“Be patient. Do every task she assigns you without complaint. I would not be surprised if she tested you in the beginning.”
“And what will she require of me?”
“Lady Dacre put it out that she needs someone to help with her correspondence, and that is where we think you will be most useful, both to her and to us.” He paused and rubbed the back of his hand over his bearded cheek, a habit of his. “She will most likely wish you to sit with her while she stitches. You should take needlework with you. If she does not read, she may request that you read to her.
“What—” He didn’t allow her to finish her question.
“Be watchful for any information concerning the rebels who escaped to Scotland. The queen has a strong interest in their return.”
“The earls? Westmoreland and Northumberland?”
He nodded. “And their families and cohorts. Primarily Westmoreland. Northumberland is being held by Hector Armstrong, and I understand he plans to sell the earl to the highest bidder.”
Maddy’s ire rose. “That is unfortunate. He is a good man, much respected here in the North, and many times has he shielded Scottish outlaws.” The idea that a Scot would betray Northumberland galled her. Obviously, Master Ryder did not share that sentiment.
His brows arced up. “What about those rash promises he made to your brother? Getting him mixed up in all this?”
Ryder was right; it had been Northumberland who had stirred up her brother and made him join the rebellion.
“Best not to repeat such treason in the company of anybody else, Mistress Vernon.” She probably should have kept her opinion to herself, but Ryder needed her. He would not toss her back into the cell now that she had agreed to do his bidding.
“They may be planning another raid, and the Scots over the border are now their allies. Perhaps a raid of great import, or simply forays on the locals for cattle, sheep, and horses.” He shrugged. “Whichever it is, we want to know about it. Do not record anything—you will have to memorize it. It would be much too dangerous to commit such things to paper.”
“The leaders of the rebellion were Catholics. You said the Lanercost Dacres are Protestant.”
“Indeed, they are. You need know nothing beyond the fact that we have reason to be suspicious.”
She nodded. “And how do I get this information to you?”
“On market days, you will walk to Brampton, where I live with my father. Our home is located on Church Street, off the market square. The house is half-timbered, with a gabled roof. It stands by itself and is set back from the street.”
“What time should I come?”
“It matters not. Be assured I will be there on market days.”
“Won’t Lady Dacre think it odd if I traipse off to town every week and return empty-handed?”
“No need to keep your visits to my father and me a secret from her. She does not know I serve the queen, and she believes you are a relation of mine. And you will have time to visit the market. Indeed, you should, so that the good citizens of Brampton will see you going about your business.”
“Who else lives at the priory? Surely she does not reside at such a large estate by herself.”
“In truth, I am not certain of that. Possibly Christopher Dacre, the late Sir Thomas’s son from an earlier marriage. There may be guests. Find out whatever you can about them. They could be there for nefarious reasons. The usual cadre of servants, as well, and you must be alert for suspicious characters among them.”
“In other words, I should not trust anybody. They are all suspect.”
“At present, yes. After you have passed some time there, you’ll be better able to judge who warrants your attention. There will not be more than a few, in any case.”
“How will I know what information is useful? Surely I am not qualified to decide.”
“Commit to your memory anything that seems out of the ordinary or unusual. It may be something you hear in conversation or glean from Lady Dacre’s correspondence. Do not try this on your first few days, but at some point, you will need to search her chamber, or wherever she keeps her letters. Anything that must be kept secret could well be locked in a coffer.”
“Am I to break the lock? Certainly that would lead to my exposure.”
“Indeed, you cannot risk that. But you may be able to learn where she keeps the key. I do not want you to endanger yourself, for then you would be of no use to me.”
Maddy’s face ached fiercely, and she wanted these directives to end. So she moved on to what was, for her, the crux of the matter. “How long must I remain there? When may I expect to be pardoned?”
He clucked his tongue at her. “Your work has not yet begun and will most likely take several months. You must discover some useful information before you gain your freedom.”
Maddy exhaled a long breath. There was always the chance she would not find out anything helpful, and then she would never be pardoned. Perhaps once she was installed at Lanercost Priory, escape might be possible.
Something must have shown on her face, because Ryder said, “Do not even contemplate running away. Wherever you go, we will find you, and then your fate would be sealed.”
She gave no reply. He was right. Maddy’s days of rash and thoughtless actions were at an end.
“Today you will be moved to new quarters, and tomorrow you will begin to prepare. A seamstress will fit you with appropriate attire. Beyond that, you will need a few days for your wounds to heal. When the time is right, I will deliver you to Lanercost Priory and then we shall see what happens.”
He rose and escorted her to the door. “Ah, Joan. I was wondering where you were.”
Joan, standing just outside, curtsied and handed something to Ryder. He in turn passed it to Maddy. “Some raw meat for your face. It should help the swelling.” She accepted the bloody piece of beef, which was wrapped in a cloth, and barely suppressed the urge to gag.
Ryder spoke softly to Joan for a moment, then nodded for Maddy to go with her. She curtsied hastily and followed, feeling Ryder’s eyes boring into her as they walked away. Though she wanted to, she did not dare risk a glance back. She would be a fool if she made the mistake of looking upon Ryder as her friend, even if he did possess those striking green eyes.
…
Nicholas threw his quill down, unease niggling away at him. Mistress Vernon would be a reluctant partner in this endeavor, that much was clear. Yet she possessed intelligence and courage, and he was certain, if only to save her own skin, that she would do his bidding. He would have to tread carefully; he was developing a degree of sympathy for her he could not afford to indulge. And a degree of attraction. Under the dirt and grime and the wounds, she was lovely. Any fool could see that. He’d hurt her with his harsh words, and damned if he wasn’t sorry for it. If his father caught on, he would insist on choosing another lass for the job. And then what would befall Madeleine Vernon?
The door opened and the tall form of Francis Ryder entered. “Well?”
“She agreed. What other choice did she have?”
“But will she succeed? She will be our spy, and that requires presence of mind. Self-assurance. And most important, cunning. Does she measure up?”
Nicholas leaned back in his chair and tried not to show the annoyance he felt. Why assign him these tasks if his father did not trust him? If he questioned Nicholas’s every decision? “In my judgment, yes. But we won’t know for certain until she’s in place and working, will we?”
“Nick? You are not telling me everything.”
He rubbed the back of his hand over his short beard. “I threatened her. She’s cooperating to save herself. Would you expect her to exult in her situation?”
His father stared at him a long moment.
“Mistress Vernon is astute, and I’ve no doubt she can carry off the ruse.”
“Very well. We shall soon see what she can accomplish. When does she go to Lanercost?”
“Four or five days’ time. Preparatio
ns must be made. I’ll escort her there and assure matters at the priory are as we believe.”
Francis Ryder nodded and made for the door. “Father, hold a moment. How does Daniel fare?”
“I haven’t seen much of the lad. Too busy. But rest easy, I would have been informed were anything amiss.” Nicholas interpreted that to mean his father hadn’t bothered to spend any time with his grandson.
“After I’ve delivered Mistress Vernon to Lanercost, I intend to remain at home with the boy. I’ve been away too long.”
Francis Ryder scowled, and Nicholas knew what his next words would be. “You spoil the lad. He needs to toughen up.”
Nicholas sighed. “He has only six years, Father. And he’s lost both of his parents. I’ll follow through with anything related to this current business, but otherwise I wish to tarry in Brampton for at least a month. I must be there to receive Mistress Vernon’s reports, in any case.” When Nicholas’s brother, Richard, had been killed last year, Daniel had become Nicholas’s ward. The boy’s mother had died in childbirth the year before, along with the babe who would have been his sister, had she lived.
The older man gave a brusque nod and exited, leaving Nicholas to ponder his future. He wished to be done with the queen’s affairs but had yet to find a way to exit, and now he wished to see this business with Madeleine Vernon through to its conclusion. His father and the queen’s satisfaction notwithstanding, Nicholas was determined to ensure that it ended well for Mistress Vernon.
…
Joan ushered Maddy up two sets of stairs to the withdrawing chamber, a large space that encompassed both sitting room and bedchamber. And, God be thanked, a fireplace, in which a fire was laid and ready to light. The floor was strewn with fresh rushes. Only then did she realize her prison had been the castle gatehouse, an enormous structure that seemed to contain an endless collection of rooms. From what she could tell, Nicholas Ryder’s office was on the ground floor, and her cell had been just below. Joan directed her to sit on the settle and hold the hunk of meat to her face. She did so gladly, as the settle was before the fireplace. Joan set about lighting the fire.
After a bit, warm and temporarily free from worry, Maddy curled up and drifted off to sleep. All the nights she had been imprisoned she had not slept soundly for even one of them. If voices, footsteps, and locks clinking open and closed didn’t keep prisoners awake, certainly fear did the job. Were those voices and footsteps heading toward her? Would her door be unlocked next? Then what? The rack? The scold’s bridle, or iron maiden? Or perhaps they would simply crush her to death with heavy stones on her chest. Peine forte et dure.
She was deeply asleep when Joan pinched her, despite the fact that a tub had been brought in and servants were filling it with water. “Wake up, mistress! You must bathe. Master Ryder wishes you to sup with him tonight.”
She rose so rapidly, spots danced before her eyes, and the piece of beef dropped to the floor. For a moment, Maddy couldn’t remember where she was. She simply stared, her vision blurred, until gradually the chamber and its furnishings began to arrange themselves into a meaningful whole. Joan helped her undress and step into the water, which was blessedly hot. Heaven. It felt like heaven. Joan shoved a linen cloth into her hand, and said, “Scrub yourself, mistress. I’ll be back to help you wash your hair.”
The water smelled of herbs. Lavender and thyme. How astonishing. A bathtub, with hot, fragrant water, here in Carlisle Castle, the unyielding stone fortress. For what reason would the castle possess a bathtub? And sweet-smelling herbs?
For a blessed few minutes Maddy lay back in the water, luxuriating. When it occurred to her she did not know how soon Joan would return, she set about washing, scrubbing herself hard all over with the coarse linen cloth. Between the scrubbing and the hot water, Maddy was red as a ripe strawberry. When Joan bustled through the door, she was ready for her. The servant scrubbed her head with some kind of lye soap, so hard it was painful.
“Ouch! Is it necessary to be so rough?”
“Done,” she said. “That should see to the lice. I’ll say this, mistress, you do have a beautiful head of hair. That chestnut color—I’ll wager you’re the envy of all your friends.”
Maddy tried to thank her, but she cut her off. “Now rinse your hair and get out. The master wishes to use the water from your bath.”
She shot out of the tub at that. “But I must dress and sit by the fire to dry my hair. Why can he not bathe someplace else?”
“Have you not noticed that baths are a rare thing around here? We have one bathtub, and the only reason we’ve that is because Mary, the Scots queen, was our special guest for a time. Nothing but the best for that woman and her ladies. ’Tis not every day that we can bathe—in a tub, that is. So you can hie yourself into the sitting room while the master has himself a nice soak.”
After Maddy had dried herself with another linen cloth, Joan helped her dress in a plain smock under a kirtle and skirt. She held out a bodice for her and fastened it. Maddy slipped on a pair of clean stockings, tied them with cloth garters, and accepted the slippers Joan held out. Had the queen and her ladies left these behind, too?
“He is waiting outside, so—”
“I’m going,” she said, moving to the other room. “There isn’t even a door!”
“See that you respect my privacy,” a male voice said. Ryder’s.
That silenced her. Although Maddy heard him splashing around, he didn’t say another word. An image of a naked Ryder floated through her mind. His broad shoulders and chest. His narrow waist. Lower. Then his singing distracted her, which was a good thing. A rousing rendition of a popular Scottish ballad, “Jock o’ the Side.” She sat there running her fingers through her hair and laughing silently.
She had not laughed in months, it seemed, and Ryder was the last person she’d expected to evoke that response.
…
Nicholas cleared off his writing table, placing a branch of candles on one end, and asked the servant to set their trenchers on either side.
“Be seated, mistress,” he said when Madeleine Vernon entered the chamber. He felt her eyes on him, but initially he did not look at her. Then she stepped into the candlelight, and he could not look away. God’s breath, but she was a beauty. Dressed in men’s clothes, her looks had been well concealed. Now he became only too aware of her voluminous chestnut hair, and the way it cascaded about her shoulders. Her porcelain skin and delicate cheekbones were marred by the bruise, but that did not detract from her loveliness. And under those serviceable clothes, a body to tempt a king was only too evident.
Jesu. He must rein in his thoughts before his cock stiffened to painfulness. And he needed to keep his wits about him.
He motioned her to the settle, which had been pulled close to the table, and after they were both seated, Nicholas raised his tankard and said, “To a safe and fruitful enterprise.” She said nothing, only drank deeply, her blue-green gaze peering at him over the rim of her cup. A servant carried in a platter of roast capon, and then one of potatoes, turnips, and carrots. “Have some bread, mistress,” Nicholas said, pointing to the freshly baked loaf resting on the table. She snatched the loaf and ripped off a piece. By God’s light, her hands were shaking. She visibly controlled herself when she realized he was watching her. How long had it been since she had eaten a meal, something other than the disgusting victuals they’d served her in the cell?
“At present I am not prepared to trust you with a knife, so I will serve you,” he said.
They ate in silence. Finally, she paused and Nicholas heard a stifled belch. He resisted the urge to laugh, while at the same time feeling sorrier than he should for her near-desperate hunger.
When the silence lengthened, he wondered if she had deliberately chosen not to speak to him. A way of retaliating against him. “I may as well have put you in a scold’s bridle, mistress,” Nicholas said after a long time, “you are so quiet.”
“Have you ever seen a woman in a scold’s br
idle?” she asked, her head snapping up. “I have, and I shall never forget it.”
“Alas, ’tis an uncommonly cruel punishment. We must discuss the details of your mission,” he said, spearing a piece of capon with his knife. “That device would render you incapable of speech, as you well know.” God’s mercy, he sounded humorless.
She inclined her head slightly, and Nicholas interpreted that as a willingness to overlook his boorishness. “Pray, am I to use my own name with Lady Dacre?” She shoved a fatty piece of capon into her mouth and washed it down with a sip of ale. She looked as if she were in the throes of la petit mort.
“Is there any reason she would know you or your kin? Recognize your family name?”
“There is not.”
“Then I believe it is safest to stick with as much truth as possible. Use your own name, and tell her about your family, if she should ask. Nobles are famous for their lack of interest in us common folk, however. I doubt she will show the slightest curiosity about you, beyond your name and the ways in which you might be of service to her.” He sliced off more capon for her, then said, “Did you ever come to Brampton for market days? Would anyone there recognize you?”
She shook her head. “We attended the market in Carlisle. Who does Lady Dacre think I am? She must have made inquiries about me.”
“She believes you to be a distant relation of my family. A cousin thrice removed. My father was acquainted with her late husband, Sir Thomas. Because of our supposed connection, if somebody sees you visiting my home, it will not seem suspicious. My father’s name is Francis, in case you should need to know.”
“She does not know of your…work, then.”
“No one hereabout does, though there are those who may suspect. Now, as for a means of getting a message to me. Lanercost Cross is situated to one side of the priory church. At its base is a loose stone, which is easily removed. Place any message you may have there. You may need to wait until dark.”
“Who will be checking for messages?”
“Somebody I trust. No concern of yours. Contact me only in case of imminent danger—something that would threaten your personal safety or compromise the mission.”
Mistress Spy Page 3
