“It will suit very well, provided there’s no disloyal talk,” I said.
The lad laughed again. “Well, there’s the Moss boys, over north of Tyesdale, but they’re promised to two of the Holme girls—your neighbors to the northeast, they’ll be; all in Fritton Parish. There’s three more Holme girls to settle and their mam reckons she’s got first refusal of every likely lad for miles. If me brother and me were a bit nearer to gentry, she’d be sinking her claws in us. She could come to it yet!”
“Meg, you chatter too much,” I said reprovingly. In my memory, something had stirred. “Holme—the family don’t live at a place called Lapwings, by any chance, do they?”
“Aye, that’ll be them. So thee knows them?”
“No, no—by chance, I’ve heard of them, that’s all.”
Heard was the wrong word. I had seen the name written down on a list. It was a list that had belonged to Mary Stuart, and three years ago, when I traveled to Scotland, part of my purpose had been to make sure that its latest version didn’t reach her, for the names on it were those of families in England who supported her claim to the throne and would offer help if she ever made a bid for it; the more inaccurate her information on that subject was, the happier the English government would be. The updated list, happily, was destroyed before it got to Mary, but I had seen the original one, and since I had a good memory, I could recall many of the items on it. I could call up this particular entry in my mind. Thomas Holme of Lapwings. Twenty miles from Bolton and about fifty miles from York. Not wealthy but would lend sword arm and horses.
Ah, well. Mary, mewed up in Bolton wasn’t likely to ask the Holmes to redeem their promise, and I needn’t worry about them from that point of view. The locality didn’t sound very rich in prospective bridegrooms, I thought, but we could cast more widely than the immediate district. I might hear of a likely prospect when I visited Bolton, and as I had said to Hugh, we could always take Pen home again if necessary.
The rain stopped after supper and the menfolk went outdoors again, to make use, presumably, of the light summer evening to finish whatever tasks the rain had interrupted earlier. The farmer’s wife showed us to a room under the roof and we went to bed early.
We slept, all of us, in our clothes. The bedding consisted of fleeces with cloths thrown over them—on the grubby side and somewhat overwarm. Most of us fell asleep quickly, though, especially Dale, who was worn-out. Pen, however, was restless, and I too lay awake for some time, worrying about her.
In the morning, the weather was dull and misty but looked as though it would improve later. Pen, however, was pale with pain and unable to rise. There was no question whatever of getting her into the saddle that day.
• • •
“We can’t all stay here,” I said as we conferred in the attic chamber. “I suspect that these people just won’t have enough to go round. Some of us at least have got to get out of the way.”
“Fran and I can stay with Pen, madam,” Brockley offered. “Fran will be the better of a full day’s rest. Mistress Penelope will be better soon, I take it,” he added in lower tones.
“She’ll be all right by the end of today; she always is,” Sybil said. “I’d stay, gladly, but if Dale is tired, then perhaps she should take the chance of breaking the journey. Brockley could bring them both to Tyesdale tomorrow. What do you think, Mistress Stannard?”
“That might be best,” said Ryder, looking down at the stricken Pen in compassionate fashion. “Mistress Stannard can have Tyesdale made ready for you, Mistress Pen, before you get there.”
I went down to talk to our hosts. It was very early still but only the farmer and the two women were in the kitchen. Their sons must be out on the farm already, mist or no mist. I explained that most of us were leaving at once but that one of our girls was too unwell to ride until the next day.
The women seemed sympathetic but worried. I suspected that the way we had accounted for nearly all of that ham had something to do with that. The farmer said bluntly that what that lass upstairs needed was to get herself up and on the move and that’ud shift the vapors fast enough. I myself wished that Pen could leave at once. I was sure her mother wouldn’t have liked her to stay here.
However, there was nothing to be done. I worried about leaving Brockley to act as sole escort next day. One outlaw had been hanged but where there was one, there might be others. Grimsdale denied this quite passionately, assuring us that the district was quiet, but I decided to leave Tom Smith behind as well as Brockley. Grimsdale was visibly annoyed, even when I said we would buy a sheep from him, which he could slaughter for supper. “You’ve surely got one old ewe that’s had her day!”
“Aye, happen I have, but . . .”
I insisted, however, and he subsided, grumbling. When we set off through the foggy morning, therefore, cloaked and hooded against the damp, we had an escort of three armed men—John Ryder, burly Harry Hobson, and Dick Dodd.
Three should have been enough but it wasn’t. When the attack came out of the mist, there were seven of them at least. If we had had all our men with us, we would have had a chance. As it was, we were defeated from the beginning.
4
Abduction
We were riding at a walk, on a stony moorland track in a clinging hill mist that spangled our clothes and our horses’ manes with gray droplets of water. Visibility was perhaps fifty yards; sufficient to show us the track stretching ahead and allow us to recognize landmarks. Master Grimsdale had told us more about these. After a couple of miles, he said, there was a fork where we must take the right-hand path.
“Though thee’d soon be put on t’right road again even if thee did go wrong. There’s a farm or two over that way and a bit o’ mining.”
“Mining?” Ryder inquired.
“Aye. Sea coal,” Grimsdale had said indifferently. “Not as much as on the east side o’ t’Pennines—them’s the hills away east of here—but some. At least, there’s likely a lot more coal down deep where no one can get at it. Most o’ the seams run off downward. I’ve an uncle who’s a miner and that’s what he says. But there’s enough to make a living for them as likes t’notion. I’d sooner herd sheep up top, myself.”
We had passed the fork, taking care to choose the right-hand way. We had seen no sign of mines or other farms, but could assume, we told each other, that we were on the right road and probably, if Grimsdale’s directions were accurate, within four miles of our destination.
And then, without warning, there were shapes in the mistiness, shadowy forms that for a brief moment I took for upright stones or perhaps bushes, until I saw that they were moving. Then came hoarse shouts and a trampling of hooves, and out of the vapors burst a crowd of men on hairy ponies.
Sybil, on Dick Dodd’s pillion, screamed. The merlin, which was in a hamper slung on a pack mule, bated inside the wicker-work with a furious beating of wings, and Meg’s pony, which was alongside, plunged, frightened as much by the hamper as by our assailants. I caught at the pony’s bridle, dragging it away from the mule. Our attackers were faceless beings with scarves wrapped around their faces and bodies swathed in thick mantles. They were also brandishing a haphazard but frightening collection of weapons. I glimpsed a sword or two, but most of them seemed to be carrying pikes and quarterstaves.
Our men had their own swords out on the instant but the sharpest blade is at a disadvantage when confronted with a longer weapon. A quarterstaff swept Harry Hobson clean out of his saddle and Ryder, lunging with his sword, had it struck from his hand by a pike. Dick Dodd, with Sybil clinging to his waist and still screaming, swung his horse between the attackers and the pack mules, which he was leading, and which he naturally assumed were the target. His blade was at the ready. But he and Sybil were ignored and so were the mules. It was my turn to scream as, too late, we saw that the enemy’s real objective had nothing to do with ordinary robbery.
A bulky figure came up on the other side of Meg and hoisted her from her saddle, dumping her
on his horse in front of him. In the same moment, Harry Hobson, who had scrambled to his feet and had kept hold of his sword, ran forward and lunged at Meg’s captor. The man wheeled his mount deftly and then I screamed a second time for one of the swords I had glimpsed among our assailants was his, and he was swinging it.
It looked as though he were trying to parry Hobson’s blade but if so, he missed. He struck Harry instead, between neck and shoulder. I heard the beginning of a hoarse outcry from Harry, but it was cut off short as his blood gushed out and a spatter of white bone came with it. Then his attacker wrenched the sword free and Harry fell, right in front of my mare, Roundel, who reared and squealed. Somehow I kept my seat though I let go of Meg’s frightened pony. Meg’s captor let out a shout, and then they were all spurring away, streaming off across the heather and into the grayness, taking Meg with them. I heard her shriek: “Mother, Mother!” and then she was gone.
“Meg!” I wailed. I tried to follow, but there were stone out-crops amid the heather and my good Roundel pecked and almost came down. She stopped short, trembling and sweating, and I found Ryder beside me, reaching for my bridle.
“Mistress, Mistress! There’s Harry . . .”
“Leave me alone! I must follow Meg.” I tried to push his hand off my rein, at the same time straining my ears, thinking I had heard voices in the fog, not far off, as though our enemies, or some of them, were still nearby, hidden only by the mist. But Ryder was turning Roundel, leading us back. Confusedly, I let him. Then he was helping me down and urging me forward, and a moment later I was kneeling at Harry Hobson’s side.
He was dead. The sword had smashed into him at an angle that had nearly decapitated him and had gone like a meat cleaver deep into his breastbone. His blood was soaking into the wet heather. His eyes were open and glazed and his right hand was still clenched on the hilt of his own sword, the one with the amethyst in the hilt. That too was smeared with blood. He had died instantly. That at least was a mercy.
Ryder had disappeared, though I heard his voice close by, speaking to Dick Dodd. I could hear our horses, too, trampling and snorting, badly upset. I crouched, crying, dropping tears on poor Harry’s body, and then stood up again and called into the fog: “But what are we to do? We can’t wait! We’ve got to find Meg!”
Ryder emerged from the mist. “Dick and Mistress Sybil are holding our horses. Dick caught Meg’s pony. But we’ll not get them to come near the smell of blood. Quickly, now, mistress. I know we’ve got to get after Meg but first, can you help me move him? To shift him off the track and lay him beside that rock at the side of it?”
Numbly, I obeyed, though I shuddered, seeing my hands smeared with red and feeling the dead weight of Harry’s body. It was warm, I remember, still as warm as it was in life. We laid him where Ryder said, and I closed his eyes myself. Ryder folded his hands.
“He’s beside the path. We’ll be able to find him again,” he said. “I know we’ll have to leave him while we go after Meg.”
“She’ll be terrified! Dear God, we can’t even leave anyone here to guard him, because rescuing Meg may need all of us!”
“I know. God will have to take care of Harry while we’re gone. See, I’ll put his sword beside him. We know the direction they took. If only this mist would clear! Come, mistress, the horses are over here.”
He led me away from Harry. We found Dick and Sybil holding the reins of all our mounts. There were tears pouring down Sybil’s face, but she was trying to soothe the horses, who were wide-nostriled and showing the whites of their eyes, afraid of the scent of blood, which their keen senses had picked up, seeping through the mist. The two mules, equally uneasy, had been tethered by their leading reins to a couple of gorse bushes.
“They never touched the mules,” Dick said in puzzled tones. “It’s odd, for robbers.”
“They wanted Meg,” I said fiercely. I was already taking Roundel’s reins from Sybil and reaching for my stirrup. “And they’ve got her. Come on!”
“Leave the mules,” said Ryder, “and tether Harry’s horse and Meg’s pony with them. Damn this mist.”
It was a bitter business. We had to pass close to where poor Harry lay and all the horses shied. It seemed cruel and disrespectful to leave him there, but there was nothing we could do for him, while Meg, small, terrified, and vulnerable, needed our help desperately.
I said: “They made off that way!” I pointed to hoofmarks in a patch of muddy ground where the heather was thin. Crouching forward, I peered down. “They’ve left a trail of sorts. But they’ll be miles ahead by now! Though I did think I heard something not long ago . . .”
“Sound carries in mist,” Ryder said. “Keep your own voice down, mistress. They can’t see ahead any farther than we can and this ground nearly brought your mare down just now. They can’t keep up any kind of speed for long. We’ll catch them yet. The problem will be what to do then!”
“I’ll grab that kidnapping brute by the ears and twist them off, that’s what I’ll do!” I blazed.
“I’ll help you, mistress,” said Ryder politely. Sybil said frantically: “Oh, why are we just talking? Poor, poor Meg!”
“Come on, then,” said Ryder.
• • •
It was slow work, so agonizingly slow. I prayed for a wind to lift the mist but even when a breeze came it did no more than swirl the vapors. It thinned them a little but that was all. We went warily, leaning from our saddles to look for the spurt of thin earth, the crushed heather stems, the scattered pebbles, where the hooves of our assailants’ mounts had passed. We rapidly lost all sense of direction. We eventually found ourselves on a track where the signs were clearer, and we put our horses into a trot, only to be delayed again when the path split into three and we found hoofmarks on two of them.
I sat on Roundel, seething with impatience, until Ryder and Dodd had concluded that one set of prints had rainwater in the deeper marks and therefore must be older. “It’s the newer ones we want,” said Ryder. “Come on. This way.”
We pressed on. Every now and then Ryder raised a hand to halt us so that we could listen. We heard nothing, though, for a long time, not even the call of a bird. No skylarks; no peewits, no ravens. In such murky weather, even wild things are silent. The fourth time that Ryder stopped us, though, we did hear a sound. It was faint and we couldn’t make out the direction very well but somewhere, a dog was barking. Then, distant but distinct, a door banged.
“We’re coming to a house of some sort,” said Ryder in a low voice. “I think I’d better get down and prowl on foot, mistress. If they’ve brought Meg here, we need to reconnoiter. Don’t fear. We’ll get her back, I swear it. Crazy! What do they think they’re doing?”
“I expect they’ll demand a ransom,” I said shakily.
“If you want to be paid a ransom, you need to know who to ask for it and where to find them! I understood that no messenger went ahead of us to Tyesdale so how does anyone hereabouts know who we are?”
Sybil said: “We told the farmer yesterday and his sons were out after supper last night and again early this morning. It’s such a poor household that maybe they’ll seize any chance of making money. Maybe they’ve got friends who are outlaws. This seems a wild country to me.”
“You’ve very likely put your finger on it, Mistress Jester,” said Ryder grimly. “However, for the moment, I’ll do some prowling, as I said. You’d better all wait here.”
“Take care, sir,” said Dodd. “There’s a dog.”
Ryder nodded, swung out of his saddle, handed his reins to me, and set off along the track on foot. He had only gone a few yards, however, and was still visible, when he stopped, raising a hand in warning to hold back and be silent. Then we saw what he had seen: a gray shadow on the path, coming toward us.
“It may be just a sheep,” said Sybil uncertainly. Ryder made another be silent signal with his hand, but Sybil’s voice had carried and been heard. There was a faint cry of “Help!” and the vague figure came on faster.
Ryder ran forward to meet it. We heard him exclaim and then came another cry, this time with a sob of thankfulness in it. Then he was coming back, emerging from the fog, carrying something. He brought it straight to me and slipping from my saddle, I took my daughter in my arms.
• • •
For a good ten minutes, poor Meg just cried and shivered. We moved ourselves and our horses off the track so that the mist would hide us from anyone who might be chasing her back along it. Sitting on a stone outcrop, I tried to quieten her and at last, my dear daughter, who at heart was sensible enough, regained command of herself and tried to answer our questions. Unfortunately, there was little she could tell us.
“They just rode off with me. We seemed to go for miles and miles. I kept on struggling but I couldn’t get away and in the end I stopped struggling, because even if I’d escaped, I’d just have fallen off and been lost on the moor in all this mist.”
“But you must have got away in the end. I mean—we found you here, running back along the road,” I said to her.
“No.” She shook her head. “They let me go. No one’s after me. We needn’t have come off the track to hide. It’s all right.”
“Just what happened?” Ryder asked gently.
“We got to a house. A sort of farmhouse I think, but I couldn’t see much, what with the mist. We went inside, into a passageway. There were oxen in a kind of barn on one side and a door on the other side that led into a room where there was a hearth . . . like the Grimsdales’ farmhouse, only this was a different place . . .”
“Plenty of farmhouses like that, everywhere. Did they say anything to you? Or each other? Did you hear any names?” Ryder asked.
“I don’t know. I mean yes, they spoke to each other but their mouths were muffled up with those scarves and they spoke—well, people up here almost speak a foreign language. I can’t understand it,” Meg said. “But they took me into the room with the hearth and one of them pulled my hood off and looked at me and then another one pushed forward and stared at me.” A shudder went through her body and I held her more tightly. “I could only see his eyes but I didn’t like them. He looked at me as if I were a thing. He got hold of my chin and turned my head this way and that and then he started shouting at the others. I understood some of what he said. He was saying I was too young.”
The Fugitive Queen Page 6
