Queen's Bounty

by FIONA BUCKLEY

  ‘You’d blame yourself for ever,’ said Hugh heavily. ‘And if I had stopped you, you would blame me too. I would go myself, except that I can’t climb ladders, not with my rheumatics, and in an emergency, I couldn’t run away. As things are . . . Brockley, there was an occasion when I actually did command your mistress to undertake a certain task for the queen. It was against her will, but I insisted, and it led her into great danger. She has never once reproached me for it. But if I now hold her back against her will – either by claiming my right to forbid her or by using force – and Sybil comes to harm, I think that then she might well reproach me. Am I right, Ursula?’

  I shook my head. ‘No, Hugh. I wouldn’t hold such a thing against you, of course I wouldn’t. But I want to get Sybil out of that man’s hands, and I believe I can. Let me go with your blessing.’

  Exasperatedly, Brockley said: ‘I know you, madam, the same as Gladys does. Once again, you’ve heard the wild geese calling.’

  I had first met Sybil some years ago, in Cambridge. As we rode through East Anglia on our way there, I had been interested by the skeins of wild geese that crossed the skies early each morning and again in the evening. They flew in V formations, honking in wild voices. I had been riding beside Rob Henderson, the friend who had for a while been Meg’s foster father and who had come with his wife to see her married. Speaking of the geese, I had said to him: ‘Their calls always seem to be full of salt winds and vast empty spaces.’

  And he had said that this told him something about my nature. ‘Will you ever settle for domestic peace?’ he asked me. ‘Or will the wild geese call to you for the rest of your life?’

  Brockley had overheard. He had, since then, made it clear that he saw me in much the same way, and I knew that there was truth in it. I did want to be the one who climbed the ladder to rescue Sybil, not just because Brockley might indeed half-kill Walter Ferris if he got the chance, and not just because Walter Ferris would probably have Brockley taken up on a serious charge if he had the chance, but also because . . . I wanted to be the one to climb the ladder.

  I had been glad, I thought, to leave adventuring behind and settle down to a peaceful home-loving life with Hugh. But now a new opportunity of adventure had come, and one so near my heart, in such a good cause!

  Hugh had foreseen something of the kind. He had said so, when we were on our way home from Alice Cobbold’s wedding. Brockley had recognized it now. The wild geese were calling once again, and yes, I wished to answer.

  Dale was the one who said anxiously: ‘What about dogs? Aren’t there dogs? Could anyone get in, just like that, without guard dogs giving the alarm?’

  ‘Oddly enough,’ Hugh said, ‘they probably can. There’s no gatehouse at White Towers, just the lodge at the entrance to the grounds, a couple of hundred yards from the house. When I drove up, a pair of mastiffs rushed out on to the path, barking to tell the lodge keeper that someone had called. But I didn’t see any dogs at the house, except for Mistress Bridget’s lapdog. It yelped at me as if it wanted to bite me. Then, on my way out, while the lodge keeper was opening the gates wide enough for the coach, I put my head out of the window and chatted to him. I didn’t want to behave as if I were leaving the place with my tail between my legs. The mastiffs were making a racket again. I admired them and said I might like to try Hero with one of them next time she’s in season, and see what kind of puppies resulted, and I asked – just casually – if the dogs ran loose in the grounds at night as well.’

  It occurred to me that Hugh had been ahead of me all the time.

  ‘What did he say?’ I asked.

  ‘He said they were chained up at night. They used to run free, but there was some trouble over it. Once or twice, apparently, at night when no one was around to keep an eye on them, they went off on illicit hunting trips and got into the patch of woodland inside the grounds where Ferris rears pheasants and gobbled some of them up. Ferris was furious, and now the dogs are chained up at the lodge from dusk to dawn. And the lodge is on the south side of the grounds. The attics look north, you said, Ursula?’

  ‘Yes, I think they must do.’

  Hugh left his seat by the fire and went to his desk, where he pulled a sheet of paper out of a drawer and took up a quill. ‘The one time that Ursula and I both dined at White Towers,’ he said, ‘Bridget Ferris showed Ursula round it, but the men stayed at the dinner table drinking strong liquors. I don’t know the inside of the place at all well, because the present house is only a few years old. When Walter Ferris inherited after his father was murdered, the original house was still there – it was a small manor house, older than Hawkswood, and it was called The Oaks because the woodland roundabout is mostly oak. Walter had it pulled down and had the present place built instead. But if I hardly know the inside of White Towers, I do know the grounds and the surroundings. Ferris’s father sometimes invited me to dine, and I’ve often walked in the gardens there. I don’t suppose the grounds have changed much. They’re like this. Look.’

  As he spoke, he had been drawing a sketch. He held it up. ‘See. Here’s the house and the boundary fence that goes all the way round the grounds. Here are the woods that go round outside the fence except on the western side, and here – on the eastern side of the grounds – is the patch of wood where Ferris raises his pheasants. And here, to the north, are the gardens.’

  ‘The attics overlook them,’ I said. ‘I remember that. So the attics do look north.’

  ‘Round to the west there’s a paddock and a bowling alley and the archery butts,’ Hugh said. He gave Brockley a quick frown which kept my manservant quiet. ‘The only entrances to the grounds are the lodge gates – here to the south – and the little side gate into the pheasants’ wood, the one that Margaret Emory said she used when she ran out of the place to warn us about Sybil. She said it would be bolted on the inside so it isn’t much use to us, and it’s not in the right place, anyway. Now, here’s the main track that leads through the woods to the lodge gate, and here, branching off before the lodge is in sight, is another track that would take you round to the north boundary. It’s probably just wide enough for a cart, which is a good thing because you’ll need a cart to carry the ladder. I’m not sure we have a ladder long enough, but there’s a thatcher in Hawkswood, Harry Dodd, who has. It’s one of those double affairs that extend. I’ll borrow it from him.’

  ‘It will be heavy. It will need two of us anyway,’ said Brockley. ‘Though, with or without the ladder, I’m going with her.’

  ‘What about your ankle?’ I said.

  ‘It’s as near completely better as makes no difference. I suggest, madam, that I should take Arthur with me, or young Joseph, while you stay here in safety.’

  ‘No, Brockley! I agree that I’ll need help with the ladder, so all right, you and I will go together. But no one else is to run into danger for me. See here, Brockley, I’ve rescued you from imprisonment in the past. I did that because I value you. I value Sybil in the same way.’

  ‘Master Stannard!’ Brockley once more turned to Hugh for support.

  ‘I think,’ said Hugh, ‘that I have already agreed to let her go, and I won’t renege on that. Ursula is experienced, after all.’

  ‘Very well,’ said Brockley, but angrily.

  Dale’s expression was bleak. She was biting her lip, hiding her feelings as, once again, Brockley and I laid plans to go adventuring together.

  ‘Now,’ said Hugh, pressing on. ‘Details. The cart you use can’t be big because the track you’ll have to take isn’t that wide. The smaller farm wagon could get along it, the one I designed myself with the hinged back that unbolts and drops down to make a tailboard. Even then, the ladder will stick out beyond it. But it will do.’

  ‘That wagon only needs one horse,’ said Brockley thoughtfully. ‘We had best take one of the coach horses.’

  ‘And wait until full dark before you start out,’ Hugh added. ‘I’ll explain things to Wilder and send him to the village to talk to Harry Dodd.�
��

  Dodd agreed to lend his ladder, though none too willingly. ‘Had to know what we wanted it for,’ Wilder told us. ‘Or he wouldn’t have let us have it. He’s got others, but not so long as this one, and he said he never knew when he’d need his special, as he calls it. I had to make it clear it was life or death for Mistress Jester.’

  Dodd and his son brought it to us just after dinner, trundling it on the home-made handcart they used for carrying it about. When night had fallen and Brockley and I were ready to leave, we met in the hall, with Hugh and Dale and Gladys to see us off. From Brockley, I had borrowed breeches, a linen shirt and a buff coat, all of them a trifle loose on me but suitable for scrambling over fences and up a ladder. I had a set of picklocks in one of the coat pockets. Just as we assembled, Joan Flood appeared, unbidden, with cinnamon cakes and marchpane fancies and mulled wine especially for me and Brockley. My unusual attire clearly didn’t surprise her at all.

  ‘We all know where you’re bound, madam, Master Brockley,’ she said. ‘So I thought I’d bring something to warm you before you start off for that White Towers place. Sky’s cleared, but it’s still proper parky out there. I know! I been to the village after dinner, knocked up that woman as sells spices and bought some fresh cinnamon sticks.’

  ‘How did you know where we’re going?’ Brockley demanded. ‘Does the whole house know?’

  ‘Probably,’ said Hugh. ‘Wilder had to explain things to Dodd, and you know how talkative the Dodds are. Didn’t they have something to eat in the kitchen here before they went home? Having their mouths full wouldn’t stop them talking. What of it? The whole business will be over before the news can spread beyond this house.’

  ‘Dodd’s a blabbermouth,’ said Brockley bluntly. ‘And so’s his son. But I won’t say no to a warm drink and a cinnamon cake, all the same.’

  I was glad of them too and thanked Joan for thinking of it. And then it was really time to go. At the last minute, Hugh brought me a small dagger to hang from my belt. ‘A means of defence is always useful, and I see that Brockley has a dagger too. But, Brockley, you are not to attack Ferris, even if you get the chance. I mean it!’

  We went outside. Hero and Hector, who, unlike the White Towers mastiffs, were never chained up at night, frisked excitedly round us as we put the ladder on the cart, evidently hoping to be taken too, and Arthur Watts came out to see us off. He asked to be in the party, but I shook my head at him, and Hugh said: ‘The fewer people on this expedition, the better!’

  At the last minute, John Hawthorn appeared, along with the Floods, Netta and Tessie. The news certainly had permeated right through the house. They all said things like good luck and Godspeed, and they all kept their voices low, as though they feared that an enemy might overhear them.

  Brockley climbed into the cart. Just as I was about to follow, Hugh took my arm and drew me aside. Very quietly, he said: ‘If I were younger and fitter, you wouldn’t be doing this, Ursula. I would do it for you; you know I would. You didn’t marry me for love, but believe me, I love you.’

  ‘I know, and Hugh, I do love you, only I can’t desert Sybil . . .’

  ‘No, you are loyal. To her and to me. Though I sometimes wonder what would happen if Matthew de la Roche were suddenly to appear, in person, at Hawkswood.’

  ‘Hugh!’ I was shaken. This was entirely the wrong moment to discuss such a matter, and I didn’t want to discuss it anyway, under any circumstances. The truth was that I had sometimes wondered the same thing. I had never known any tranquillity with Matthew, yet he was the most beautiful man I ever saw, and the memory of his love-making would melt my very bones for the rest of my life. If it ever came to such a direct and immediate point, which man would prevail? I hoped I would never know the answer.

  ‘It’s all right,’ Hugh said. ‘I just wanted you to know how much you matter to me. I shall worry through all the hours until you return. I beg you to take care.’ He glanced up at Brockley and called to him: ‘Look after her, Roger. I am entrusting her to you. And look after yourself too.’

  ‘I’ll do that, sir, never fear.’

  Hugh stepped back, and I joined Brockley on the cart. I took the reins and chirruped to the horse. As we finally went out through the gatehouse, Brockley said: ‘I wish to heaven you weren’t here, madam. You shouldn’t be here. Master Stannard should have stopped you. I would, in his place. Will you never learn?’

  ‘When I’m too old to leave the fireside, perhaps,’ I said, trying to make him smile. I failed.

  ‘By this time next year,’ he said, ‘you’ll probably be a grandmother.’

  I couldn’t think of an answer.

  FOURTEEN

  Mission by Night

  We went on for a long time without speaking. The sky was perfectly clear now but it was indeed very cold, and though the moon was up, it was still young and cast little light, while the track was overhung by trees. In the darkness, we missed the fork to the track leading to the north side of White Towers, only realizing our mistake when we saw the roof and chimneys of the lodge outlined against the stars.

  ‘We’ve got to turn round,’ I said.

  It was difficult, because the trees and bushes were so close on either side and the ladder stuck out so much. We had to lift it off and lay it on the ground, turn the cart round and then put it back as soon as we were facing away from the lodge. At least we hadn’t gone close enough to rouse the dogs. We drove slowly back, found the turn we should have taken, and steered our load into it.

  This path was barely wide enough for the cart, and it was not merely overhung but roofed by branches. Tree roots jutted into the track. There was a sharp tang of autumn in the air and the smell of leaves and leaf mould. Twigs brushed the sides of the cart, and the wagon wheels bumped over the roots, but the damp earth deadened the horse’s hoofs so our progress was fairly quiet. Once or twice we heard faint rustlings in the woods, but whatever creatures had made them never appeared. I felt no fear of them, however. It was not like the night when I followed Christina through the gardens of Hawkswood. Now, I was on a mission to outwit people who might well be dangerous, but were entirely human.

  However, when an owl hooted, always a spine-tingling sound in the dead of night, I was moved to break our renewed silence by remarking: ‘I’ve been accused of witchcraft, Brockley. Do you believe in witches?’

  ‘No,’ said Brockley uncompromisingly.

  ‘What would you do if a coven of cackling hags on broomsticks suddenly swooped down on us?’

  ‘Shout boo very loudly, madam, and they’d all fall off their brooms. It always works.’

  I chuckled, and so did he. It was one of the absurd, companionable jokes that we often shared. We couldn’t get out of the habit. Hugh, wise Hugh, was tolerant, but it would have wounded Dale to hear us.

  ‘There’s the boundary fence,’ said Brockley.

  The track had brought us to the locked gate into the private wood, but it continued on, following the curve of the fence. We made our way along it, and I was relieved to find that, from now on, there were places where the trees thinned out and we could see some of the stars. We couldn’t find the Pole Star, but glimpses of the Plough told us where it must be. Without that, we would have found it hard to be sure when we’d reached the northern edge of the grounds.

  Finally, Brockley said: ‘I think we’re on the north side now. Stop.’ We halted and secured the horse to a tree, using a knot that could be freed with a single tug. Then we carried the heavy double ladder to the fence.

  The fencing was solid, providing no footholds, but nevertheless, this part of the adventure was not too challenging. The ground was level, and we could base the ladder safely. It jutted well above the fence, but Brockley, going up first, swung himself easily off the rungs to sit sideways on the top. I climbed up after him. I was more awkward about getting off the ladder, but Brockley gave me a helpful shove so that I too could perch myself on the fence, with the ladder between us.

  We did have some d
ifficulty with dragging it up from below and tilting it to drop on the other side, and we couldn’t help making a little noise, but we were a long way from the house as yet. I was thankful for the freedom of movement that my breeches gave me. ‘All right,’ Brockley whispered at last, after shaking the ladder to make sure it was firm in its new position. ‘Follow me down.’

  He descended quickly, and I followed. Getting back on was easier than getting off. I stepped off at the foot, and there we were, inside the boundary of White Towers. There were trees all round us, but just here the wood had narrowed and we had only fifty yards to go before we emerged into the garden, which we must cross to reach the house itself.

  We advanced with caution along a path between vegetable beds, carrying the ladder between us. It was an awkward burden, and we went slowly. We came to a yew hedge and passed through an archway into a topiary garden. Now we could see the house ahead of us, quite clearly, for its white walls showed even in this faint moonlight, and its chimneys were as visible against the sky as those of the lodge had been.

  ‘Here we go,’ Brockley said. He glanced back. ‘I like the way the wood grows right up to the fence. We can use it if we have to run for it without the ladder. I dare say you can climb a tree if you have to, madam.’

  ‘I hope so,’ I said. Out of memory, I dredged a telling phrase. ‘It would be a matter of using what’s there, as Carew Trelawny used to say.’

  ‘Yes. My old friend,’ Brockley said soberly, and for a moment I know we were both remembering Trelawny. He had been a short, dark, tough Cornishman with a small pointed beard. He had been so resourceful, so brave and so full of laughter that other people could catch fire from him. Just to be with him put heart into one.

  ‘You must miss him,’ I said. I was missing him myself. Now that we were here, I was cold with dread and could have done with Trelawny’s heartening company.

  ‘Always,’ said Brockley. ‘But we must just manage. And I wish it wasn’t a matter of we. You shouldn’t be here. Getting into other people’s houses at night, creeping about, rescuing prisoners, it’s no work for a lady.’