Dudley had spared two hours on the Friday in order to practice the pretended duel with Morland, which would be enacted while Sybil was whisked, not into the pie shop, but into the bronzesmith’s house instead. Rob and I would join her there, and so would most of the neighbors and we would all partake of refreshments provided by the college kitchens. This was a last-minute plan that Cecil had created. “Mistress Jester was nearly the victim of an ugly deception,” he had said. “We will make it up to her—and do it with style.”
The refreshments, therefore, included pork and veal pies of Paris with ginger and raisins, all enclosed in delicate pastry, with pastry doves on top; a march-pane model of King’s College Chapel, cold capons with a bread and pepper sauce in a separate dish, a honey and saffron quiche, and a magnificent molded blancmange. There was a choice of fine wines, too. All this had arrived in covered trays during the morning, borne by college servants, and it had sent Mistress Brady into ecstasies involving clasped hands and actual tears of joy.
It was hot. The sun beat down on the dusty lane and my green satin felt heavy. Lookouts had been posted to watch for the queen, and now, in the distance, we heard trumpets welcoming her as she entered the city, and a moment later, church bells rang out all around us, exultantly clanging up and down the scale to add their voices to the trumpets.
The lane was becoming more crowded every moment. A large merchant with an equally large wife and a crowd of children came shouldering past me and Rob, intent on getting a good view. Brockley, behind me, clicked a disapproving tongue and I half turned to exchange rueful, yes, how impolite, glances with him. As I did so, the frontage of the pie shop came briefly into my line of vision and my gaze swept casually over it.
It could have been a trick of the light, the reflection of a rippling banner, or even of one of the many faces peering out of the windows across the street. It could have been my imagination.
It was none of those things. I went rigid, body and face alike, and Brockley saw it. “Madam? What is it?”
“Up in the pie shop,” I said quietly. “In the attic. Somebody’s up there. I’ve just seen a face glance out of one of those dormer windows!”
23
Desolation
“Master Henderson!” said Brockley sharply. Rob moved quickly toward me and I told him what I had seen.
“There can’t be anyone in there! It’s been under surveillance ever since it was searched and found deserted,” Rob said. “No one can possibly have got in.”
“I know what I saw.”
“Ursula, are you sure?” He turned and stared up at the windows of the pie shop. Nothing strange was visible now.
“Yes,” I said firmly. “Someone’s in there. Could it be any of your men?”
“No. I said, the place is deserted and it …” He stopped and froze. And then, with somewhat elaborate casualness, turned back to me. “You’re right. I saw a movement myself. It’s impossible, but … wait.”
Ryder and Dodd were among the guards keeping the crowd back. Swiftly, Rob made his way to them. A moment later he came back, bringing them with him. “The side gate,” he said. “And then the back door. We nailed up the front doors but we just locked the one at the back and we left the side gate on the latch—bait in a trap, so to speak—and posted a watch to guard it. What have they been doing—sleeping on duty? That’s our way in, anyway.”
I sent Dale into the bronzesmith’s house, but with Brockley, I followed Rob and the other men around the corner to the side entrance. Rob checked sharply when he saw that I proposed to form one of the party. “Ursula, you can’t come! This isn’t fitting for ladies.”
“Being tied up in attics isn’t fitting for ladies, either,” I said. “It’s late to worry about that. Look, if Ambrosia is there she may need me. Her mother can’t come to her just now but I can represent her. I will keep behind you and do nothing foolish.”
“Mistress Blanchard can be relied on, Master Henderson,” Brockley said. “As surely you know, sir.”
Rob snorted but said nothing more. Very quietly, we unlatched the side gate and went in, moving at once to the yard at the rear. We looked up at the pie shop but there were no dormer windows on this side. Nothing stirred behind the lower windows. Fortunately, there were no longer any poultry to warn our quarry by cackling, since Master Brady had taken charge of them for the time being. As we reached the back door, Ryder said: “But we haven’t got the key with us.”
I sighed, and fished inside my green satin skirt. “I’ll open it for you,” I said, and brought out my lockpicks. I’m sorry to say that I couldn’t forbear giving Rob a faintly triumphant smile as I let us into the pie shop.
I had some difficulty with the lock and could feel Rob seething with impatience beside me, but after two or three minutes I persuaded it to yield. We filed into the kitchen. It was deserted, the fire out, and the unraked ashes cold. The usual hams were hanging from the beams, though I noticed that one was missing from its hook. I opened the door to the larder and peered inside. I saw a gap on one of the shelves as though something had been removed. Someone had been there, helping themselves.
“They took food when they went,” I said in a low voice. “At least, I think so.”
“I daresay, but the point is, did they come back?” Rob whispered, and led the way cautiously out into the passage. There was no sign of anyone on the ground floor but once or twice Rob paused to listen, holding up a hand to keep the rest of us still and absolutely silent and the second time he did this we heard something creak on the floor above us. Stealthily, we made toward the stairs.
Then stealth became unnecessary, for a joyous uproar broke out in the street: clattering hooves, blaring trumpets, cheers and whistles, and shouted commands. The queen was coming into Jackman’s Lane. As we reached the next floor, I looked into the parlor, found it empty, slipped inside, and went to the window.
Down below, the street was a blaze of color and excitement. Trumpets sounded again and along the lane came a troop of horsemen, armed and accoutred for display. Beyond them, the sunshine flashed and sparkled on something I could not at first see. Then I glimpsed a tall plume of dark feathers with glints of gold, and a moment later, I saw that the feathers were attached to an elegant black hat, which in turn was poised on a head of pale red hair caught in a gold net. A few paces more and I saw that it was Elizabeth, clad in the sweeping black that enhanced her pale skin, seated slender and upright in the sidesaddle of a white mare whose gemmed bridle gave off blinding flashes. Beside her, in vivid contrast, rode Dudley, crimson-clad on a chestnut gelding.
They reached the dais and the horsemen wheeled to face it, forming a semicircle at a little distance. Dudley dismounted and helped the queen to alight. Someone led their horses aside and Cecil came down to offer his hand and escort Elizabeth up to her waiting seat of honor under the canopy. Someone else stepped forward to read an address and Sybil, holding an immense bouquet of summer flowers, was being brought toward the foot of the dais. The crowd was cheering wildly. Rob touched my shoulder.
“There’s no one on this floor. Come on. Upstairs. Quickly, now.”
We crept up toward the attic. Rob went first, followed by Dodd and Ryder. I came next, and then Brockley, who had indicated to me in sign language that he wished to bring up the rear, presumably to protect me from anyone who might creep out of a hiding place we hadn’t found, and attack from behind. We had all kept our shoes on but the hubbub from outside completely drowned any sounds we might make. At the top of the stairs, where they emerged into Jester’s study, Rob halted. Ryder and Dodd were hard on his heels. I was still one step down but by standing on tiptoe and craning my neck I could just see into the room.
We were in full view of its occupants, had any of them looked around but none of them had. Ambrosia was sitting by the desk, her face turned away from us and her eyes fixed on her father. The sunlight, slanting through the dormer window, touched her cheekbones and I could see that although her face was apparently in repos
e, tears were flowing steadily down it. Her father was standing by the window, staring out of it, riveted, it seemed, by the scene below, while Woodforde, leaning across the lidded settle, was opening one of the casements. On the floor beside him, for some reason, was a lit candle in a holder.
There was a fresh surge of noise below and some laughter, and the voice of Francis Morland floated up. Your most gracious Majesty, light of our firmament and guiding star that shines through the leaves of the forest … the bright eyes of fair ladies … heed our pleas and let us take Your Majesty’s handmaiden Mistress Smithson away with us as a keepsake …
Laughter, shouts, the clash—in slow and stylized time—of swords. Then Woodforde stooped and from the top of the lidded chest he snatched up something that was lying there, hidden from us by his body. As he leaned across to the window again, I saw that what he was holding was a musket.
I had time to think: of course, a musket. Brockley had found out that in the Lennox household, Woodforde had joined in military training, and in Cambridge, he kept his eye in by practicing with the cross-bow. The candle was there to provide the necessary flame. The ball would strike Dudley, but for a moment no one would realize what had happened. The report would probably be lost in the excited hubbub of the crowd, and though Woodforde could hardly have planned for it, the blood from the wound would be scarcely visible on Dudley’s crimson garments. When he fell, everyone would think he had been wounded by accident in the mock duel. There would be confusion and a gap of time before anyone knew what had happened, before men came to search the houses. Ample time for the musketeer to escape into the secret room and the cupboard entrance to the tower.
Except that the room and the tower stairs weren’t secret anymore! Woodforde and Jester must be completely insane….
Then everything erupted at once. Rob muttered: “Hold the stairs!” to Dodd and then he and Ryder leaped forward, just as Ambrosia turned, saw us, and screamed, and her father spun around. Woodforde, ignoring them, was thrusting the muzzle of his weapon through the open casement and had caught his candle up. Ambrosia sprang up, apparently to rush to her uncle and drag him back. Rob and Ryder collided with her and the three of them clutched at one another as if in some demented dance. Rob let out a stream of curses. Jester, though he was staring at us all in white-faced horror, did not move.
Woodforde fired.
Or tried to. But there was no puff of smoke, and I saw him try again, and then fling the musket down on the floor in a rage. He shook impotent fists at it and sank onto the settle, his face blank, his fists clenching and unclenching.
Ryder jumped back and Rob, throwing Ambrosia off him, shoved her roughly down onto her seat again. “Women! Always where you’re not wanted!” The happy racket outside rose to a chorus of laughter and cheers and then subsided.
“There ain’t no need for alarm, anyone,” said Jester in a tense, high voice. “I made sure the gun wouldn’t work. It was too big a risk. I damped the powder. Did it yesterday and made sure again a half hour since. I’m not putting my neck in the noose for you, Giles. Ambrosia told me that my wife was goin’ to present the flowers and she was callin’ herself Mistress Smithson. You know that. Well, I worked it out in the end, though I grant you it took me too long. I reckoned that surely I could find out for myself where a Mistress Smithson, so-called, was living, even if she never did present any flowers. I just wish I’d seen it sooner. But I saw it in time to make sure that damned hackbut wouldn’t fire, all the same.”
“You damped my powder? You … ?” said Woodforde in a bewildered voice.
“Father!” sobbed Ambrosia. I went to her, avoiding Rob’s angry eyes. He turned his rage on the two miscreants by the window.
“As for you, Master Jester and Master Woodforde, both your necks are in the noose … believe me … oh no, you don’t … !”
As if impelled by a single brain, Woodforde and Jester had both flung themselves toward the stairs, where Dodd was blocking the way as ordered. Brockley at once appeared beside him. Jester raised a fist and Woodforde snatched out his dagger but Rob and Ryder were hard behind them and this time reached their target. Rob seized Woodforde’s arms from the rear, while Ryder’s forearm went around Jester’s neck. Brockley sprang to lend a hand and the two captives were dragged, struggling, back into the room.
Dodd, running to the window, whistled sharply out of it before he too joined in the scrimmage. In moments, guards’ feet were clattering upward but by the time they arrived, Woodforde and Jester were already facedown with their noses crushed against the floor and heavy knees pressing into their backs and necks. When they were finally allowed to get up, the guards were standing around them, pikes at the ready. All chance of escape was gone. Deftly, their hands were bound and they were thrust side by side onto the settle.
“And there you will wait until Her Majesty has gone on to Queens’ and her reception there, and we can remove you without occasioning comment,” Rob said coldly.
“It isn’t fair! They haven’t done anything!” Ambrosia wailed. I patted her shoulder uselessly, but she shook my hand off. “You can’t take my father away!”
“There has been a plot,” said Rob, “to assassinate Sir Robert Dudley. We understand, Master Woodforde, that your motive is to please Lady Lennox, who fears that Dudley may marry Mary of Scotland when she wants her own son to become that happy bridegroom.” Woodforde gaped at him. “Oh yes,” said Rob, enjoying his triumph after that moment of embarrassing muddle. “We know all about it!”
“But my father stopped it!” Ambrosia shrieked. “You saw what happened. He stopped it!”
“Only because he no longer needed it to earn his reward,” Rob told her savagely. “The reward was to have been Mistress Jester, brought back into this house and into his hands, was it not?”
“I was going to stop it anyway!” Jester shouted.
“Were you?” I asked him. “Your brother was bribing you to help him by promising to restore your wife to you. I fancy you meant to cooperate—because at that time, you didn’t know where she was or how she would be restored. Once you knew that your wife and Mistress Smithson were the same person, and you had had time to think about it, you saw that you no longer needed your brother’s help to find her.”
“I wanted her back! I can’t go on without her. Doesn’t anyone understand? She’s mine!” Jester almost howled.
“You can’t do this! You can’t! My father stopped it, he stopped it; you can’t say he didn’t! Don’t take my father away!” Ambrosia was nearly hysterical and this time when I made another attempt to put a calming hand on her, she struck out so fiercely that I stumbled aside and was caught by Brockley.
“You must have been crazy to try to go on with it,” I said angrily to Woodforde. “After Wat and I had escaped, you must have known that we would report everything to the authorities—including the news of your secret room. If that gun had fired, this house would have been the first to be searched, secret room, tower stairs, and all.”
“You don’t know everything,” Woodforde informed me. “You’re not as clever as you think, though you’re too clever to be decent for a woman. We’d none of us have been found.”
“My father stopped it! He damped the gunpowder!” Ambrosia wailed persistently.
I couldn’t help but feel sorry for her. I wanted to say to Rob: But he did damp the powder. Surely it may count as mitigation. But I couldn’t say that. I had stood in the chapel of King’s College and looked down on the face of Thomas Shawe, dead before his time and Thomas Shawe’s blood cried out for justice.
“Rob,” I said. “There is something more.”
“And what might that be?” Rob’s tone was slightly acid. I could understand. Dudley’s life had been saved by Jester, not by Rob, who had collided with Ambrosia before he could get to the would-be assassin and I had seen it happen.
“In the cupboard—the one that leads into the tower—there’s a tall earthenware ewer lying on its side. Inside it, there’s a bundle
wrapped in linen. I found it. I looked at it and then put it back…. I would like to fetch it now and show it to you. You may think it important.”
Rob stared at me. Then he saw Jester’s face. It had been pale before but now it was as blanched as death, and his lips were shaking. Rob considered him curiously and then nodded to me. “By all means, if you wish. The door of the cupboard is unlocked and unbolted, by the way. We came through from the tower when we searched on Thursday, and undid the bolts.”
I was not sure if I could open the door from the attic to the secret room but it would have been in such bad taste to make Ambrosia do it that I tried on my own. It turned out to be one of those things that is easy once you understand how it works. The knothole was obvious if you knew it was significant. I put my thumb in and pushed; the opening appeared, and I put in my hand to use the latch. I went in.
As Rob had said, the cupboard was unlocked. I found the bundle where I had left it. I don’t like to remember Jester’s eyes when I came back and he saw it in my hands. I put the bundle down on the desk and opened it, and the settle arm, with its bloodstained lion head, lay revealed.
“What’s this?” Rob asked.
“I think,” I said, “that it’s the weapon that killed Thomas Shawe. There are hairs stuck to it, caught in the blood, and unless I am very much mistaken, they are his. His hair was that same brassy color.”
“But who … ?” Rob picked up the evidence and examined it, holding it to the light. “I understood, Ursula, that it was impossible for either Woodforde here, or for Jester, to have killed Master Shawe.”
“No,” I said. “We all supposed that he was killed after five o’clock in the morning, and at five o’clock, Woodforde was in his rooms—I think that is true and that his former manservant is not concerned in thisand Master Jester was here.
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