Queen's Bounty

by FIONA BUCKLEY

  Brockley got to his feet. He panted for a moment, doubled over, and then found breath enough to speak to Heron.

  ‘He as good as murdered Mistress Jennet and Mistress Margery and their girl Bessie, and he caused all those deaths from smallpox, as well as killing my beautiful horse,’ he said. ‘But I didn’t mean to kill him! I just wanted to get the dagger away from him. It went into him by accident. But God’s defended the right. And done your hangman out of a fair bit of pay.’

  ‘He drew a dagger on a man who had no weapon,’ said Heron. ‘We all saw. We were all witnesses. There will be no need for an inquest.’

  TWENTY-ONE

  A Time to Heal

  Ferris did not die instantly, not until his desperate dragging at the dagger hilt finally freed the blade. Then blood spurted from the last frantic pulse of his heart, and he lay twitching and choking for what I suppose were about thirty seconds, though they felt to me like thirty years, before he fell silent and still and his eyes went blank. The blood was all over his doublet and his right hand, which still gripped the dagger hilt. The floorboards beneath him were splashed with it.

  Then Bridget, completely overset, broke down. Her cool dignity abandoned her. She burst into tears, wailing pitifully. Her little dog began to howl. And then confusion took over. Just what happened during the next two hours, I don’t know, because Heron said: ‘You ladies, get Mrs Ferris away. I do not intend to proceed against her for conniving with her husband. She was clearly in fear of him. See to her.’

  So the four of us, Sybil, myself, Margaret Emory and Jane Cobbold, picked up the dog and helped a half-fainting Bridget out of the hall and up to her chamber, where her maid greeted us with wide-eyed horror. We gathered that the servants had been ordered to keep away from the hall unless they were sent for.

  In the circumstances, Jane Cobbold and I worked together. In time to come, it was likely that if we met in Woking’s main street, one of us would cross it to avoid the other. For the time being, however, we were concerned only with settling Bridget on her bed, taking off her embroidered hood and loosening her stays while Sybil freed her from ruff and farthingale. There was a ewer of water, a basin and facecloths in the room, and Margaret, displaying much common sense and an unexpected air of command, sponged Bridget’s brow, while simultaneously ordering the maid to the kitchen for wine to revive her and for a bowl of water for the dog.

  Presently, Bridget quietened and her tears ceased. ‘I’m glad he’s dead,’ she said. ‘I’m safe from him now. Free. He always had to be in control, of all of us, as if we were puppets. He is dead, isn’t he? We broke our fast together this morning as always. I can’t believe it yet. How can Walter be dead, just like that?’

  My guesses about her married life, I thought, had been all too accurate. ‘Rest assured that he is,’ I said. ‘There’s nothing to be afraid of now. Sir Edward will not harass you. We will look after you. Try to sleep.’

  She closed her eyes and seemed to doze, and then, for some considerable time, we watched beside her, until there was a knock at the door, and Thomas was there.

  ‘Is my mother better?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Bridget, opening her eyes and speaking for herself. ‘Yes. Is that Thomas?’

  ‘What’s happening downstairs?’ Margaret asked.

  ‘Nothing much as yet, but something important, something formal, is about to happen.’ Thomas seemed different: older, more authoritative. ‘It would please me if you would all come to the hall, including my mother, if she is able. My father has been laid in our chapel. Mistress Stannard, Mistress Jester, may I speak with you privately, for just a moment? Perhaps you other ladies would help my mother downstairs. We will follow.’

  ‘I am able,’ said Bridget. Thomas withdrew while her maid helped her to dress, and then, with Bridget cradling her dog in her arms, she and the others went down, while Thomas came in. He still held himself stiffly, but not so much as before. He stood looking gravely at me and Sybil.

  ‘Your man Brockley is a blessing,’ he said to me. ‘He has salved my back most skilfully.’

  ‘He’s been a soldier,’ I said. ‘They get to know about such things.’

  ‘I’m grateful to him,’ Thomas said. ‘Mistress Stannard, I wish you to know that if it had come to court, I would have told the truth and exposed the love potion story as a lie. I would have asked the court for protection from my father, though whether they could have stopped him from disinheriting me, I don’t know.’

  ‘In such circumstances,’ I said, ‘a petition to the queen might well have restored your rights. Fortunately, it didn’t come to that.’

  ‘I’m glad he’s dead,’ Thomas said. ‘That is a terrible thing for a son to say, but it’s the truth. I’ve feared him all my life. So has my mother. I think she has taken refuge in being remote, never showing any feeling except for her pet dogs. It’s been as though she were frozen inside. Maybe she will thaw now, given time. That is all. I have said what you had a right to hear. Now let us go down to the hall.’

  There were few signs left of the recent stormy scene. The floor had been washed, and all that remained was a patch in need of fresh polish. The rugs had been straightened. No trace of blood remained. Everyone who had witnessed the death was still there, however, augmented now by an angry Anthony Cobbold. He had apparently returned home, learned that his wife had been taken away to White Towers and come wrathfully after her, to find himself in the midst of what, to him, was an incomprehensible drama.

  ‘Sir Edward Heron has been explaining matters to me,’ he was saying to his wife as we came in. ‘And he has insisted that we remain for the time being, which means I can’t take you out of this house at once, as I wish to do, and none of this makes any sense. Jane, how could you let yourself just be brought here like this? Cobbolds do not go to the home of Walter Ferris, or vice versa! Nor do they speak to Ferrises – and –’ he glared at Thomas, who had entered the room behind Sybil and me – ‘that means you.’

  Thomas’s response to this was a smile, which clearly took Anthony Cobbold aback. ‘Everything will be made plain,’ Thomas said. ‘Ah, here is Maine with wine. Please will everyone take a goblet – I ordered our best silver goblets for this occasion, because it is formal and because, despite the terrible events of today, it has hopeful aspects. Thank you, Maine. Come, don’t be so downcast. I am not going to dismiss you, I promise.’

  To me, Maine looked not so much downcast as simply shattered. His usual pallor was tinged with green, and his sagging shoulders somehow changed the effect of his black gown so that it no longer looked impressive, merely mournful. His master’s death must have turned his world upside down. Helped, perhaps, by the change in Thomas.

  That change seemed to be increasing with every moment. Thomas was now the man in charge. He had stepped into that position apparently without effort. Even Heron had, as it were, moved back for him. It was Thomas who marshalled us all into seats and saw us equipped with goblets. I found a place in the inglenook, opposite Sybil and Bridget and with Margaret next to me. Thomas went to stand where everyone could see him, and he began to speak.

  ‘First of all, I have it from Sir Edward Heron’s own lips that the charges against Mistress Stannard and Mistress Jester are dropped. They cannot be upheld. Sir Edward is satisfied that the evidence against them was a false trail, laid, I am sorry to say, by my father. We will not go into that now. Most of you know all about it, anyway.

  ‘Secondly, my father is now dead. He was my father, and in arranging his funeral, I shall show him all the respect that a son should show, but I cannot in all honesty say that I loved him. He had harsh ways of enforcing his will.’

  From Bridget, there came a sound like a sob, but of agreement, not protest.

  ‘Thirdly,’ Thomas said, ‘because he is dead, I wish the task that he undertook for the Countess of Northumberland to pass into history – and something else with it. I am tired of this absurd feud between the Cobbolds and the Ferrises. Master Cobbold!’
r />   ‘You are addressing me?’ said Anthony coldly.

  ‘I am indeed. Master Cobbold, you may well find it difficult, in the future, to pursue a feud against someone who is determined from now on to be a good friend and a good neighbour. Isn’t it time we buried the hatchet which your grandfather and my great grandfather raised against each other? Aren’t you as weary of it as I am?’

  ‘There have been other offences, in later generations,’ said Cobbold grimly.

  ‘There have indeed. My grandfather died violently and mysteriously,’ said Thomas, ‘and you know well enough where the finger of suspicion pointed.’

  Anthony turned a dusky red.

  ‘But it didn’t point at you,’ said Thomas. ‘Only at your father, who is dead and gone. If I can now choose to forget it, couldn’t you manage to forget the . . . lesser, more mischievous incidents? What are a few strayed cattle and even burnt ricks to us now that so much time has gone by? Wouldn’t it be much more pleasant for us to turn our backs on the past?’

  Anthony looked as though he were struggling with himself. Jane Cobbold, who was sitting beside him, stared at her feet. Jane, I thought, probably didn’t care whether the old feud was kept alive or not. I only hoped she wouldn’t try to start another one, with the Stannards. I couldn’t see the friendship between our two families continuing on its old footing.

  Thomas was smiling at Anthony. He raised his goblet. ‘Shall we drink to it? To the end of a useless quarrel, and to friendship henceforth between Cobbold and Ferris? My friends and neighbours, I give you the toast – to the end of pointless strife!’

  We all raised our goblets. Anthony at first put his down on the table and folded his arms, but unexpectedly, Peter Maine observed: ‘It is said in Holy Writ that there is a time to kill and a time to heal. Perhaps now, since Walter Ferris is gone and a new generation are taking over, is our time to heal. Master Cobbold, will you not drink?’

  Maine was clearly in earnest. He was, I suppose, following the lead offered by Thomas, who was now his new master. At any rate, his intervention had an effect. Slowly, reluctantly, Anthony picked his goblet up again and drank with the rest of us.

  Emory said: ‘Well, all this is very much to the good, but what about this marriage between you and Margaret? She’s been as awkward and silly as a girl well can be, but if you were to set about talking her round, Thomas . . .’

  ‘Margaret and I are in agreement,’ said Thomas. ‘We are not suitable marriage partners. I have other plans.’

  ‘Are you suggesting,’ said Cobbold dangerously, with the old enmity rising up again, ‘that you ought to be allowed to marry Christina?’

  Thomas almost beamed upon him. ‘Master Cobbold, many years ago, in the days of Henry the Fifth, after England and France had fought a bitter war but had made peace, they sealed that peace with a marriage between King Henry and Princess Katherine of France. A marriage is as good a way of ratifying a peace treaty as any, don’t you think? It would be a happy marriage, sir. I promise you. I would take care of Christina.’

  Miserably, Jane said: ‘Who else will, now?’ Anthony looked at her as if she had bitten him. Meanwhile, Emory was seething.

  ‘If Margaret had behaved as a daughter of mine should,’ he said angrily, ‘she and Thomas would be man and wife already. Margaret, I tell you, girl, you’ll not be welcome at home, after this. Stay here with Mistress Ferris and serve her, if she’ll have you, or make your own way in the world. I won’t take you back.’

  I felt Margaret press nervously against me. Bridget, in her old cool manner, said: ‘Margaret is an admirable young woman, and I like her. But I have no wish to see my son thrust into marrying her against his will. I didn’t want her to be brought here to “fix his interest”, as Walter called it. It made me stiff with you, Margaret. I am sorry for that.’

  ‘Margaret can come back to Hawkswood with me,’ I said. ‘I miss my own girl, Meg. Margaret shall be her replacement.’

  ‘There were moments,’ I said, ‘when I never thought I’d be riding home, ever again. This has been one of the most frightening days of my life.’

  ‘The queen would have intervened, madam,’ Brockley said. ‘I’m sure of it.’

  ‘I didn’t want to ask her again to override a court decision for me. She saved Gladys. I am glad that I have been saved without having to ask another such favour.’

  We were free and alive and going home, riding through a cold and cloudy autumn evening as dusk gathered under the trees in the wood that stretched most of the way between White Towers and Hawkswood. Our party consisted of me, Brockley, Wilder, Watts, Sybil and Margaret Emory. Sybil and I had at last had the chance to wash and do our hair, and Bridget had lent Sybil some clean clothes. I had stayed in breeches, shirt and jacket but had at least brushed them.

  Thomas, very much the master of the house now, had lent Wilder a horse and told Margaret that she could keep Blue. He had also lent a pack mule for her belongings, and a pillion saddle so that Sybil could ride behind Brockley on Mealy. I had been reunited with Roundel.

  The Cobbolds had left before us, and Bartholomew Twelvetrees had gone to find a bed in Woking. He meant to start for Norwich in the morning. Clearly, he’d had enough of all of us. Heron and Parkes were remaining for supper, though reluctantly in the case of Parkes. He had attempted to stroke Bridget’s little dog, which had promptly bitten him. Bridget had dressed the bite for him, but Margaret had whispered in my ear: ‘That dog is more intelligent than I thought! I feel almost fond of it now.’

  ‘Brockley,’ I said as we trotted along, ‘you must have been very quick to get down the ladder and away to the boundary fence before Ferris and his dogs were after you. You must have run like a stag! Is that when you hurt your ankle again?’

  Brockley gave his rare chuckle. ‘Yes, madam, though to begin with, I didn’t run anywhere. I was halfway up the ladder. I hadn’t time to get down and run for it across the grounds. As soon as I heard those dogs, I went on up as fast as I could, scrambled over the battlements and threw myself down on the flat roof all round the attic floor. It was a risk, because the dogs were sure to pick up my scent at the foot of the ladder, and whether mastiffs can climb ladders or not, I don’t know, but I just hoped they wouldn’t try. Mercifully, they didn’t. I prayed that their masters would take it for granted that I’d run away, not rush on into the enemy’s stronghold, as it were, and assume that I had scrambled down and run for the fence, and I think they did. Anyway, I heard them sending the dogs to range about in the grounds. In the end the hunt was called off. Then I started thinking how to get myself away.’

  ‘Yes, how did you do it? They took the ladder down.’

  ‘First, I looked at the attics to see if you and Mistress Jester were in any of them and if I could get you out. But you weren’t there.’

  From behind him, Sybil said: ‘We were in the wine cellar. With a warning not to get drunk.’

  Brockley laughed again. ‘I couldn’t find either of you, so I reckoned I’d better simply escape. I remembered you saying that the towers had doors on to that roof, so I went to look at the west tower. Yes, it has a door, and it wasn’t locked, so in I went. It was too dark to see much, but the room I found myself in seemed to be full of unwanted furniture. I kept banging my shins and elbows on bits of it. I’ve got some beautiful bruises. Quite apart from Ferris’s efforts.’

  ‘Oh, Brockley!’ I said. ‘Well, Dale will look after you.’

  ‘Fran says I’m getting too old for this sort of thing,’ Brockley said. ‘But I’m none so feeble yet. I found a spiral stair in the tower, so down I went, groping inch by inch. At the bottom there was a door, bolted on the inside. I unbolted it and crept out, and there I was, on the ground and in the open. I prayed to God and all the angels in heaven that the dogs weren’t anywhere near, and then I ran for it!’

  ‘You were lucky,’ I said. ‘They were loose. They caught Sybil and me.’

  ‘Ferris’s mistake was building himself such a showy house. It’
s too big for two dogs to patrol properly,’ Brockley said. ‘Anyway, I never saw or heard anything of them. Heaven was with me. Until I got to the boundary fence. That was a different story. God’s teeth!’ said Brockley fervently. ‘I’d swear those trees were laughing at me. They were that difficult to climb. I couldn’t have done it except that I had to. I managed in the end by getting up one that was so close to the fence that I could stick out a foot and brace it against the fence to help me push myself up. That was when I hurt my ankle again. But I scrambled high enough somehow, got on to a branch that reached to the fence, slithered along, toppled over head first, landed in a heap, and then, thank God, I found the wagon waiting for me, so I brought it home, as fast as the horse would go, and roused up Master Stannard. The ankle let me down when I was fighting Ferris. Did you realize?’

  ‘Yes. I saw what happened. How does it feel now?’

  ‘It will mend if I don’t damage it again. It probably saved Ferris from the rope. He wouldn’t have ended up stabbed with his own dagger if I hadn’t fallen on him. You could say he did himself a good turn when he killed my Berry. More’s the pity! Well, we’ve come safe out of it in the end, and I never had to use your picklocks after all, though I made sure I got back the ones that Ferris took off you. Madam . . .’

  ‘Yes, Brockley?’

  ‘Were they waiting for us when we got to White Towers? Had someone warned Ferris that we were coming, do you think, or did he just guess?’