The inn, on the opposite side of the square, was red-tiled like the other buildings and quite big, with trestle tables and benches on a forecourt, an arched courtyard entrance and a sprightly inn sign, on which a prancing horse was painted in yellow. It was still only afternoon, well before the time when wayfarers begin to arrive at inns in search of shelter. Le Cheval d’Or, we thought, could surely take us in.
But to my irritation, Blanchard once more adopted his policy of announcing us as loudly as though we were the most important people who had ever entered its portals, and once more, the innkeeper bristled. Harvey joined in, hectoring in very bad French, which did nothing to help. Jean Charpentier, proprietor of Le Cheval d’Or, didn’t match his sprightly signboard. He was no cheerful, rubicund host, but a lean and disillusioned individual with a grimy shirt under his sleeveless jerkin, and a sour face. He looked as though he enjoyed refusing people, particularly loudmouthed Anglaises.
Ryder tried to propitiate him, but as Ryder’s French was even worse than Harvey’s, this merely added confusion to irritation. The only other person in the party who could speak the tongue was myself. I had learned French with my cousins and improved it when I was married to Gerald, who had excellent French, as all the Blanchards did, and had encouraged me to study it. I cleared my throat and intervened, with an attempt at coaxing.
This finally had results. Charpentier eventually agreed that although he was very full, he could just squeeze us in, but some of the men would have to bed down in his barn. “It’s dry and there’s plenty of straw, so there’ll be nothing off the bill, I’m warning you,” he added.
The Dodds and Sweetapple said it would probably be better than their billets last night. “Could hardly be worse,” said Mark with feeling.
The innkeeper’s insistence that he was full seemed odd, however. The hostelry was very quiet and Brockley, bringing hampers in from the stableyard, reported that the stable was half empty. Blanchard, unwell or not, was irritated enough by our discouraging reception to raise the matter with Charpentier when at last we had dismounted and were indoors. “I don’t understand it,” he said. “It’s early in the day and the inn is large. You’ve got attic rooms and two floors besides, and wings stretching back. How can you be full? It isn’t market day.”
“No, seigneur.” Charpentier did not sound amiable. “Market day was yesterday. You are Anglaises,” he observed, “which no doubt means heretic. Well, I will tell you for nothing that I am a good son of Holy Church, and heresy is a grief to me, and this whole district is infested with Huguenots. I’d cut all their throats if I had my way. But it means that men and arms are on the move and it brings in business. By tonight, I will have a young seigneur here, bound for Paris with a dozen retainers, and a prelate of some standing with ten more, also making for Paris. They are taking their men to swell the government’s forces. Both sent word ahead and their rooms are bespoken. I also have a Netherlander merchant staying, with two companions, while he does some business in the district. Some men will do business even when the clouds are raining blood.” Charpentier shrugged. “He, too, is a Protestant, but his money is good as yours is, I trust. By nightfall, my hostelry will be full enough. Are you answered?”
Any normality in St. Marc was clearly fragile. The religious divisions of France were seething under the surface, ready to burst out at any moment. Charpentier quite evidently bracketed all Protestants with cockroaches.
Beside me, despite my warnings before we left Greenwich, Dale muttered something indignant about Papists. Charpentier heard and apparently understood. He shot her an unfriendly glance. Blanchard eyed her repressively before saying: “Well, it is an answer, though in England, innkeepers address their clients more respectfully. As it happens, I am on my way to visit Catholic relatives at Douceaix, near Le Mans. There is no need to regard me as an enemy. Now, kindly show me to my chamber, and if I could have some warm water or milk, I would be pleased. I have an upset stomach.”
The innkeeper’s expression suggested that this was just one more transgression, almost as bad as heresy. But he led us upstairs and showed us a couple of rooms, not large, but clean. Harvey hurried his master into his chamber, wondering aloud if the village had an apothecary. Dale and I took the second room, which was just across a square lobby. “A couple of your men can sleep in the lobby but only two,” said Charpentier. “It’s the barn for the rest.”
Brockley fetched my hampers up, arriving in time to hear me taking Dale to task for her remarks about Papists.
“The mistress is right, Fran. While we’re in France, we’d better keep our opinions to ourselves. But the sooner we go home and get out of this country, the better. Which means getting on with our journey, if we can. Madam, have you any idea what’s wrong with Master Blanchard? He should be over the seasickness by now. The rest of us are. I hope he’s not sick in some other way.”
“So do I,” I said earnestly. “Master Blanchard falling ill in a French inn with a hostile innkeeper in the middle of an insurrection—what more do we need?”
We had dined along the way in a fashion, on bread and meat brought from the first inn. But fresh air and riding make one hungry, and Dale began to grumble that it was a long time until supper. “And if there’s one thing I can’t abide, ma’am, it’s a grumbling stomach.”
“I’m getting tired of other people’s stomachs,” I said. “My own was trouble enough on the boat. Now it’s yours and Master Blanchard’s. Well, you can go down and see if the kitchen can provide anything to eat. No doubt we could all do with it, the men included. Anything will do except cheese. I don’t think I ever want to eat cheese again.”
“But, ma’am, I can’t talk French.”
I was tired. I was no longer ill, but the voyage had drained strength out of me and the queen’s letters in my hidden pocket felt like an almost physical weight. In addition, the atmosphere of France oppressed me. Now, it seemed, I must take on the task of looking after my servants, instead of being looked after by them.
But perhaps, Dale being Dale, it might be better if she didn’t talk to the local population too much.
“Oh, very well,” I said. “I’ll go.”
4
The Hooded Man
Dale sighed with relief at not having to ask for food in sign language. Brockley offered to come with me, but I saw no need for an escort inside the inn. “I’m only going to the kitchen, Brockley.”
I left them unpacking the hampers, and hurried downstairs. I followed the smell of cooking along a stone passage to the kitchen where I found the landlord giving orders to a greasy youth in a leather apron, and a hefty woman with thick black hair in a knot on the back of her head and arms as massive as though she had spent her life shoeing horses. “Master Charpentier?” I said mildly from the doorway.
He turned to me, frowning. “I’ve sent Master Blanchard’s hot milk up to him. There’s soup and bread if the rest of you are hungry, and the wine of St. Marc is good.”
“Thank you. That’s what I came to ask about. Most of us do want something to eat and drink. Where . . . ?”
“Weather’s warm. I’ll have it put on the tables out in front.”
“Would you? It will be most welcome, believe me.” I was trying to placate this difficult man, but I wasn’t having much success. Which was a pity, because there was something else I wanted to ask him.
Huguenot influence might be strong in this part of France but St. Marc did not feel Huguenot, and Jean Charpentier certainly was not. Also, we had not yet traveled so very far from the Loire. Both of these things had been simmering together in my mind since we reached the inn. I had no idea how well known my husband Matthew was in his own country, but the owner of a château was usually known over a sizable area, and in the present troubles, he and Charpentier were on the same side. It was worth trying.
“In England,” I said, standing my ground, “I was for a while acquainted with a visitor from this part of the world. He’s back in France now. I wonder if you�
��ve heard of him? His name is Matthew de la Roche.”
I had no shadow of right to ask after Matthew, but I couldn’t help myself. It was unbearable to be so near, and not even inquire. The result, however, was shattering. The greasy youth and the black-haired woman froze, mouths open, and Charpentier first stared into my face with furious brown eyes, and then grabbed my arm and shoved me up against the wall. Close by was a table with cabbages and carrots on it, and also a sharp little knife. To my utter disbelief, he snatched it up and held it to my throat.
“Who are you?”
“What are you doing? Master Charpentier, please! I’m Mistress Blanchard, from England!”
“What are you doing in France?”
“I’m traveling with my . . . my father-in-law.” I was stuttering with fright. “He has a ward in France, a young girl. He wants to take her to England, away from the war. She’s been orphaned. He wanted her to have a woman to travel with. We’re on our way to fetch her from the relatives she’s with now, at Douceaix, near Le Mans. That’s all. Please, Master Charpentier!”
His left hand was crushing the muscles of my upper arm painfully, but the vegetable knife was more terrifying. Peering down my nose at it, I could see that it was very sharp indeed. I was carrying my dagger but I knew that I had no chance of reaching it and getting it out of its sheath quickly enough to help me. I wished I had let Brockley come with me. In future (assuming I had a future), I wouldn’t stir a step without him.
Charpentier put his head close to mine, breathing garlic into my face. “Why are you asking after De la Roche?”
“I met him when he came to England. I was asking if you knew of him! I wanted to ask if he was well! That’s all!”
“Is it? Is it? We have had English spies before, asking after De la Roche.”
“I’m not a spy! Oh, really, Master Charpentier! This is ridiculous! Do I look like a spy?”
“How do I know what a spy looks like? If I were sending out spies, I would see that they seemed innocent! As innocent as you, traveling with your father-in-law, who seeks only to take a young girl out of the path of a war!”
“You’re making a mistake,” I gasped. “We’re on our way to visit a Catholic household. Do you intend to murder me here in your kitchen?”
“It is not murder to dispose of a spy.”
I drew breath to scream for Brockley but the black-haired woman (I never found out whether she was Charpentier’s cook or his wife, and didn’t care, either) had moved closer to me and as I opened my mouth, she clapped a powerful palm over it, silencing me. “No noise, my lady. Shall we take her outside, Jean?”
I aimed a kick at Master Charpentier’s shins and brought up my spare hand to wrench at the woman’s wrist. I might as well have attacked a couple of trees. The pair of them were impervious. I don’t know what would have happened next if there had not, just then, been a merciful interruption. There was the sound of men and horses and a voice from the front of the building calling for the innkeeper. Assured, booted feet came ringing along the stone passage, and a young, cool French voice said: “Charpentier? Where in the devil’s name are you? We’re earlier than we thought to be but it’s the first time since I’ve known you that you haven’t come out at a run at the sound of fifteen horses and four pack mules! Mon Dieu! What is going on here? Who is this girl?”
“She’s English and she’s asking after Matthew de la Roche,” said Charpentier over his shoulder.
This, apparently, was sufficient explanation. I twisted about and tried to speak and the elegant young man who had appeared in the doorway said: “Never before have I arrived at a hostelry to find the innkeeper about to cut the throat of a young woman in the kitchen. It tends to undermine confidence in the cuisine. Charpentier, I think she wants to say something. I would like to hear it.”
The muffling hand was withdrawn. “I’m a completely innocent traveler from England,” I said angrily. “Not long ago, in my own country, I met a visitor from France called Matthew de la Roche. I simply asked after him—I know he lives somewhere along the Loire. That’s all! And then this man Charpentier attacked me and threatened to kill me!”
“A little extreme, I agree,” said the stranger. He was sophisticated and of some standing, with quantities of embroidery on his dark blue doublet and the matching cloak he wore tossed over one shoulder, and gems upon his sword hilt. I was grateful for his intervention, but for all his gallantry, he didn’t make me feel a great deal better.
As he came indoors, he had removed his dashing high-crowned hat as a gentleman should and his unshadowed face was sharp and cold. So were his eyes. They were disconcerting, both indeterminate in color, but not a match. One of them tended toward brown and the other toward blue, and they held a chill that made me uneasy. He gave me the same feeling as Robin Dudley. Here was a man of whom one should be wary.
“I call this behavior very extreme!” I said vehemently, and let my voice carry, in the hope that some of my own companions would hear it. I was trembling, but now it was partly with anger. I rounded on Charpentier. “And foolish! May I remind you that I am traveling not only with my father-in-law but also with an escort of eight men? If I were to vanish, do you think that nobody would notice?”
My captors had slackened their hold and I shook myself free of them. As I did so, the contents of my hidden pocket bumped against my knee, and I heard, faintly, the clink of the lock picks and the rustle of Elizabeth’s letters. It was not the moment, though, for bringing out the letter of introduction to Queen Catherine. Elizabeth had confidence in the status of her messengers but these people might well see her only as a heretic queen, and the letters as somehow proof that I was a spy. Elizabeth knew that France was dangerous, I thought grimly, but she had no idea just how dangerous.
Anyway, I had a champion, even though he was in his way nearly as alarming as Charpentier.
“The lady has a point,” the stranger was saying. “We have the reputation of France to consider. If Madam were to disappear, her friends might take home a sorry impression of us.” He bowed to me formally. “Seigneur Gaston de Clairpont, at your service. I regret this incident, madam, but I should say that it is not advisable to ask after Seigneur Matthew de la Roche, not in an English voice. I take it, Charpentier, that you did not answer her questions?”
“I only wished to hear that a former acquaintance was in good health,” I expostulated.
“He is in perfectly good health, and will, I trust, remain so,” said De Clairpont. “Let her go, Charpentier. I hope you are not hurt, madam?”
“Fortunately, no,” I said. I was going to have a badly bruised upper arm but it wasn’t worth remarking on. “I and the rest of my party,” I said with emphasis to Charpentier, “will be glad to take bread and soup on the tables outside, as soon as it is ready.” Then, holding my head high, I walked out. No one tried to stop me. De Clairpont bowed again as I passed. I inclined my head to him graciously. On shaking legs I made my way back along the stone passage and met the Dodds and John Ryder hurrying toward me.
“We heard your voice. You sounded alarmed,” Ryder said.
“I was. I hoped someone would hear. You’re a reassuring sight, all three of you. Come back upstairs and I’ll explain.”
We went up to my room. There, with Brockley and Dale to swell the outraged audience, I described what had happened.
“I never heard of such a thing,” Dale gasped. “Innkeepers threatening their guests—attacking a lady! What sort of a country is this?”
“Charpentier had better be careful,” said young Walter Dodd. “If he takes to slaughtering his guests in the kitchen, people will wonder what he puts in his casseroles.”
Everyone laughed except Dale, who snapped: “That’s disgusting!”
“The Seigneur de Clairpont said much the same thing,” I said to her. “I just hope it impressed Charpentier!”
“This Matthew de la Roche,” Ryder said. “You say he’s an acquaintance of yours. Perhaps I should tell you that w
e do know that he is your estranged husband. Sir William Cecil told us. I knew before, anyway. I have known Sir William since he was a boy, Mistress Blanchard. My mother was maid to his mother. I can remember clipping Sir William Cecil’s ear for him once or twice, when he was a lad!” He laughed. “It was natural enough for you to ask after him. Why shouldn’t you?”
“Charpentier doesn’t know I’m married to Matthew. I wish now that I hadn’t mentioned Matthew at all,” I said. I wondered, in passing, whether, after all, Luke Blanchard knew about Matthew, too. Not that it mattered. “I shan’t ask after him again,” I said. “It isn’t safe.”
Brockley, who was fuming, said that he would go down and punch Charpentier on the jaw, but I forbade it. “We don’t want to get into trouble. What we do want is to carry out our business and go home safely. The sooner we leave this detestable inn, the better.”
“There’s not much chance of that just now,” said Dick Dodd glumly. “We have just seen Harvey. He says that Master Blanchard is very unwell, won’t take anything except warm milk, and by the look of him, we’re likely to be stuck here for days.”
I went at once to see how Luke Blanchard was. He was lying in his bed, his proudly curved nose pointing to the ceiling and his short gray hair tousled. He looked miserable.
“I’m not at all well, Ursula,” he said when I asked him how he did. “I fear it’s beyond me to leave this bed.”
“What are your symptoms? My mother taught me some simple remedies. Perhaps I can help.”
“My stomach’s been hurting ever since I was so sick on the ship,” he said fretfully. “And I’ve no appetite. If I try to eat anything, I feel sick. Milk is all right. Charpentier says he shouldn’t, because it’s Lent, but he let me have some milk all the same.”
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