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From that day forward, Adeline and Gabrieli went riding together every afternoon. She always took at least two of her ladies along as well, but never once did she ask Cecily to accompany her. On three separate occasions, Cecily confronted her friend, begging her to consider her behavior. Each time, Adeline shot her a sinister glare and reminded her that, as a guest, she ought not aggravate the mistress of the house.
After hearing mass one morning in October, when the weather had turned cold and rain fell hard against the stained-glass windows of the chapel, Cecily, who, as was her habit, had stayed behind to pray, felt someone sit on the pew. She did not open her eyes, nor rise from kneeling. She paid close attention to the calendar of saints, and every day prayed to the holy person whose feast day it was. Today, she implored Crispin and Crispinian to look after her husband and protect him in France. Only when she had finished and crossed herself did she turn to see that it was Father Simon who had nearly disturbed her peace.
“Forgive me for intruding,” he said, his voice low and gentle. “I wanted to speak to you privately. I am concerned about certain things I have seen, and I believe you know to what I refer.”
Cecily felt her stomach plunge to her knees. She nodded, but found she could not speak.
“I cannot claim to have the right to interfere, but someone must,” he said.
Cecily found the strength to speak. “I have tried, but my efforts bore no fruit.”
“You must be stronger,” Father Simon said.
“I cannot force her to listen,” she said.
“Her?” Confusion was writ on the priest’s face for a flash, but was then replaced with calm determination. “I am speaking of you, Cecily. I have seen how you and Hugh take yourselves off together to converse, and I know that it is Lancelot and Guinevere whom you discuss. As your confessor, I must implore you to tread carefully. Courtly love is not always wrong, but—”
“There is nothing between Master de Morland and me. Nothing. Courtly or otherwise.”
“Adeline came to me, Cecily. She told me what she saw.”
“What did she see?”
Father Simon shifted uncomfortably. “You were in the forest. Embracing.”
“I have never done any such thing! I wouldn’t.” Her heart was pounding and she felt beads of perspiration on her forehead despite the cold damp of the stone church. She had seen Adeline and Gabrieli in the forest, weeks ago. Did Adeline know this? She started to tell this to Father Simon, but realized that she would be no better than Adeline if she did. Well. A little better, as she would not be lying, but she could not claim to have a firm knowledge of what was transpiring between the two when she had observed them. Their meeting might have been innocuous. “Speak to Master de Morland. He will confirm what I say. Yes, we have discussed Le Morte d’Arthur, and he can tell you that he chided me for having no sympathy for Lancelot and Guinevere. He spoke with me most severely on the subject, but I held my position firm. A wife must guard her fidelity and never stray from the path of righteousness. He wanted to compare Iseult, but I—”
“These are not topics to discuss with Master de Morland,” Father Simon said. “Let me hear your confession, Cecily, and I will help keep you on the path of righteousness.”
* * *
After King Henry offered his last parley, there was nothing to do but wait. William could just barely see the envoys who met in the center of the field, far below where he stood. He did not try to imagine what words they exchanged, because he, like the rest of his fellow soldiers, knew the day would end in a bloody battle. He looked past the negotiators, into the lines of the French army, row after row, seeming to go on forever, and offered one more prayer that God would look after him as he fought. It would take nothing short of a miracle for him and his comrades to survive.
The stench of dysentery filled the air around him, no one willing to move from battle position. The envoys parted and returned to their respective ranks, but nothing else happened. Neither side started to fight. William could feel the restlessness of the men around him, daunted by the sight of the enemy. How long would the French wait to attack?
Everyone expected they would move first. They were better prepared, better fed, better armed, and rude speculation said that their nobles were eager to finish the fighting so that they might get down to the business of collecting ransoms for any high-ranking prisoners they took. Rumor said that eighteen of the best men in France had pledged an oath to kill King Henry, but the English sovereign still refused to disguise his identity on the field. He would fight in plain sight with his men.
But when? A shrewd commander would know that a small army of men suffering from disease could lose their nerve if they were kept standing and staring at their enemy. King Henry was nothing if not shrewd. He turned to his men and barked a command. Obeying at once, each soldier dropped to his knees and, after kissing the ground, pried up a piece of the wet earth upon which he fell, and put it in his mouth.
Now, they could fight.
William’s place in the line was behind the archers, whose deadly war bows were poised to decimate any approaching enemy. Amongst them protruded the sharpened stakes they had fixed in the ground, ready to cause mayhem should any mounted knight approach the English line, but given that the French were not attacking, let alone approaching, the stakes, and the archers, would have to move.
And then, William heard the king’s voice:
Felas, let’s go!
And then trumpets sounded and drummers beat out a tattoo as the English army started to advance.
Still the French did not move.
The English archers repositioned their stakes in the thick mud, close enough now that their arrows could reach the enemy, and protected by the dense forest on either side of the field.
Now William heard English battle cries and he watched as the arrows of five thousand bowmen darkened the sky, flying so close together they all but blotted out the sun. Then came the shrieks of men and horses as the bodkins hit their targets.
And then the fighting began in earnest.
William and his fellow men-at-arms hung back at first, letting the archers and their long war bows do their work. The French were charging now, but their horses, weighed down by the armored men on their backs, fumbled and got stuck in the thick mud covering the field. Some made it to the English lines, but many who did met their demise at the sharpened ends of the wooden stakes.
As the French men-at-arms advanced, their burnished armor, the armor William had taken note of the night before, became all but a weapon against its wearers. The heavy plate dragged them down into the mud, but those who could free themselves from the muck continued on, and it was against these men that the English fought. Their line was not so deep as the French, and they were initially pushed back some feet, but they rallied and with a loud cry, pulled out their poleaxes and swords and faced their enemy in close combat.
William saw bodies heaped one on top of the other near the king’s standard. There must have been a certain amount of truth to the rumor that eighteen Frenchmen swore to kill the English king. Henry was fighting valiantly, delivering blow after blow, not losing ground even after a Frenchman managed to hack one of the fleur-de-lis from his battle crown. William moved forward, wielding his sword with skill and strength, cutting down more men than he cared to count.
And then he saw, not far away, his lord Humphrey, Duke of Gloucester, brother of the king, surrounded by enemies, Henry fighting beside him. William ran toward them, dispatching three of the men-at-arms attacking Gloucester, but he feared his efforts were too late. A tall knight thrust his sword forward into the duke’s groin. With a fearsome cry, William fell upon the Frenchman, his sword piercing the slit in the man’s visor and sending him to a bloody death. He turned and saw the king himself was standing beside his fallen brother, fighting more furiously than ever. William bettered four more knights and then, seeing the enemy was weakening, he picked up Gloucester and
carried him away from the worst of the carnage, managing to fend off two more attacks on the way.
Satisfied that the duke was no longer in danger, he returned to the melee. Blood covered his armor, but he could not tell if it was his or someone else’s. He kept fighting, on and on, hardly aware of anything around him except the clash of metal and the sound of men dying. And then, all at once, he noticed the enemy no longer came in such thick waves and that his compatriots had started taking prisoners, looking for those who would bring the best ransoms. Soon it seemed there were more prisoners than soldiers and the fighting had all but stopped.
But the confusion had not.
Word came that their baggage train had been attacked. Were French reinforcements behind them now? Was the English army all but surrounded? King Henry did not have the time to watch and wait. He ordered all prisoners killed, unable to risk that they might pick up the arms of the fallen dead and join in the fight. So far as anyone could guess, they far outnumbered their captors.
And then, at last, King Henry called for the heralds and asked who had won the battle.
“You have, sire,” came the answer from the most senior of the Frenchmen holding that position.
“Proving, then, once and for all, that our cause was just,” the king said.
“Yes,” the man replied.
“What is the name of this place?” Henry asked.
“Azincourt.”
“Then forever shall it be known that here, at the Battle of Agincourt”—he pronounced it like an Englishman, not in the French way—“we soundly defeated the French and proved our right to their throne.”
1901
31
So far as I was concerned, Mr. Crofton’s death certainly threw into question—even more question, that is—the idea that the murders were in some way meant as a threatening message to the king. Colin, however, was not altogether convinced. He could not deny the connections between Lizzie Hopman and her friends, but he insisted this did not mean the murderer was not also using his crimes to make a larger point—or a threat. We were arguing about it in my dressing room, where I was preparing for bed. I had dismissed Meg as I did not require her assistance when my husband was ready to lend a helpful, if diverting, hand.
“The predominant impact of each of the murders—aside from the tragic loss of life and the impact on families, etcetera—is the message sent by the elaborate staging,” Colin said. He’d traded his perfectly tailored suit for a pair of claret silk pajama trousers. Their matching top was nowhere in sight, but he had pulled on a paisley silk dressing gown, not bothering to tie it closed. The effect, if I may say, was more than a little distracting as he leaned elegantly against the wall and watched me brush my hair. “What message do you take from the crime scenes, my dear?”
“I know what you are trying to get me to admit,” I said.
“The staging of the bodies all but shouts that no one, not even a king, is safe from violent death. Who, then, would not assume the perpetrator means to threaten the king?”
“I cannot deny the logic in your thinking, particularly given the timing of the first murder,” I said. Finished with my hair, I laid my silver-backed brush on the dressing table. “Yet I am still unconvinced that your messages tie in the way you think they do.”
“And I cannot deny the logic in your thinking,” he said. “Before you utter a single word, I must make it clear that I categorically refuse to entertain your notion about secret societies.”
I shrugged. “I won’t bother to argue.”
“That’s more alarming than your forcing the idea on me. What are you up to?”
“Nothing, darling,” I said. “I shan’t trouble you with my silly little thoughts until I’ve uncovered enough overwhelming evidence to convince even you.”
“I have never, ever accused you of being silly.” His cheeks darkened and his eyes flashed.
“One must, on occasion, draw one’s own conclusions,” I said. “At any rate, what’s most important now is to determine which of the men who died in Mr. Crofton’s mine left behind a family with murderous impulses. And then we shall have to see if he knew either Lizzie Hopman or Mrs. Grummidge.”
“And how do you propose doing that?” he asked.
“By going to Wales, of course.”
* * *
By morning, Colin had convinced me that a trip to Wales was not necessary, although I must admit to regretting it just a bit. I’d always wanted to see the Brecon Beacons. Not, mind you, that I would have included a sightseeing excursion as part of a murder investigation, but if one is in the area, one might as well take advantage of the scenery. Rather than go ourselves, he put Inspector Pickering on the case, ordering him to liaise via telephone with his Welsh counterparts in the village where the mine was located and get them to conduct interviews as appropriate. The village being nowhere near the Brecon Beacons had no impact whatsoever on my agreeing to this scheme.
That settled, Colin went off to Marlborough House, leaving me at loose ends until a message arrived from Mrs. Crofton, asking if I would call on her at my earliest convenience. I had hoped for the opportunity to speak to her again, after the initial shock of her husband’s death had passed, but had not dreamed she would reach out to me, especially so quickly.
Her butler was not quite so rude to me as he had been the previous day. I credit this to the icy stare I gave him when he opened the door. The tone in which I demanded to see his mistress might have played a small role, too. He seemed the sort of man who reacted to a firm hand rather than kindness, an observation that made me feel a bit sorry for him.
Mrs. Crofton received me in a chamber so unlike her gold sitting room I could hardly reconcile the two spaces being contained in the same house. This, she explained, was her sewing room, although I saw no sign of any of the implements required for that task. Nonetheless, it was a pleasant little space, its walls painted a rosy pink, with a collection of charming watercolors hanging on them. I complimented her on the paintings, and she blushed so fiercely I wondered if she had painted them herself.
She had abandoned her ruffles and lace for a simple mourning gown, but here, again, she surprised me. I would have expected her to select something covered in a profusion of jet beads, but instead the black crêpe was unadorned except for a simple black braided trim around the high collar and the cuffs of the sleeves. Yesterday, her hands had been covered with rings—one a diamond so large it would have been better suited to a royal crown—but now the only jewelry she wore was a thin gold wedding band and an oval pendant that contained a clipping of what I assumed was her late husband’s hair.
The absence of rouge and pearl powder from her face revealed her to be much younger than I had guessed when I first met her. She was past the first flush of youth, but could not have been more than thirty years old. Mr. Crofton, if I recalled correctly, was sixty-three at the time of his death.
I gave her my condolences and accepted her offer of a cup of tea. Her hands were shaking as she lifted the pot.
“Thank you for coming, Lady Emily,” she said. “I am afraid you might have formed an incorrect impression of me when you called yesterday. You must understand that Mr. Crofton was a gentleman with very specific tastes, and as he has always been good to me, I was quite content to give him what he wanted. No doubt you have noticed that he was substantially older than I, but I assure you that in no way mattered to either of us. Ours was a marriage based on affection.”
“There is no question you were fond of him.”
“I loved him, too,” she said, swallowing hard. “In a way.”
“You need not justify anything to me,” I said, not entirely sure what to make of her appearing so unlike the lady I had seen yesterday. If it weren’t for the murders of Mr. Grummidge and Mr. Casby, it would be tempting to wonder if she had killed her husband so that she could live a less vulgar life. My mother, certainly, would have approved of that motive for murder. “I am pleased that you wrote to me, although I admit to bei
ng surprised by your message. Is there something I can do for you?”
“No, I don’t need anything. I’ll be comfortable enough for the rest of my life. My husband made sure of that. I just didn’t want you to think that I was … that … I should not have said what I did about the queen yesterday.”
“That is of no consequence whatsoever.” I wondered what was really worrying her. Surely an offhand (and, admittedly, tacky, embarrassing, and wholly unrealistic) comment about wanting to be a lady-in-waiting made to a total stranger was not the sort of thing over which one would obsess after one’s husband had been murdered. “I would have got in touch before long regardless as I had hoped to ask you some questions that might help us find the person who did this to Mr. Crofton. Did he have any enemies?”
“Only every person in Wales after the mine disaster,” she said. “But why should he be held responsible? He’d never even been to the bloody—excuse me—place, and I’m sure he did whatever one is supposed to do to make a mine safe.”
It was not the fact that she cursed that tripped me up, but the slightest hint of an accent I had not noticed before. Her vowels, just for a moment, made her sound Welsh. “Do you know Wales well?” I asked.
“I’ve never been there and have no interest in going.” Her voice was back to the upper-class drawl she had affected before.
“Had anyone contacted him recently about the disaster? Some of the miners’ families, perhaps?”
“No, that’s all done and dusted,” she said, her tone clipped and callous. “He paid them off, you know. What else could he have done?”
“It was good of him to offer the families compensation,” I said. “Not everyone would have done. It is possible, however, that someone amongst the victims’ families still bears a grudge and wanted to do to him what he—or rather, the mine—had done to his loved one.”
“That’s absurd.” She shrank a bit in her seat. “Isn’t it?”
“Not necessarily. I’m sure that at the moment you are experiencing a tumult of emotions you can hardly make sense of. The miners’ families would have gone through something similar when dealing with their grief, and now, months later, one among them may have decided he wanted revenge.”
Uneasy Lies the Crown Page 18
