Queen's Ransom

by FIONA BUCKLEY

  The inn reminded me of Gerald. As we took our late dinner, I found myself constantly remembering meals I had eaten here with him. Afterward, most of the others went gratefully to rest. But another of Piedersen’s professional skills was that of recognizing the needs of his guests, sometimes even before the guests themselves. “Do you wish to be alone, mistress?” he asked me quietly, as I paused hesitantly just outside the dining room. “You will have memories to think about, perhaps. My other guests are mostly out and the inn is quiet. There is a parlor here where you can be private for an hour or so.”

  “Thank you,” I said.

  I did want to be alone, but until that moment, I hadn’t known how much. The parlor was small and gloomy, paneled in some dark wood, but the moment Piedersen gently closed the door after me, I felt as though I were in a haven. The solitude was like a long drink of cool water after hours of thirst. I sat down on the window seat, turning to look out into the narrow alley at the side of the inn. In one direction, I could glimpse a waterway. Waterways were as much a part of Antwerp as roads. I wondered, but could not quite remember, how far we were from Hoekstraat.

  But if I couldn’t recall where Hoekstraat was, I remembered every detail of this room. Gerald and I had played chess together here. Closing my eyes, I pictured him. He had been dead just over two years and much had happened in between, but in two years, memory does not fade so very much.

  I loved Matthew. I had married him less than a year after Gerald’s passing. But the marriage had been forced on me. Matthew had attracted me, yes, but I would never of my own free will have gone to him so soon. Here in this place where Matthew had never been, where Gerald and I had been happy, I sought out my first love, Meg’s father, once again.

  What if the door of the room were to open, and Gerald were to come through it? What would I feel then?

  Memory may not dim much in two years, but the pattern of life can change irrevocably. I had gone on from Gerald, formed a new link and almost broken free of that as well—accepted new tasks and faced new conflicts. Gerald was buried here in Antwerp, but I had already decided that I did not want to visit his grave. And yet . . . if Gerald were to walk in . . . would I run to him crying his name? Or sit in dumb distress, realizing that the man I had once loved wildly enough to run away with him was no longer important to me—was now an embarrassing irrelevance?

  But he was dead. Never again would he open a door and walk into the room where I sat. When he first died, the fact that he was gone and would not come back was all but unbearable. I couldn’t believe it or endure it. I longed so much for the impossible to happen. Now, I saw that the finality of death was a blessing, for it had set me free to journey on. How would bereaved people repair their lives if they were never sure whether or not the bereavement was permanent; if there was always a risk that a door would open and the lost one would return? The finality was anguish, but at least you knew where you were.

  For a moment, thinking it out, I closed my eyes. Only to open them again in terror because the door was opening. Someone—a man—was coming in. Then I let out my breath in a sigh of relief. “Master Jenkinson!”

  “The landlord said you were here. He said you wished to be alone, but when I explained I had something important to discuss with you and that you would want to hear it, he showed me to this room. I’m sorry if I’ve disturbed you.”

  “No . . . no, it’s all right. It’s just . . .”

  “What is it?” He came quickly forward. “Mistress Blanchard, what is the matter? You look ill!”

  “I’m not ill. I’ve been remembering Gerald, and being here with him. And . . .”

  For other anxieties had now shot to the surface of my mind, awakened by the memory of my warm, safe life with Gerald. Those memories had shown me how far from warm and safe was my present situation.

  “I’m afraid,” I said. “All the way here, I’ve buoyed myself up, telling myself that I have only to collect the treasure and then take it back to Paris, and set Dale free. But what if it’s gone? Or we can’t get into the warehouse in Hoekstraat at all? Suppose it’s been demolished, or swept away in some unexpected flood tide? What if—?”

  “Hush, hush. You’re panicking,” said Jenkinson. “Wait!” He stepped to the door, put his head out, and shouted. Someone answered and Jenkinson snapped: “Wine for two, and something to eat as well. Bring it all to this parlor, quickly!” He came back and placed himself on an oak settle. “I noticed that you took very little dinner. You need something to revive you. You’ll feel better then.”

  “I’ll feel better when I’ve got my hands on that treasure. Because if I don’t get my hands on it—oh, God, what will happen to Dale? She’s living through day after day, not knowing if I’ll be able to save her, terrified of what will happen to her if I don’t. Brockley gave her that phial to save her from just this danger, but now it’s thrown her into it instead. The potion has been taken from her and even if we made a fresh one we might not be able to smuggle it to her. I can’t bear it for her, or for Brockley. If I don’t bring the treasure back . . . what will I do?”

  “If you fail to find the treasure, there are still other things that may be done,” Jenkinson said firmly. “The queen mother might have a change of heart. The political situation may alter so that it becomes wise and politic for her to be merciful to an English captive. Or we may think of another way to raise the ransom. There’s no need for such despair yet.”

  “I want to get to that warehouse. I daren’t ask questions about it so I’ll have to reconnoiter. I wanted to be here before this but with Helene and Jeanne wilting like flowers that haven’t been watered, and—”

  There was a tap on the door and Piedersen came in with a tray containing pewter goblets, a flagon, fresh bread, and a platter of sausages in a dark sauce. The spicy smell caught at my nostrils and told me how very hungry I still was.

  “Your refreshments, Meister Jenkinson. Sir, two gentlemen—very well dressed, very well spoken—have just called to inquire whether a party accompanying a Meister Blanchard was staying here, and if so, whether anyone by the name of Jenkinson or Van Weede was among them.”

  “Indeed!” Jenkinson spoke sharply. “Did they give any names themselves?”

  “One gave his name as Signor Bruni,” said Piedersen. “He was Venetian, I think. The other called himself Signor Morelli, but we see people from every part of the known world here in Antwerp and I do not think he comes from anywhere in Italy. I think he was Turkish. In accordance with your instructions, I denied all knowledge of people called Blanchard, Jenkinson or Van Weede. No mention was made of Drury.”

  “While you were unpacking,” Jenkinson said to me, “I explained my situation fully to Meister Piedersen. He can be trusted.”

  “But we traveled so fast! How could they catch up? Did they fly?”

  “Two men can travel faster than a party with Helene and Jeanne in it, and besides, we had that two-day delay halfway. Yes, they could have caught up. Exactly what did they say, Piedersen? And did they have a description of me?”

  “No, sir, they gave no description. Apart from asking if you or the Blanchard party were here, they said very little. I denied all knowledge of any of you, and suggested other inns and lodgings they might try,” said Piedersen.

  “Thank you, Piedersen. And here is something for your trouble.” A coin changed hands. Piedersen accepted it with a polite nod, but no obsequiousness, and took himself off: a man in control of his business and his life, and in no way belittled by a gratuity from a satisfied customer.

  “I told him nothing of your affairs,”Jenkinson said as the door closed. “I let him think you are just a group to which I have attached myself. It seems plain now that I was too careless after the business at Le Cheval d’Or. I am sorry.” He tore off a piece of bread, put a sausage on it, handed it to me, and began to pour the wine. “Mistress Blanchard, I want to help you get your hands on that treasure. I think you may need help and that your father-in-law is none too wi
lling to give it. If only I can evade my pursuers for long enough! Have you given any thought to the best way of getting it back to France?”

  I took a heartening mouthful of sausage. It made me feel better at once. “The weather seems to be settling. Could we consider going by sea for the return journey?”

  “I think we well might. Your wine, Mistress Blanchard. We spoke, did we not, of visiting Sir Thomas Gresham and asking his help in arranging passages to England for Master Blanchard and Helene? He might be able to help with getting a ship to Paris, too, if we can think of a good excuse for wanting to go back there. A sea journey could be safer than an overland one, though we must pray for luck with the wind and weather. Pack mules laden with treasure need a very strong guard. I could send a messenger overland on horseback to announce that we’re on our way, and put some heart into Dale and Brockley.”

  “We?” I queried. “But you’re going to England.”

  “The treaty I carry is,” Jenkinson corrected. “It can go with Blanchard. Another copy went with my own goods caravan, if you remember, and I hope it got through but if not, Blanchard will be as safe a courier as any. He may as well be of some use! Because the reason why I may not go with him is I think you need more support. In my opinion, your father-in-law is letting you down. If you succeed in getting hold of the valuables, you need more of an escort than just Sweetapple and Arnold and maybe a few hirelings who are strangers to you. Longman and I represent two more sword arms and good ones, though I say it myself.”

  I was grateful but also alarmed. “But what if you can’t keep ahead of the hunt? Those two Levantine bloodhounds have been to this very inn! What if they find out that you are here? They might! They might easily find some innocent soul who will tell them that a party answering to our description were seen entering Meister Piedersen’s premises!” I gulped most of my wine in one swallow.

  Jenkinson refilled my goblet. His dark eyes had begun to sparkle. Imminent danger was having its usual effect on him. “Trust Uncle Anthony. I’ve told Piedersen that we want to shift to lodgings—I suggested that before, if you remember. He has supplied a map of the city and the names of several landlords. I’ve already sent Longman out to look for somewhere, preferably on a waterway, with a landing stage, and not too far from Hoekstraat, which is marked on the map. Go on, drink up.”

  I did as I was told. The wine was red, deep in color and velvety. It put some heart into me but nothing was going to move this burden of anxiety. It grew heavier, as the moment came nearer when we must set out for that warehouse and—so I hoped—come face-to-face with over twenty-five thousand pounds’ worth of treasure, and then get it back to Paris.

  “In the matter of Hoekstraat,” Jenkinson said, “can you recall exactly where the warehouse is?”

  “I hope so.”The wine was strong so I took another sausage to soak up the fumes, and pushed the platter toward Jenkinson. “The straight part of Hoekstraat is about half a mile long and then it curves away from the water, almost back on itself. The warehouse is on the straight section, fairly close to where the curve begins. There are warehouses on both banks, with wharves and landing stages, and there’s a path on each bank, too—a narrow one between the buildings and the water. What I want to do is first of all make sure I know which warehouse is the right one, and then decide exactly how and when to enter it.”

  Chewing thoughtfully, Jenkinson nodded. “Very well. We will find somewhere to rent, and move there as soon as we can, and then we’ll hire a rowing boat and take a look round. I recommend you to make sure you can recognize the warehouse after dark. We would do well to fetch the treasure at night.”

  I said: “When should we visit Sir Thomas Gresham?”

  “I told Longman to call there as well, and ask for an appointment. We still have to think of a reason for going back to Paris, but I think I can deal with that. I have ideas about other things, as well. Mistress Blanchard . . .”

  “Yes?”

  “This is a time of great anxiety for you and I am loath to add to it but . . .”

  He talked earnestly for some time. I listened with horror. Even if we fetched the treasure without difficulty, I thought, the chances of getting safely back to France with it seemed terrifyingly slender.

  “I just hope you’re wrong,” I said. “You must be wrong.”

  “I would like to think so. Of course, I have no certainty,” Jenkinson said. “But I think we would be wise to take what precautions we can. Do you not agree?”

  There was another tap on the door, and Piedersen was there again. “A man has come from Sir Thomas Gresham’s house, Meister Jenkinson. You will be welcome there, with your party, from eleven of the clock onward, tomorrow morning.”

  “Thank you,” said Jenkinson.

  Yes, a visit to Sir Thomas must come first. I was longing to get to the warehouse and all delay added to the length of poor Dale’s misery, but this delay was essential. If Jenkinson was right . . .

  The wine was indeed making me sleepy but my intelligence was still working. I didn’t want him to be right and I thought his evidence tenuous, but all the same, it held together. His theory was possible and therefore precautions had to be taken. In my mind, an idea was taking shape regarding those precautions. For reasons connected with that as well as for other purposes, I must see Sir Thomas Gresham, quickly.

  On the strength of the wine and the sausages, I slept all afternoon, waking early in the evening to find that Longman had discovered lodgings for us and that we could move at once. “I doubt if they’re anything marvelous,” Jenkinson said. “Too cheap and too quickly available. But they’re well placed for what we want. We shan’t need them for long, I trust.”

  Jenkinson said that we should go after dark, and should therefore take supper first. Luke Blanchard groaned at the prospect of packing up again, but when he heard that the Lions were on our heels again, he changed his mind. We waited out the evening in the parlor and the card room. Jeanne and I passed the time with a little stitching: a loose hem on my night rail and a split seam in Helene’s spare kirtle. Helene still looked wan and I sent her upstairs again to rest a little more before we set off.

  Piedersen, entering into the spirit of the thing (we had paid him as though we were staying the night, plus a generous reward for being so cooperative), said that we should leave candles burning in our rooms as though we were still in occupation. He would extinguish them later. We collected our belongings and made our stealthy way out of a rear entrance. The horses could stay in the Leaping Fish stables, Piedersen said, and he would send them back to their home stables tomorrow. We were all glad that we had kept our luggage to a minimum.

  The back entrance led into an alley, along which we crept nervously, hoping we were not being watched. Piedersen had lent us lanterns, for we needed to see where we were putting our feet, but we kept them turned down as low as we could.

  When the alley joined a wider one, Jenkinson conferred with Longman and then led us through a tangle of lanes, every now and then stopping to check for movement behind us. “I’ve a good head for mazes,” he said, when Blanchard asked him anxiously if we were lost. “I know where we are and where we’re going.”

  It was half an hour or more before we at last arrived at a tall, forbidding house, where Jenkinson brought out a key and led us up the steps. “We’ve got the whole place,” he said quietly over his shoulder,“except for the landlady in the basement. Come on.”

  The front door led into a dark entrance hall that smelled of mildew. Jenkinson called, and a quavering voice answered. A bobbing light appeared at floor level, showing us a basement stair. The light turned into a candle, and an aged crone, wrapped in a mass of shawls, came up to greet us. She said something in her own tongue. Jenkinson replied, and then turned to us. “This is Klara van den Bergh and she hopes we will be comfortable with her.”

  We gazed around us. What little the candlelight showed us was discouraging. There was a moldering tapestry on one wall of the hall, stains of damp
on the rest, and the two heavy doors that led off the hallway were both dragging on their hinges.

  “We’ve got to stay here?” said Helene. She used English but her tone was unmistakable, and I saw Klara van den Bergh flinch. “All because of these people who are following Master Jenkinson? I would not wish to be rude, Master Jenkinson, but would it not be better if you parted company with us? We were well off at the inn, but this . . . !”

  “Yes, indeed. What a place!” said Jeanne in distaste.

  “It smells of the river,” said Blanchard.

  Mark Sweetapple said it was enough to put him off his food and no one laughed. Arnold and Harvey grunted in assent. Only Longman said staunchly that it wasn’t as bad as all that. Our landlady shrank into her shawls and looked appealingly at us as though afraid we were all going to turn around and run away. I realized, with pity, that this house was her only asset; she was widowed, probably, and trying to earn a living by letting rooms, but had no money for servants or constant roaring fires and no strength for cleaning.

  Jenkinson took control. “We’re staying.” He spoke to the landlady, and she indicated with a gesture that we should follow her, and she would show us around.

  In fact, Longman was right. The hall was dreadful but the rooms were not so bad. They too had damp patches, but not serious ones, and the wall hangings and furniture that they contained had once been costly and were still in reasonable condition, though dusty. Upstairs, we were agreeably surprised to find small fires lit in the bedchamber hearths, and clean, dry bedding.