nodding towards me, ‘nicknamed her Saltspoon because of her habit of saying things like that. No, Sybil wasn’t with us on that occasion. But, Sybil . . .’

  ‘Quite,’ I said. ‘Sybil, I don’t want you to put yourself at any kind of risk. If this man is acting for Anne Percy then he’s dangerous.’

  ‘I should be very careful,’ said Sybil. ‘I’ve already thought how to go about it. I don’t think I need incur much risk. The only thing is, Mistress Stannard, I think you should show me how to pick a lock.’

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘Once and for all, no. We can’t let you do this.’

  ‘Indeed we can’t,’ said Hugh. ‘And – well, I should be loath to deprive my wife of your company because I know how much she values it. But if you persist in this, Sybil, remember that I am the master of this house and I could send you away. Take heed. You must not attempt this.’

  ‘I should be sorry to leave Hawkswood,’ said Sybil, with an air of formidable determination that I had never seen in her before. ‘But I am not your employee, Master Stannard. I am not paid for anything I do here. I have an adequate income from leasing out the pie shop in Cambridge. On that I could live quietly by myself, or else I could go to my married daughter. She and her husband would willingly give me a home. They have even suggested it. If you order me out, I will do one of those two things. But I will go to White Towers first. Please understand, I am not asking your permission for this.’

  ‘Sybil!’ I protested.

  ‘If you won’t show me how to pick a lock, I’ll have to rely on chance, or on stealthily borrowing whatever keys I need, or even having them copied. I owe you a great deal, Mistress Stannard, and here’s a way of repaying it. I will do so even if you or your husband choose to dismiss me. If I succeed . . .’ She gave us her sweetest smile, which was always beguiling. ‘Well, perhaps you’ll take me back.’

  ‘If only,’ I said, ‘we could get White Towers officially searched, as Brockley recommends, or have Master Ferris questioned!’

  ‘We can’t,’ said Hugh frankly. ‘Cecil’s made that clear. His hands are tied, by royal policy on one side – the queen is trying to draw the Pope’s teeth by not persecuting Catholics – and by foresight on the other. If Ferris were to be questioned, he’d talk his way out of it. Cecil was right about that, I fancy. Ferris would say that a fit of temper over his son’s love affair made him burst into our feast and shout at us. As for Dorothy’s dying words – I expect he’d say you and Sybil made them up because you were angry about the way he burst into Meg’s feast. I would, in his place.’

  ‘There were the cloaks,’ said Dale.

  ‘Cloaks?’ sa
id Hugh. ‘He’d say don’t talk nonsense. Perfectly good cloaks, and he thought they’d be appreciated. He’d slide away from questioning like an oiled snake. But . . . dear God,’ said Hugh, suddenly furious. ‘If Ferris did plant infected cloaks on us, then Dorothy was probably one of his victims. He clearly doesn’t worry too much about the safety of his own employees! Damn the man! And yet, Ferris isn’t the one who has complained to the sheriff about you, Ursula. That was Jane Cobbold!’

  ‘I know,’ I said. ‘And that’s as extraordinary as the attack on you, Brockley. But we’re getting off the point. Sybil mustn’t be allowed—’

  ‘You don’t need to allow anything. I repeat, it’s my choice,’ said Sybil. ‘I mean to get into that house.’

  Dale said: ‘If Mistress Jester is so determined, ma’am, might it not be better to show her how to pick locks, as she asks? Then she could open document boxes and things more quickly, and wouldn’t that be safer?’

  ‘Yes, it would,’ said Sybil. ‘I told you I’d been thinking things out. I could rent a cottage, at Priors Ford, perhaps. I’ve never been there, and I don’t suppose anyone there would recognize me. Once I’m installed, I’ll go to White Towers saying I’m a widow looking for work as a sempstress. I think Priors Ford belongs to the Ferrises, too – I would be their tenant. That might encourage them to employ me.’

  ‘For the love of heaven!’ said Hugh in despairing tones.

  ‘If the Ferrises like to live in style, and you say they do, Mistress Stannard,’ said Sybil, ‘well, people like that are always wanting new clothes and curtains and cushion covers. I expect they miss Dorothy and are sorry they can’t ever get her back. Once I get my foot over that threshold, I’ll seize what opportunities I can. I’ll use my maiden name and call myself Sybil Jackman, just in case the Ferrises have heard that there’s a lady in your household whose name is Jester. Sybil is ordinary enough; I needn’t change that. Surely you see that we need evidence, if we’re to put a stop to all these mysterious happenings, and I’m the only one who may be able to get it.’

  Hugh groaned. ‘Is there anything in the world more maddening than an obstinate woman?’

  I said: ‘You can’t take a cottage all alone and still seem respectable.’ I was capitulating. I knew it. I looked at Hugh, and he rolled his eyes upwards in surrender. ‘We’d better lend you a maidservant,’ I told Sybil. ‘Take little Tessie. I understand she is quite useful in the kitchen, and we can manage without her now that Netta’s nearly well again.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Sybil.

  ‘Madness,’ said Hugh. ‘Utter madness. This is probably the only household in the land where the idea could even be considered!’

  But, of course, we were such a household. I had a thoroughly unconventional past, perhaps because I had an unconventional nature. The queen and Cecil had used it; Hugh had accepted me as I was, and he accepted the situations that seemed to follow me as a tail follows a dog. He said no more about dismissing Sybil. The matter was apparently decided. Sybil had decided it.

  Tessie raised no objection, though that wasn’t surprising. Our youngest maidservant was not only frightened of our rather aggressive black cockerel (which seemed to know it, and to enjoy flying at her and pecking her if possible), she also gave the impression of being frightened of almost everything. I knew that she had been orphaned young and reared by an aunt and uncle, just as I had, and suspected that her relatives had been harsh with her. She seemed anxious to please and was most unlikely to object to anything at all that we asked of her.

  ‘Well,’ Hugh said, ‘since I see that the plan is going to go ahead whatever I may think, I had better offer some help. If Sybil is going to go off with your picklocks, Ursula, I think we should have them copied so that you can still have a set. I doubt if you’ll feel properly equipped for life unless you do. The blacksmith in Hawkswood village has worked for me all his life and won’t ask questions. Brockley, you will take the picklocks to him to copy – get two extra sets made while you’re about it. Then Ursula can show Sybil how to use them.’

  Tessie and Sybil went off the next Monday, riding pillion behind Arthur and Brockley on Roundel and one of the coach horses, with a set of picklocks in a pouch sewn inside Sybil’s skirt. Both she and Brockley had learned to use them, because as Brockley said dryly (and in my hearing), given madam’s temperament, one never knew when such a skill might prove handy. Sybil, though, had mastered them faster than he had.

  A quarter of a mile short of Priors Ford, she and Tessie dismounted and went the rest of the way on foot, carrying their belongings on their backs. By arrangement, Tessie met Brockley outside the village that evening and said that they hadn’t been able to find a vacant house, but had found lodgings. A widow with a large cottage was glad to let her upstairs rooms and was prepared to share her kitchen. Mistress Jester meant to go to White Towers in the morning to enquire for work.

  After that, for over a week, we heard nothing.

  Nothing alarming happened, either. We did not hear from Edward Heron, and there were no more mysterious attacks. Brockley’s twisted ankle improved, and he ceased to limp. He and Arthur went to a market in Guildford to buy a replacement for Brown Berry and came back with a sturdy dark bay cob, a gelding, about eight years old, fifteen and a half hands, with an off-white nose, suggesting that a moorland pony featured somewhere in his ancestry. He was being sold only because his owner had died, leaving no heirs except an elderly aunt, and the establishment was being turned into money for her benefit. The cob’s name, in honour of his pale muzzle, was Mealy.

  Brockley had ridden to Guildford on Roundel but rode his new acquisition back, leading the mare. ‘This lad’s good-natured and sound,’ Brockley said, slipping to the ground and stroking Mealy’s nose. ‘We’ll be friends, I think. Poor Berry. I hope nothing like that happens to this fellow, anyway.’

  Half the household was out in the courtyard, admiring the new purchase, when a young woman arrived, on foot, asking for me. She was a small, freckled girl, no older than twenty, with pale red hair and white eyelashes. Her best claim to beauty lay in her big grey-green eyes. She was well spoken, though, and well dressed, with a dark cloak over a tawny velvet gown with a green silk kirtle. She said her name was Margaret Emory.

  The next part of this narrative belongs to Margaret. She was there; I wasn’t. She shall tell it, in her own words, just as she told it to me.

  TWELVE

  Enter Margaret Emory

  My name is Margaret Emory, as I’ve said. Until yesterday, I lived with my parents at Greenlease Farm, a mile or two the other side of White Towers, where the Ferrises live. Greenlease isn’t as big a place as White Towers, but it’s a fair size; we’re not poor. We look on the Ferrises as friends and more or less as equals, and my parents have always thought that one day we might be more than that. All the same, it came as a surprise – well, a shock! – when, a few days ago, they told me to pick out whatever clothes and so on I wanted to take with me, because I was to leave home and go to White Towers. Where Thomas Ferris, my future husband, lived.

  ‘You’re to stay with his family until the wedding,’ my father said. ‘Master Walter Ferris wishes it. You won’t feel too strange; after all, you’ve always known it’s what we were planning for you, given that Thomas turned out well, and he has. He’s a nice-looking, healthy lad. He’ll make you a good husband. Our two families’ve been friends since Adam and Eve, I reckon.’

  ‘It’s what we want for you, sweeting,’ my mother said. ‘A future in a family with a house like White Towers, with a big hall and a topiary garden and all. We’ve worked and saved for this – we’ve been saving for your dowry ever since you were born, and it’s as good a dowry as their girl Lucy had. In fact, it’s a little better!’

  ‘I won’t say it’s all gone as smooth as we hoped,’ Father said grumblingly. My father isn’t a light-hearted man. ‘We’ve had an understanding with Walter Ferris for years, but when we wanted to come to the point, he started humming and haw
ing. Got it into his head that he could do better, I suppose. Can’t think where, since there’s not another Catholic family round here that I know of.’

  ‘He’s got connections elsewhere; I suppose he could ask them to find a bride for Thomas,’ my mother said. ‘It’s worried us a lot.’

  ‘They’re only connections by marriage,’ Father said grudgingly. ‘His direct ancestry’s nothing special! If we ain’t got forebears who fought at Agincourt or went on crusade or came over with the Conqueror, neither has he. But some cousin of his dad’s married into a family of that sort, and so Ferris thinks a lot of himself. I’ve had to work to get this match made final for you, my girl.’

  Timidly, I said: ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘Your dowry ain’t just money, girl. I had to do Walter a couple of favours – rather odd ones, but he said it was all in order and important, and he promised that, all going well, Thomas should be your husband and we’d clap hands on the deal. And so we did, in the end. I’m thankful. Your mother’s right. This here’s what we want for you.’

  But – I was being sent away from home. It was all too sudden, and I felt frightened. My mother sensed it, I think. ‘You’ll not be getting wed straightaway,’ she said. ‘Seems the Ferrises want you to feel settled with them first, and they’re saying next spring for the wedding. It’s only October now. That will give you time, so they say, to fix Thomas’s interest. They’re expecting you in two days’ time.’

  I didn’t argue; of course not. I’d been taught, ever since I was tiny, that a daughter should obey her parents, and although I had of course heard tales and legends of romantic lovers, like Sir Lancelot and Queen Guinevere, and I had heard songs about love, I had never thought of such things as real. I knew that my parents had had their marriage arranged for them by their own parents; I knew that for me they had their eyes on Thomas. It did not occur to me to raise objections.