‘May I once more remind you how, long ago, I rescued you from imprisonment? In a cellar, if I remember rightly. You didn’t mind me getting into someone else’s house that night.’
Brockley, in answer, merely snorted.
We went on. It seemed a lengthy plod through the topiary garden. The tall yew trees were carved at the top into spheres and cones and cylinders, and the main path through them curved annoyingly. The ladder kept hitting them. Brockley muttered under his breath and steered us to the right, where there was another, straighter path, close to a low hedge, box this time. Glancing over it, I could make out a paddock, and quite nearby I could see the archery targets that Hugh had mentioned. The moon wasn’t big enough to show details, but the white circles in the target picked up what light there was. Brockley noticed too.
‘Someone here certainly likes shooting,’ he muttered.
We left the topiary and plodded on through a knot garden. Then we found ourselves on a wide gravel path encircling the house. Brockley halted us. ‘That’ll be the west tower, to the right. That window beside it will be the attic you think Sybil’s in?’
‘Yes. Will the ladder reach it?’
‘Just, I reckon, if we extend it as far as it’ll go.’
We worked quickly, drawing it out to its greatest length, fixing the hooks and bolts that held its two sections together, and then put it against the wall, once more making sure it was securely placed. ‘We don’t want accidents,’ said Brockley grimly. ‘It only just goes high enough. It’ll mean climbing up all of it.’
I went to take hold and start the climb. And then he put a hand on my forearm and said: ‘No.’
‘What do you mean?’ I muttered at him.
His fingers tightened. ‘Master Stannard asked me to look after you, and I intend to. I am going up. You are not.’
‘Of course I am! It was agreed. It—’
‘You are not. You are precious to Master Stannard, more than you know. Letting you do things like this! I can’t understand it. He’s either a saint or a fool, I don’t know which, but I’ll guard his back if he won’t guard it for himself. I’ll look after both of you.’
‘Brockley, you’re supposed to be my manservant. It’s your duty to take my orders.’
‘Not this time, madam. Now, you hold this damned ladder while I go up and get Sybil. And don’t argue. We can’t have raised voices now!’
That was true enough. Seething, I gave in. I stood holding the ladder firm while Brockley disappeared up it.
And then I heard the baying of the dogs.
The mastiffs were not chained up at the lodge tonight. By the sound of them, they were round the corner, on the west side of the house, but drawing nearer. I let go of the ladder and ran towards the sound, hoping to heaven that they had handlers with them who would restrain them from actually sinking their teeth into me but wanting to stop the said handlers from catching sight of Brockley.
I was used to dogs and knew that quite fierce ones could sometimes be disconcerted by a quarry that rushed at them instead of running away. When you train guard dogs, you use their hunting instincts, the ancient urges that make them want to chase their dinner. Dinner that marches towards them, shouting, ‘Down, sir!’ stands a chance of confusing them.
So: ‘Down, sir!’ I bawled as I rounded the corner of the house and found myself, as I expected, confronting the dogs. I drew my dagger, in case they attacked, and hoped that Brockley had heard them, was hearing me, and would make his escape quickly enough.
The dogs continued to bay, but yes, they were on leashes. They were straining towards me but were being held back. I made out the shadowy figures of the men behind them. I stopped.
Someone snapped an order to the dogs, and they subsided. The reception party came up to me.
‘Well, well,’ said Walter Ferris. ‘If it isn’t Mistress Stannard in person. Come to rescue your friend Sybil Jester, I take it! Where’s your man Brockley? He’s with you, don’t lie!’
‘No, he’s not!’ I retorted. ‘I wouldn’t let him. I forbade it. I’d put Sybil in danger; I wasn’t going to do that to anybody else!’
‘Bah! Your husband never let you come alone; don’t expect me to believe that.’
‘No, he didn’t. I slipped out without him knowing. We don’t share a room,’ I said mendaciously. ‘I’ve left a note where he’ll find it in the morning.’
The dogs scented me, but they can’t tell their handlers if they’ve scented Brockley as well. Escape, Brockley! Get down that ladder and get away and warn Hugh!
‘By God, I’m glad you’re not my wife!’ Ferris sounded disgusted. ‘I’d kill my wife if she ever behaved as you do – as you have a reputation for doing! Look at you!’ He glowered at what he could see of me by starlight and a quarter of a moon. ‘Wearing breeches like a man! And carrying a dagger! Give that here!’ He snatched it from me. ‘You’re a disgrace!’
‘Mary of Scotland has been known to wear breeches,’ I said. ‘When escaping from places, or hunting, or riding to war.’
‘Queens can do as they please. Other women cannot. You can rest assured that your friend Sybil is quite safe. You shall join her!’ He turned to the dog-handlers. ‘Get on round the house and see if you can find anyone else. I don’t trust the lady an inch.’
After which, he turned without warning from bully to perfect gentleman and presented a crooked elbow for my convenience. ‘Perhaps you would take my arm, my lady.’
FIFTEEN
Useless Proof
He had six men with him. Two of them went off with the dogs, but the other four surrounded us as I was taken indoors, as though even now Ferris feared I might break free. We went in by what proved to be the kitchen door. A single flambeau at the far end cast a wavering light over pinewood tables and a wide fireplace with a banked fire, and caught metallic gleams from cooking pots and utensils. No one was there, however. In many houses, kitchen servants bed down in front of the hearth, but here, as at Hawkswood, it seemed that the servants had proper sleeping quarters.
I had taken Ferris’s arm as requested, or ordered. It felt iron-hard, the kind of arm that would be reassuring if it belonged to a friend but was frightening when it was attached to an enemy.
I was walked across the room and then through a low door on the right, which opened on to stone steps going downwards. One of the men took the flambeau from its bracket to light our way. Ferris detached himself from me and pushed me down the steps ahead of him.
Brockley, did you escape? Was there time? You won’t have the ladder; you can’t run carrying that. You’ll have to climb a tree to get over the fence. Have you managed it? Get away, Brockley; tell Hugh what’s happened. You must have heard the dogs and me shouting at them and being taken. You had a chance. Pray God you took it!
‘We’re going to keep you close,’ Ferris told me. ‘But you won’t be alone. We moved Mistress Jackman down here just before nightfall. After your husband’s visit, I did wonder if there would be an attempt to rescue her, and so, on second thoughts, the cellar seemed a wiser choice. You will find bedding there. Myself, I wouldn’t have troubled to set out mattresses for intruders, even female ones, but my good wife suggested that if you and Mistress Jackman appeared before the sheriff looking too scruffy, it might not reflect well on this house. You and we are all gentlefolk of standing, and there are proprieties to observe. My wife is a fool, as most women are, but once in a while she says something sensible, and clearly she had my welfare – my good name in this case – at heart. The sheriff will be here tomorrow. How you’ll be treated once you’re in his hands, of course I can’t say. He may be less good-hearted than I am. Watch your footing. Not that these steps are unduly steep. Wine barrels have to be carried up them, after all. Here we are.’
And here, indeed, we were, at the foot of the stairs, facing a cellar door. By the light of the flambeau, I recognized Peter Maine as he moved ahead of us, produced a bunch of keys, and unlocked the door.
‘One moment,�
�� said Ferris. ‘We took some lockpicking implements away from the Jackman woman. Mistress Stannard, you do have something of a reputation. Did you bring some along as well, in case they would be useful in releasing your friend? If so, hand them over to me. Unless you want us to search you for them.’
Sullenly, I felt in the pocket of my buff jacket and brought out the picklocks I had been carrying there.
‘Thank you,’ said Ferris, taking them from me. He nodded to Maine, who swung the door open. ‘It isn’t the first time you’ve been a prisoner in a wine cellar, I think,’ he said as he propelled me through. ‘Don’t get drunk, will you?’ The door shut behind me, and I heard Maine’s keys jangle as he locked it.
Before the door closed, the flambeau had given me a glimpse of what was in the cellar. I had seen a lot of barrels, set in rows, on one side of the room, and on the other side some rough-looking mattresses on the floor. On one of them, sitting up and blinking, clutching a blanket to her, white-faced and wide-eyed, was Sybil. As the door shut, the torchlight vanished, but after a moment I realized that there was a fair-sized grating high up on one wall, letting in a glint of moonlight. I could see enough to make my way to her.
‘It’s me,’ I said. ‘Ursula. Sybil, are you all right?’
‘Only frightened. Oh, Ursula!’ Her voice shook and then broke, and I threw myself down beside her and put my arms round her.
‘I’m here now. You’re not alone any more. Hugh will do something to help us, I know he will. Hush, now. Hush.’
‘I’m not as brave as I thought I was!’ Sybil tried to speak calmly. ‘I’m so glad to see you, but oh dear, I didn’t want you to be caught too! Did you come for me? I know that Margaret Emory reached you – she crept down here last evening and whispered through the door that she’d managed to get word to Hawkswood. She’s a nice girl. She’s the one Thomas Ferris is supposed to be going to marry. We made friends before I was taken, and I can’t understand why Thomas prefers Christina Cobbold to her! I gather that he does. She told me that when we talked through the door. There’s no accounting for love; it’s just not reasonable.’
‘No, it’s not,’ I agreed. My earlier marriages had taught me that. The mattress crackled under me, and I felt it with my palm. ‘Straw,’ I said with distaste. I felt about for the blanket. It had an unpleasant texture and it smelt, but I was cold. I pulled it over me and settled myself against Sybil, to share her warmth.
‘They don’t mean us to freeze,’ said Sybil. ‘Even if this sort of bedding is horrible, it’s better than lying on a stone floor. Oh, Ursula, I’m so sorry I let myself be caught. I must have been careless. But that pale, soft-footed creature Peter Maine wears silent shoes and slinks about like a cat!’ I had rarely heard the well-mannered Sybil sound so scathing. ‘He came into Ferris’s study while I was there, looking in the document box. I never heard him coming! Only, he said he’d already seen me through a window, so I suppose it wouldn’t have been any use thrusting the box back on to the shelf where I found it and saying I’d missed my way in an unfamiliar house. As it was, he caught me red-handed anyway.’
‘Brockley came with me,’ I said, ‘but with luck, he’s got away. Sybil, did you hear that remark about this wasn’t the first time I’d been a prisoner in a wine cellar? That’s evidence enough for me that Ferris has been in touch with Anne Percy, or she with him. A wine cellar is where she had me and Brockley locked up last winter.’
‘Oh, as to that . . .’ Sybil tried to laugh but it turned into a sob. ‘I found the proof you wanted. Useless, now that we’re both trapped in here, but before I was caught, I’d seen it. There was a letter to Ferris from Anne Percy in the Netherlands. Oh, Ursula!’ At home, among other people, she usually called me Mistress Stannard, but here in this underground prison, sharing fear and peril, the intimacy of Christian names seemed natural. ‘I had time to read most of it. It was horrible.’
‘What did it say? You’d better tell me.’
‘It was much as we’d thought – she was telling him to . . . to harm you and Brockley. That’s what we expected – but to see such things written down . . . such hatred. Such spite! It – she – tells Ferris . . . I think I can recall the words . . . for the love that kinsmen should have for each other, and for the child who has never seen her father, and for the glory of the Catholic church and the hopes of Mary Stuart of Scotland, and to avenge the indignity you put upon her – the Countess, I mean – he should find a way to destroy you. And also, before you are destroyed, to cause you to suffer in any way he can find. And Brockley too, because he helped you to defeat the rising and make a fool of her.’
‘She’s a proud lady,’ I said. ‘The trap Brockley and I laid for her in that kitchen probably made her as furious as our interference in matters of state! Hence the crossbow ambush, I think. It was nothing to do with the letter to Cecil. Brockley was right. He was the target. He was probably right about that business with the pearl necklace, too. Someone was trying to get him arrested for theft.’
‘In the letter, she calls him . . . calls him . . . Oh, Ursula!’
‘Tell me!’ I said. ‘I’d rather know.’
‘Your . . . lapdog,’ said Sybil, speaking very low. ‘And your . . . your . . . well, you told me that in her letter to you she suggested that he was . . . was . . .’
‘My lover? She’s wrong,’ I said, privately thanking heaven that I spoke the truth, near thing though it had once been.
‘I know,’ said Sybil. She added, in a more practical fashion: ‘The letter doesn’t actually give instructions about how Ferris should go about things, but she says she knows she can rely on his cunning, and there was one helpful suggestion.’ Sybil said the word helpful as though it tasted nasty. ‘She obviously knows all about Gladys. She knows that Gladys was once convicted of witchcraft and that you appealed to the queen to save her. I should think Ferris told her. The letter somehow read as though the Countess had been in regular touch with him. I suppose he’d know about Gladys. The whole locality does. Well, she says you’ve protected an evil witch and suggests that Ferris might be able to use that, somehow.’
‘And his reward?’ I asked. ‘If he succeeds? Surely that was mentioned?’
‘Yes,’ said Sybil, with distaste. ‘She says King Philip of Spain would pay. He’s giving her a pension, and she says he has consented to pay a bounty of five hundred pounds for the two of you. Three hundred for destroying you alone, and two hundred for Brockley.’
Three hundred pounds would keep a yeoman farmer and his family for a year; two hundred would at least keep the farmer. But to the Countess of Northumberland, to the King of Spain, it ought to be small change. Though Philip of Spain had a reputation for being careful even with that.
‘In my opinion,’ I said, trying to speak lightly, ‘I think that both Brockley and I are worth a lot more than the lady’s estimate, but perhaps she couldn’t risk asking too much of King Philip! What’s that noise?’
The grating above our heads allowed sound to reach us from the world outside. Somewhere, not far away, the mastiffs were baying again, and there were men’s voices, shouting. We sat straining our ears. The sounds were moving away. After a moment or two, they had faded into the distance.
‘Were they after Brockley?’ Sybil said, whispering, as though she feared she might be overheard.
‘Perhaps. But if so, that means they haven’t caught him yet. With luck, he’s well away by now. He should have had time.’
During the pause while we were listening, I had done some thinking. ‘I’m trying to follow in my mind what Ferris has been doing,’ I said. ‘He sent Dorothy Beale to spy on me, and then, I suppose, just took his chances. First he tried to get Brockley arrested. Then he came to the wedding feast to frighten me with a threat about being accused of witchcraft; then he attacked Brockley again and tried to murder him. And I think you’re right – those cloaks he presented to Meg and George were infected, and he hoped they would give smallpox to someone – me or people I cared about.’
‘And he then saw how that could be linked to the accusation of witchcraft, to make it stronger than all that nonsense about love potions?’ Sybil said.
‘Yes, or . . . No, that can’t be right. Jane Cobbold was the one who reported me for spreading sickness by magic. I can’t make that add up to anything sensible.’
Wearily, Sybil said: ‘I can tell you about that as well. ‘That man Maine did some boasting after I was taken. He oversaw the men who brought these horrid prickly mattresses in here. Walter Ferris was behind what Mistress Cobbold did, only he had to go about it sideways and get someone else to drop the idea into her ear, because Cobbolds and Ferrises don’t speak. Ferris knows Sir Edward Heron even better than the Cobbolds do. He and his wife dine at Heron’s house sometimes. I expect,’ said Sybil thoughtfully, ‘that he realized Heron might hesitate to pursue a charge of witchcraft against you because you’re related to the queen and Sir William Cecil is your friend. At any rate, according to Maine, he decided to get the accusation backed up by somebody other than him, and he settled on a Cobbold. No one would suspect collusion between Cobbolds and Ferrises.’
‘Maine told you that?’
‘Yes. It was this way. When he’d seen the mattresses brought in, he lingered to tell me that I needn’t think I’d escape. I’d not only been caught peering into a private document box, with picklocks in one hand and one of Master Ferris’s letters in the other; I’d also been sent to the house by a woman who was going to be charged with causing death by witchcraft. I said it was nonsense, that I knew what Jane Cobbold had done and I could only think that she was so upset by her daughter’s illness that she was half out of her mind and doing things she’d presently be sorry about. But he laughed and said it wasn’t like that at all. Margaret Emory’s father knows the Cobbolds, he said, and when Master Ferris heard that Christina had smallpox and was going to be scarred, he got Emory to encourage her to report you for witchcraft to the sheriff. I think Maine is proud of his employer’s cleverness. He wanted to boast about it.’
Queen's Bounty Page 18
