Queen's Ransom

by FIONA BUCKLEY

  He led us in. For the second time that night, we waited silently in the dark, shielding our lanterns with our bodies. I think one of the dogs scented us, for as the watchman’s footsteps reached our landing stage, we heard a low growl, and there was a snuffling and scrabbling at the door. But we had once more bolted it on the inside. The watchman tried it, found it secure, and hauled the dog away. We heard him accusing it of trying to run riot after rats.

  When we were sure that the watch was sufficiently far away, we crept out to search for vulnerable boats. We found what we wanted quite quickly, and rowed them softly back to the warehouse.

  “Well, they took the bait. I’m glad the attack came at once. It would have been unpleasant, waiting for it and wondering. Let’s make haste,” Jenkinson said.

  I yawned, suddenly conscious that I was very tired. He shook his head at me.

  “Brace up, Mistress Blanchard. You can’t go to sleep yet. The night’s not over!”

  18

  Dawn Catch

  It was nearly dawn when we reached the lodging again. When we dragged our burdens in at the back door, we found the kitchen full of candlelight, and the entire household, except for Klara, waiting anxiously for us and more or less fully dressed, although Helene and Jeanne were in slippers and shawls.

  Everyone gathered around us, exclaiming, as we piled the sacks on the table. Even the distant William Harvey looked quite thrilled, while Clarkson and Arnold actually jostled each other in their eagerness to look. At Jenkinson’s request, Sweetapple helped me bring in a second load, while Jenkinson and Longman slipped back to the boats, untied them, and pushed off. Blanchard felt the hard and knobbly outlines of one of the sacks, picked it up, raised his eyebrows at the weight, and would have peered inside, except that I put my hand out and stopped him. He looked at me in surprise. “What’s the matter? And where, may I ask, have Jenkinson and his man gone to?”

  “They’ll soon be back,” I said grimly. I wasn’t looking forward to what lay ahead. But Jenkinson and I had talked as we rowed back and arrived at a decision. It was not pleasant but it was necessary. “It’s best that the treasure remains in its sacks until we’re all here.”

  Helene exclaimed with disappointment, which was echoed by murmurs from the others. My father-in-law said crossly: “But why? You were the one who brought us all to Antwerp to fetch it. You want it to ransom Dale. Why must Jenkinson be here before we can inspect it? And where is he?”

  “He and Longman are returning a couple of borrowed boats,” I said. “Our own boats met with—an accident, shall we say?”

  Horrified exclamations broke out. “But, mistress, were you hurt? Was anyone?” Mark Sweetapple sounded appalled.

  “Mistress Blanchard isn’t wet. She’s not been in the river.” Harvey sounded almost regretful. Unlike the others, he had never mellowed toward me.

  “No,” I agreed, “I didn’t have to swim for my life. It wasn’t that sort of accident.”

  “Then what kind was it?” My father-in-law, if anything, was indignant. “What is all this? Why so mysterious, Ursula? I don’t like mysteries.”

  The memory of his imitation illness at the inn rose up in my mind and before I could stop myself, I had said acidly: “No. Neither do I.” He heard the edge in my voice and stared at me in surprise. I think he was going to ask what I meant by it but Helene broke in first, pleading to look into the sacks. “Why can’t we look? Where is the harm?”

  “Please humor me,” I said. “We shall have full explanations soon, but I want to wait for the others. It’s cold. I’ll mull some wine.”

  “Mull some wine?” Harvey stared at me. “Well, I’ll be . . . !” For once, it seemed, I had impressed him. “Hot drinks because the air’s chilly? Now?” He pointed at the sacks on the table and then threw himself into the basket chair and for the first time since I had known him abandoned himself to laughter.

  “Mistress Blanchard,” said Hugh Arnold solemnly, “if I had three hundred pounds a year and a farm, and you didn’t have a husband living, I’d ask you to marry me. Not one young woman in fifty thousand would stand beside a table piled with sackloads of treasure, and talk about the weather!”

  “Mulled wine!” I said determinedly.

  Blanchard growled and Helene pulled a face, but I had my way and so we waited in the kitchen for Jenkinson and Longman, stoking the fire and warming the wine, in an atmosphere of mixed-up amusement, antagonism, and perplexity, until, at last, we heard a tap on the street door, and Jenkinson’s voice calling softly to be admitted. He and Longman came into the kitchen, rubbing cold hands.

  “There’s an east wind getting up,” Jenkinson declared. “That means a fair wind for England, if it holds, but it strikes cold, I must say. What’s that you’re all drinking? It smells very pleasant. What a good thought!”

  “There have been a lot of thoughts while we’ve been waiting,” said my father-in-law, as I poured out two goblets and handed them over. “Good ones, and some that were less good. We’ve had little to do but think, since Ursula here refuses to open her mouth and explain what has happened or how the boats met with an accident, as she puts it. Are you going to explain? And can we now see what’s in those sacks? So far, Ursula hasn’t let us do that either.”

  Jenkinson and I exchanged glances. I nodded. He took a sip of his hot wine and then put the goblet down, as though it were business he couldn’t yet attend to. He moved to a seat at the table, alongside the treasure. “Yes,” he said. “We can examine everything and have all the explanations. I’m sure of my ground now.”

  There was an odd silence, during which I noticed that Jenkinson had very much the air of a judge presiding over a court. Others noticed, too. “What is all this?” demanded Harvey.

  “I’ll show you the treasure in a moment,” said Jenkinson. “But first, I want to tell you, briefly, what happened tonight. We found the warehouse. We found the treasure. We had left Longman watching the boats. When Mistress Blanchard and I went outside with the first of the sacks, we found Longman sitting very quietly in one of the boats while two unpleasant characters pointed crossbows at him from the neighboring jetty. In charge of the two unpleasant characters was a man of whom you may have heard, Master Blanchard—if you have talked very much to your ward Helene. He is or was her confessor at the Abbey of St. Marc. Ursula has also met him in the past, in England. His name is Dr. Ignatius Wilkins. He demanded the treasure.”

  There was a blank silence, until William Harvey said: “But you’ve got it there,” and pointed to the sacks.

  “Yes, we have. Show them, Ursula.”

  The worst of this business was yet to come, but there is pleasure to be had from seeing and handling beautiful things. I had never described the treasure to any of them beforehand, beyond saying that it included gold and silver plate, and at the sight of those spectacular salts, everyone gasped and reached inquisitive fingers to touch. “You just said plate! I didn’t expect this!” Blanchard exclaimed, awed, as I unwrapped the glittering turrets of the gold salt.

  Out it all came: the scallop-pattern silver salt next (“tarnished, but it can be cleaned,” Jenkinson said), gold plate, ivory chessmen, ruby pendant, silver cup, and the remaining gold figurines, and I enjoyed seeing them in a good light, and listening while they were admired. We let the others all look thoroughly before Jenkinson asked everyone to sit down again, and with Longman’s help, I once more veiled the lovely artifacts in their wrappings.

  “But if Dr. Wilkins demanded that all this be given to him, and he had crossbowmen . . . ?” said Helene.

  “We were a step ahead,” Jenkinson told her. “Fortunately for us, and for Ursula’s woman Fran Dale, who is lying in prison waiting—praying—to be ransomed, we suspected that an attempt might be made to seize the treasure. We didn’t know when the attack might come. We made sure we were ready, whenever it happened. The sacks that we carried openly out of the warehouse to the landing stage—and the second load we had left lying about on the floor—wer
e a false treasure, prepared in advance.”

  “We bought our imitation valuables yesterday,” I said. “Longman stowed them in the hired boat. We took it all into the warehouse with us. When we found the real thing, we donated a few genuine valuables to it—we felt that a few really good items would make it all seem more convincing. But most of what Wilkins took away consisted of dishes and goblets of base metal, gilded or silver-plated.”

  “Not rubbish exactly, but not very valuable either,” Jenkinson said. “The kind of goods people buy who want to make a show but can’t afford real quality. There’s more gold in just one of the figurines you’ve just seen than in all the thinly gilded plate that was stolen from us. Mistress Blanchard borrowed money to buy our pretend treasure. We told Wilkins we ourselves were disappointed with what we’d found. With a little luck, he will go on believing that his useless booty really is what we found in the warehouse.” He gave me a mildly reproving glance. “You should have cried, mistress. You really should have wept with rage at the poverty of the find. It would have helped the deception.”

  “The crossbows paralyzed me,” I said candidly. “But the plan worked anyway.”

  “You were most courageous.” Jenkinson’s face had become judicial again. “And now you must take up the tale. Would you tell those present about your dispute with Dr. Wilkins and what you believe lies behind all this.”

  It was time for me to bear witness. I had prepared my words. “As most of you already know,” I said, “I have an estranged husband here in France. He heard I was in his country and sent word asking to see me. I agreed. But I was followed to the meeting by two of the men who were sent with me by Sir William Cecil, and by one of your men, Master Blanchard. The one called Searle, who has since been killed fighting. It wasn’t the first time I had been followed, but it was only on that night that I understood why. My husband is wanted in England, for . . . for knowledge that he possesses and now I have learned that Cecil hoped my presence in France would draw him into the light, as it were. The men Cecil sent with me had orders to follow me in the hope that I would lead them to him, and to take him if they could. I am thankful to say that Matthew escaped. However, since Searle joined them, I suspect you were a party to the scheme, Master Blanchard. Your apparent illness at Le Cheval d’Or was I fancy meant to keep me within range of Matthew’s home in the Loire valley for a while. Not that I am blaming you. No doubt you had to accept Cecil’s orders.”

  “Yes,” said my father-in-law shortly. “I did.”

  “Later,” I said, “at the Abbey of St. Marc, I met Dr. Wilkins, whom I first came across last year in England. He doesn’t like me. He accused me of having led Cecil’s men to Matthew deliberately. I most certainly did not, but he refused to believe me. He threatened me. And he also noticed that Dale and I are attached to each other.

  “I think he somehow arranged for Dale to be arrested on a false charge, as a way of being revenged on me. She had a phial of poison with her, because she and her husband feared being taken up as heretics while they were in France. They feared it for me, too. The poison was to be our escape road from the fire, but it brought on her the very danger it was meant to hold at bay. Her baggage was searched and the poison was found and now the authorities are claiming that she meant harm to one of the royal family. If, as I believe, Wilkins engineered both the search and the arrest, then, it seems likely that he knew in advance that the poison would be found among Dale’s things. But if so, how did he know?”

  There was a silence. I could feel the uneasiness, growing into fear, within one person in this room. But I could not afford pity. I thought of the horror that menaced my dear Fran Dale, and I cleared my throat and went on.

  “I’ve been assuming that it was seen when our luggage was searched on an earlier occasion. Someone went through it at the inn, Le Cheval d’Or, when we first came to St. Marc.” I paused for a moment, but no one moved or spoke. “I thought,” I said, “that whoever did that must have been associated somehow with Wilkins and told him about the phial. Now, I think that perhaps that wasn’t so. I believed originally, Father-in-law, that Cecil’s men had done it. Then I began to doubt that but now I think that perhaps I was right after all. Perhaps you can tell me?”

  “I made that search,” said Harvey shortly. “In case your husband had corresponded with you.”

  I nodded. “But Wilkins still learned that the phial was in the baggage. Isn’t that strange?”

  “And how did Wilkins track us down?” demanded Harvey. “How did he know when and where to seize the treasure?”

  “I rather think,” said Jenkinson, “that one of us has been in close touch with him throughout our journey, and before it.”

  There was a breathless, chilly silence. I saw people glancing uneasily at one another. Jenkinson turned to Longman.

  “Stephen, I’ve asked you this before, but now I wish to ask you again, before witnesses: Did you, during the journey here from Paris, have a little flirtation with Mistress Helene? Did you meet her outside the inn where we stayed when Jeanne was ill, and steal a kiss from her?”

  “No, Master Jenkinson, I didn’t.” Longman turned a dispassionate gaze on Helene. “I wouldn’t do that, sir. I don’t flirt with innocent maidens, or betrothed ones, either.”

  Helene gasped. “Oh, Stephen, how can you tell such cruel lies? You know you asked me to meet you and—”

  “I saw her myself,” Blanchard shouted. “I saw her out there with him!”

  “No,” said Longman. “If you saw her with a man, it wasn’t me. You mistook someone else for me, maybe. I’d say so if it had been me. Why not? It’s no crime to kiss a young woman. But I didn’t kiss Mistress Helene.”

  “I believe you,” Jenkinson said. “But in that case, who did Helene meet outside that inn? A thickset man who might at a distance be mistaken for you, Longman—could it perhaps have been Dr. Wilkins instead?”

  “No,” Helene shrieked. “It was Stephen!”

  “Mistress Blanchard?” said Jenkinson. “Could it have been Helene who told Dr. Wilkins about Dale’s phial?”

  “Yes,” I said. “Our luggage has been searched three times altogether. Once at the inn, again at St. Germain, when Dale was arrested—and in between, by Helene, in the guest house at St. Marc’s Abbey. Dale and I caught her at it. She had the phial in her hand when we walked in on her. She asked us what it was. And Wilkins, of course, was her confessor at the abbey.”

  “But I swore to you that I didn’t tell anyone about the phial!” Helene cried. She had gone white and there were tears in her eyes. “I swore on the cross.” She pulled out the silver crucifix, which was as usual on its chain around her neck. “I wouldn’t swear a lie on this!”

  “No more you did,” I said heavily. “For what you swore was that you had not told the Seigneur de Clairpont. No one mentioned Dr. Wilkins. You never said on oath that you had not told him.”

  “And you have had several chances to meet him and talk to him since then,” Jenkinson said. “Have you not? Mistress Blanchard knows of some of them.”

  “That is true,” I said. “For instance, Helene, you have twice been to church unaccompanied except for Jeanne. Once you went to the chapel at St. Germain and once to the cathedral here, yesterday. Jeanne, what happened on those occasions? Did you see your mistress meet anyone?”

  “No, Mistress Blanchard,” said Jeanne firmly. “I did not.”

  She sounded honest and convincing, but I saw Helene’s round shoulders sag with relief. Jenkinson saw it, too.

  “Loyalty between maid and mistress is admirable, but this is too important for that, Jeanne. I ask you again—”

  “Sir, my mistress is little more than a child and she is not strong. She has been up all night. I ask leave to take her to her room and—”

  “And I ask you,” barked Jenkinson, “to describe to us exactly what happened when you went to church with Helene on those two occasions.”

  “By God, yes. And you’d better answer!” Blancha
rd was enraged. “The truth, mind. You may be Helene’s maid, but the one who pays your wages these days is me. I’ll throw you out into the night as you are, in slippers and shawl, unless you speak up.”

  “You can’t do that!” Helene shrieked. “You’ve no right!”

  “Haven’t I, my lady? You may be surprised at the things that I, as your guardian, have a right to do!”

  Jeanne was a brave woman. With immense dignity she said: “If I am cast out, then I am cast out. There is nothing I can do about it.”

  “You can tell the truth!” shouted Blanchard.

  “I think, sir, that you mean tell you what you want to hear,” said Jeanne steadily. “But what if the truth is that at neither chapel nor cathedral did I see my mistress speak to anyone?”

  “Harvey,” said my father-in-law, “and Arnold. Put this woman out into the street.”

  They rose obediently and advanced on Jeanne. I started up, exclaiming in protest, but Jenkinson caught my eye and mouthed: “No!” at me, so commandingly that I stopped. I already knew that Anthony Jenkinson’s amiable rosy-brown face and dark bright eyes represented velvet over steel; now I felt the nature of that steel—the razor edge of it. Slowly, I sat down again.

  Harvey and Arnold jerked Jeanne to her feet and hustled her out. She did not resist, or look at Helene. We heard the bolts of the street door being drawn back.

  “Don’t!” screamed Helene.

  “Stop,” shouted Jenkinson. “Bring Jeanne back. That’s right. But keep hold of her and be ready to march her out again if necessary. You wish to tell us something, Helene?”

  “Wish to tell you something?” Helene’s face had turned from white to an angry crimson. Her eyes were blazing. “Yes, I wish to tell you something! I wish even more to do something, except that you would prevent me!” She pointed at me. “I would like to scratch her eyes out! Watching me, catching me out, and all the time she’s a pawn of that heretic queen in England, and . . .”

  The company was suddenly augmented by one, as Klara, wearing a wrapper and with a woolen scarf twined around her head, appeared in the doorway. She spoke angrily in her own language. I couldn’t understand the words but I followed the meaning well enough. She was complaining about the noise, which I suppose had woken her up. Helene screamed at her to go away. Klara glared at her, shuffled over to the water pail that stood always by the hearth, scooped out a beaker of water, and would have thrown it over Helene except that Jeanne caught at her arm and stopped her. Helene, gasping in outrage, fell silent.