To Shield the Queen

by FIONA BUCKLEY

  It was a short cut. From time to time, people in a hurry avoided going round the curve and walked or rode this way instead. They had made the path. Indeed, horsemen who knew the lie of the land could have beaten John to the far end of the curve even without a path. They could also have done it without being seen either by John or the ditcher. There were spinneys, and a concealing hump in the ground between track and road. Brockley’s argument did not hold.

  I explained what I was thinking. Brockley frowned. “I don’t doubt it’s possible, madam. You think they set on him here at the fork, and he got away from them, but they took the short cut and were waiting for him at the far end of that curve.”

  “Yes. He was going fast, so the ditcher told Dexter,” I said. “Suppose he was trying to escape from someone?”

  “Well, again, madam, it’s possible, but . . . ”

  He stopped. While we talked, we had both been looking about us and it was Brockley, this time, who saw something. Close to where we stood, at the meeting place of the three paths, the ends of several twigs had been sheared off clean from a bush, and the cut pieces were still lying on the ground.

  “That wasn’t recent,” Brockley said. “It’s not raw; the weather’s been at it for a week, or maybe three. It’s not proof, of course, but I grant you, it looks like—”

  “Someone’s been here, slashing about with a blade,” I said. I felt odd. Part of me had come alert, like a hound that picks up a scent, but another part of me once again wanted to run away, to subside into feminine diffidence and say, “But I can’t do anything about this! Who would expect it of me?” The answer to that was that if the evidence were there, then I would expect it of me.

  I remembered the sword-thrust through John’s body. These sheared twigs weren’t evidence, exactly, but they were suggestive.

  “If someone was here, laying about him with a sword,” I said, “why was he laying about with it? What if he were one of John’s attackers, and this is where he missed his stroke and sliced the bush instead? While John stuck in his spurs and rode for his life.”

  “They took a risk,” Brockley said, “going for him on the highway, either here or where he was actually stabbed. This road’s not empty.”

  This was true. At that very moment, there was a cart plodding slowly towards us, and a farmer on a shaggy pony had passed us a few minutes earlier, with a civil good day.

  “That,” Brockley said slowly, thinking it out, “could be why they never made sure he was dead. Perhaps they saw someone coming, so they shoved him under the gorse and got themselves out of sight fast. I wonder why they started on him just here?” He stood up in his stirrups and scanned our surroundings. “There’s a pond over there,” he said.

  We rode over to look. The pond was only about fifty yards off, in the angle between the northward track and the narrow short cut. It was dark and scummy: weight a body and throw it in, and it would vanish. John’s assailants probably had been disturbed, or they would surely have brought him back here anyway. Instead, they had had to leave him under a bush where he might be found, and was.

  “You think they meant to put him here,” I said.

  “It could be,” said Brockley, doubtfully.

  Dale looked as though the conversation had become completely beyond her. She sat on the white gelding’s back—we had dubbed the animal White Snail—with an expression of long-suffering gloom. Brockley gazed up at the dismal sky as though seeking inspiration there.

  “Did he have any weapons?” he asked me at length.

  “He had a dagger but it was gone when he was found,” I said bleakly.

  “He might have tried to defend himself, then. I did get to know him a little at Cumnor, and I should say that he would. If he did,” said Brockley, once more with that fugitive glint of humour, “we are looking for a group of gentlemen, one with ginger hair, one with a well-bred piebald horse and possibly more than one with recent scars from a dagger.”

  “Yes. Exactly,” I said. I couldn’t smile.

  “Madam,” said Brockley, “you believe that John Wilton was attacked by his gentlemanly companions. You may be right, but are you really determined on pursuing them?”

  Dale looked hopeful. She was praying that I would say no, that I had had second thoughts and that we should set out for Sussex forthwith. I wanted to do that, too. I wanted to see Meg and, if I could, find Matthew. How could I put either of them aside for the sake of this ridiculous hunt, which might take heaven knew how long and would almost certainly fail anyway, and if it didn’t, might take me into peril? If these men had killed John, then they were dangerous. I remembered the bruises on his body and the horrible, rotten wound which had killed him.

  I remembered how I had denied justice to Amy.

  “I am determined to go on,” I said. My voice was formal. It was an undertaking, as though I had sworn an oath before a priest. All three of us knew it. Even Brockley heard the grim intent in my tone, and acknowledged it. He bent his head. “In that case, madam, may I make a suggestion?”

  “Indeed you may.”

  “We must begin, must we not, by picking up the scent, so to speak, of these violent gentlemen? We must find which route they took.”

  “Yes.” I thought. “They went northwards—no, that was what Dexter said, because he thought they’d parted from John at the fork, but that isn’t what happened. They could equally well have been going south.”

  “So we should enquire along both roads,” said Brockley. “In villages, at inns. Someone must have noticed them. Although,” he added with a sigh, “it was weeks ago. The scent may well be cold.”

  • • •

  “This is absurd,” said Brockley.

  We were conducting what I suppose one could call a council of war, sitting on our horses just outside a small hamlet a few miles from Henley. We were all tired, and earlier that day Dale had actually succeeded in falling off White Snail, which I had believed to be impossible. I had scolded her for being such a terrible rider, and said that one of these days I must get Brockley to give her some proper tuition, but I knew that really she was exhausted. I was not much better myself. The ankle I had turned on the day of the fair had not given trouble at first, but I had turned it again since, dismounting too quickly, and now it ached persistently. As luck would have it, it was the left ankle, which took my weight at the trot.

  We had been hunting for two days, searching along both the northward and the Windsor roads for traces of our elusive group of gentlemen. We had now enquired at two posting inns, four village taverns, six farms, three blacksmiths—one of their horses might have cast a shoe—and about two dozen cottages. However, it had been too long ago and no one remembered them now, except for one old woman, and her testimony hardly made sense.

  We had begun our hunt by tossing a coin to see which road we should investigate first, and accordingly started with the northward route. After failing to find a trace within five miles, we spent a night in one of the inns, bought cold food for today’s noon meal and returned to the Windsor track, to meet with another complete blank, until the afternoon, when we rode into the hamlet which was now just behind us, and found a group of village women engaged in a stormy altercation.

  At the centre of the wrangle was a fierce old beldame with a jutting chin and a grubby headdress. She was standing at the door of a dirty-looking cottage, shouting and gesticulating with a spindle, from which a broken strand of wool trailed and floated. A younger woman, much cleaner, sturdy, rosy and very angry, was standing in front of her, arms akimbo, and shouting back. The rest seemed to be interested onlookers.

  Halting on the fringes of the uproar, we gathered that the younger woman was complaining because the older one did nothing “but sit there spinning at your door all day, staring at what other folks are doing, and making up mucky tales about them! Yes, my Peggy does go walking with young Walter Rigden and we know about it and so does Walter’s father and the two of them’ll get wed next spring and you can just keep your foul
mouth shut in future and your filthy ideas to yourself, you old besom!”

  “Don’t you call me names! Oh, I daresay you don’t care what your Peggy gets up to! I know what you got up to in your day, Milly Mogridge. You were no better than you should be. Like mother like daughter . . . ”

  “How dare you, you . . . !”

  “How dare I tell the truth? Ho, yes, the truth! And I don’t tell all I know, either. There’s not much I don’t know about what goes on in this place and there’s plenty I could tell but I don’t, and . . . ”

  Somebody in the crowd growled, “Bloody old witch!” and the crone rounded on the voice.

  “Who said that?”

  Several of the women shuffled uneasily backwards, and someone made the sign to ward off the evil eye.

  Brockley spurred forward and straight into the midst of it all. “Excuse me, good women!” He swept off his cap, and smiled round at them. As I watched in amazement, thinking that I would never have believed that Brockley could be so ingratiating, it struck me that he was a personable man. The entire gathering had transferred its attention from the wrangle to my manservant. The affronted mother of the over-passionate Peggy had unfolded her arms and was gazing at him with marked interest, and despite her advanced years and aggressive temperament, the beldame had produced a toothless simper.

  “It is possible,” declared Brockley, “that you good-wives may be of help to us—especially one with such great powers of observation as yourself.” He bowed to the beldame. “We are sorry to intrude, but I and Mistress Blanchard, whose servant I have the honour to be, are on an errand of vital importance. Three weeks or so ago, did you, mistress,” addressing the old dame, “or any of you . . . ” throwing his enquiry to the crowd, “chance to see, riding through this village, three gentlemen, one on a fine piebald horse, and one with ginger hair?”

  Astonishingly, the old dame had, except that it wasn’t three weeks ago, but the Saturday before last.

  Brockley thanked her and I handed him some silver to press into the old woman’s palm. As he gave it to her, he spoke quietly to her and she said something in answer. He looked round at the others. “Her husband’s dead and she has no children to help her. You’re her neighbours; surely you know that. Try being kind to her and don’t talk nonsense about witches. She’s lonely.”

  As we rode on, Brockley said, “I hope I had an effect but I doubt it. That old woman reminds me of my mother.”

  “Your mother?” That the dignified Brockley’s mother could in any way have resembled that unprepossessing crone, I found hard to believe.

  “Oh yes,” he said. “She was another lonely one, after my father died and I was working away from home. She lost all her teeth, which made her ugly, and children threw stones at her, so she grew bitter. Then she started getting at her neighbours; finding things out about them and dropping hints. Then someone said the word ‘witch’ and it was luck that I went to visit her just in time to get her away before she was arrested. It happens so easily. Witches, indeed! It’s all a lot of nonsense, witchcraft is. That old dame will end up hanged if she isn’t careful. Well, I did my best.”

  It seemed that Roger Brockley shared not only John Wilton’s honesty, but also his willingness to remonstrate with people who were doing things he didn’t approve of.

  “Is your mother still alive?” I asked.

  “No. I rented her a cottage in another village, but it was strange to her and she pined. She was gone in three months, but in her bed, quietly. It could have been worse. Never mind that now.” We had left the hamlet and now he pulled up at the roadside. Dale and I stopped beside him, and that was when he said, “It’s absurd.”

  “What is?” I asked.

  “What that poor old woman told us. A week last Saturday, she said. That was the fourteenth of September. But John Wilton was attacked on . . . ” he did a quick calculation on his fingers “. . . on the third. Where were they in between? Somewhere hereabouts, most likely. But where? And why?”

  Dale said tiredly, “I suppose they stopped with someone. They didn’t go to an inn, so they must have.”

  “That’s possible,” said Brockley thoughtfully.

  I looked about me. This was quite a well-populated stretch of countryside. We had called at farmhouses and cottages near the roads, but there were plenty more, down side lanes. I could see roofs in the distance, in all directions, and hearthsmokes climbing into the sky. “They could have stayed anywhere!” I said.

  “But they were gentlemen,” Dale persisted. “With at least one fine horse. They might have stayed at a manor house, a big place. Well, we’ve only seen two or three of those.”

  We hadn’t called at any of them. We had been thinking of our three gentlemen as travellers, who would have pressed on along the road. It simply hadn’t occurred to us to turn off to the large houses whose gables and chimneys we had only glimpsed once or twice since they were all well back from the main routes.

  “We can’t just ride up to strange houses and push our way in and start asking questions about their guests,” I said. “It’s not like asking innkeepers or blacksmiths about passing strangers.”

  There was a silence. In the middle of it, Dale gave a sigh, and for the second time that day, slid gently out of White Snail’s saddle and sank into a heap on the ground.

  Brockley handed me his reins and dismounted. Dale sat up, apparently unhurt, but there were tears in her eyes. “I’m that stiff and sore. I can’t abide to go on riding, day after day, like this. I just let go, I couldn’t help it. I’m sorry, ma’am, but I couldn’t, I couldn’t.”

  “Dale’s worn out,” said Brockley, “and this morning, madam, you complained of your ankle. We passed one of those big houses not a mile back. Let us go and ask for hospitality and make some enquiries at the same time. You’re one of the queen’s ladies, madam. It’s more natural for you to go to a manor house, than to an inn. If we learn nothing there, we can go back later to the other big houses we’ve passed.”

  “Up you get, Dale,” I said. She looked at me miserably, but Brockley held out his hand to her and she came slowly to her feet and let him help her back into the saddle. “It’s not far,” I said, “and then you can take your ease.”

  • • •

  We had to turn back through the village and then take a lane to the right. The house Brockley had glimpsed was smaller than Cumnor Place but proved to be much better run. There was a neat, thatched lodge and gatehouse, with a porter, whose young son ran on ahead of us to announce us. We followed, arriving in due course at a pretty manor house, half honey-coloured brick and half white plaster patterned with black timbers. Tall, ornamental chimneys rose from the slate roof, and beyond a wall to the right I caught sight of a knot garden, most beautifully laid out with beds shaped as stars and crescent moons. When we reached the front door, two grooms were already there to show Brockley where to take the horses, and a lady stood on the front steps to greet us.

  She was older than I, perhaps in her thirties. Her dark red dress had no farthingale and over it she wore an apron stained with what looked like fruit juices, but her cap and her small ruff were white and clean. She had the mature, tranquil features of a woman happy in marriage and secure in things material. She smiled at us. “I am Kate Westley, and this is Springwood House, the home of my husband Edward Westley. You are travellers in trouble, I hear. Please dismount and come inside.”

  As Dale and I got down, I explained, nervously, “We are on a journey to Sussex, but I have twisted my ankle and my woman, Dale, is unwell. We need to rest, if we can trespass on your kindness. I am Mistress Ursula Blanchard, widow, and although at present I have leave of absence, I am one of the queen’s Ladies of the Presence Chamber.”

  Our credentials were established, not that Kate Westley seemed much concerned by them. She had noted the pallor of Dale’s face at once and was already shepherding us indoors. I allowed myself to limp, which wasn’t difficult, because the ache was real.

  Just inside
the door was a wide vestibule, much lighter than Amy’s entrance hall at Cumnor Place, with a floor of polished boards, and some well-kept panelling. The doors out of the vestibule were set wide. To the left there was a parlour and the door to the right led into a dining hall, with a long table and a sideboard and fresh rushes strewn on the floor. I smelt beeswax polish, strong and sweet, mingled with a faint trace of something more exotic and elusive, some rare strewing herb, perhaps. The queen would like this house, I thought. Elizabeth detested unpleasant smells and it was clear that here, every effort was made to please the nose and not offend it.

  Within moments, both Dale and I were seated in a large parlour and our hostess had sent a maid to fetch restorative doses of herbs mixed into wine. Dale was invited to loosen her stays and Mistress Westley examined my ankle. I was relieved to see that it was genuinely puffy.

  “I’ll get a cold compress for that. Dear me. Have you been riding with it like that? Ah, here comes Madge with the wine. You had better both have some of this. It is a recipe of my own. It contains a tincture of marjoram and camomile—I grow the herbs myself—and it both calms and refreshes. It’s quite palatable, too,” she added. Kate Westley had a delightful smile. It was difficult to imagine this well-ordered house sheltering questionable people.

  “I am sorry to impose on you like this,” I said, as I sipped at my goblet. The mixture was indeed palatable. “We are really most grateful.”

  “Oh, please don’t be formal. We’re always glad to welcome chance travellers.” Madge had now brought a bowl of cold water and some linen and towels, and Kate, sitting down on the end of the settle, put a towel on her aproned lap, took my foot into her hands and began to bathe it. “You will stay overnight, I trust—longer if necessary.”

  “You are very kind, Mistress Westley.” I glanced at Dale, who was sipping wine with her eyes closed. She would be glad of a full day’s rest, I thought. A house of any size was, of course, supposed to welcome wayfarers, but at Faldene, the greeting was usually more dutiful than warm. Aunt Tabitha could learn from Kate Westley. “I hope,” I said, “that we are not causing you any difficulty. If you have other guests . . . ”