The Fugitive Queen

by FIONA BUCKLEY

  “I know. I just feel for her disappointment,” Meg said, gentling the bird and hooding her.

  “Yes, such a pity,” said Seton, in a valiant voice, and with that, closed her eyes and sagged forward over her pommel. Alarmed, I edged Roundel over to her. She looked up painfully, opening her eyes but narrowing them and flinching at the sunlight. “I . . . I’m sorry . . .”

  I said quietly: “Is it migraine?”

  “Yes. I don’t have them often. It got better during the picnic, but this heat . . . it’s like a band of steel round my head.”

  Mary and Sir Francis had trotted over to us. “This is my fault.” Mary was contrite. “I have been selfish. I was the one who was ill, and wanted the sun and air and they have made me better.” She threw her head back, breathing deeply. “Sitting in Bolton, I felt like a wild bird in a cage, a hawk trapped forever in a mews. Here, I can fly free. But I should have remembered that riding in the heat doesn’t suit poor Seton.”

  “What’s the trouble?” asked Knollys. “Sick headache? Out here?”

  He looked worriedly about him as well he might, for there was not a vestige of shade to be seen. I was worried, too. I knew about migraine, for at times I suffered from it myself. In my case it was not brought on by hot weather but usually by difficult decisions, and so serene had my life with Hugh Stannard been that I had gone three years without an attack. Whatever their cause, though, most migraines shared certain hallmarks and one was that bright light was painful and would prolong the anguish. Mary Seton needed to rest somewhere cool and dim.

  “We can’t be all that far from Tyesdale,” I said, “This looks familiar—we passed near here on the way to meet you all.” I looked about me. We were in a trough in the hills and there were a few farms scattered about in it. Tyesdale, I thought, was just over the next hill, though it would still be a painful ride for someone with Seton’s malady. Southward, I could see several hearth smokes, but they were all some distance off. Then, turning to look to the north, I saw with relief that there was one farmhouse quite close. I pointed. “We could take her there. They might let her rest until she feels better.”

  “In an emergency, I would allow the Lady Mary to go under your roof, Mistress Stannard, but not under that of any stranger. The same applies to Seton. She’s devoted to her mistress. I am sorry, but . . .” began Knollys. I shook my head and stopped him.

  “Please let me offer a suggestion.”

  “I wish you would!” said Knollys in a harassed voice.

  “Take the Lady Mary back to Bolton, with her escort. I will take Mistress Seton to that farm to rest until she is better and I will engage for it that she lays no schemes, receives and passes no messages while she’s there. She’s beyond it, anyway,” I added. “Her skin’s the color of goat’s cheese. No one can fake that.”

  Ryder came up to us. “Can I help, mistress?”

  “You can take Mistress Seton up in front of you. I don’t think she can keep her saddle. Smith, you can lead Mistress Seton’s horse. She’s ill. We’re going to that farmhouse over there.”

  “Take Tobias!” said Mary. “Tobias, stay with Mistress Stannard and Seton and escort Seton back to Bolton when she is well again. Oh, my poor Marie.” She looked ruefully at Seton and then at me. “We are parting rather hurriedly, are we not, Ursula? I hope you will come to Bolton again before you go home. But if not, will you carry a message to Queen Elizabeth for me? Will you tell her that I will do and say whatever she wishes, and assure her that I wish her well with all my heart and only long for her help and support in this time of trouble and false accusation?”

  “Yes, of course,” I said, “though I hope to visit Bolton again.” I had better. Cecil’s half of my errand was still to do. If I could.

  Mary gave me her lovely smile and her hand to kiss, and was gone. I watched her go with a regret that had little to do with Cecil’s commission and much more to do with feeling that the light was dimmed and the skylark music fainter because Mary Stuart wasn’t there.

  But Seton looked dreadfully ill. Both Pen and Meg were looking at her with concern. “That way,” I said, pointing, and my own little party set off toward the thatched roof and the chimneys I had seen, perhaps half a mile away.

  Ryder had put Seton into his own saddle so that its high pommel and cantle could support her, and was sitting behind, with an arm around her. She leaned against him, moaning a little. The only pace we could manage was funereal, and though it was not far, the journey to the farmhouse seemed very long.

  When we did eventually get there, the place was depressing. This was no fortified manor farmhouse, but a sprawling, straw-thatched affair that looked as though it had been built for animals as much as people and the smell of middens and stables suffused the surrounding air.

  The main door was open, and as I slipped out of my saddle in front of it, I saw that the house, like that of the Grimsdale family, was used for both people and animals. Inside, there was a cattle byre to the right and to the left, an inner doorway. The sun was shining in and I could make out a comfortless room with a floor of beaten earth, an uncushioned settle, a set of farming implements hanging on a rough stone wall, and a slatted wooden staircase leading upward.

  Ryder called. Someone answered and a man emerged from the byre, carrying a broom. I recognized him at once, because of his white hair and beard and his aquiline nose. “Master Thwaite!” I said in surprise. “Is this Fernthorpe?”

  “Aye. So it be.” Will Thwaite favored me with his gap-toothed smile. “Why, Mistress Stannard! Thee’ve come to visit? Thee should have given us warning! Andrew’s out in t’fields and . . .”

  “We wouldn’t normally have come without warning,” I said, “but we need help. We’ve been hawking and . . .” I began to explain, though I was aware as I did so, of something going on at the back of our little party. It didn’t concern Seton, for Ryder had already dismounted and with Tom Smith’s help had lifted her down and was half-carrying her forward, ready to go inside the moment our host understood what we needed.

  As I finished my explanation, I glanced over my shoulder, but still couldn’t make out what was happening. Master Thwaite hadn’t noticed. He was already leading the way indoors, telling Ryder to bring the sick lady in out of the sun.

  Ryder carried Seton in after him and I had to concern myself with her first. Thwaite led us into the room on the left. It was kitchen and living room all in one, with a big fireplace, though the fire, for the moment, was out. As well as the wooden settle, there were a couple of stools and a table. Near the door, as well as the farm implements, a few businesslike weapons—a couple of swords, half a dozen pikes, and two muskets—hung on the wall. The animal smell was as strong in here as it was outside and a couple of hens were scratching about on the floor amid a scattering of grain and cabbage stalks. I wasn’t surprised when a small door at the back was nosed open by a pink snout, and a small pig trotted in to help the hens clear the floor. I wasn’t surprised either when the pig relieved itself in front of the empty hearth.

  Thwaite uttered an angry shout at the sight of the animal life in the living room and kicked the pig, which removed itself with an indignant snort. He then swept its droppings into the hearth with his broom, and after that swept the chickens out of the back door in the wake of the pig.

  Poor Seton had inhaled the smell and audibly choked. However, since there was nowhere else to put her, Ryder helped her to lie down on the settle. Master Thwaite vanished up the stairs and came back a few moments later, dragging a rustling straw pallet in one hand, while the other elbow clamped a pillow to his side. Neither pallet nor pillow looked very clean. “Happen this’ll make t’poor lady more comfortable,” he said. “I’ll get some milk. T’girl’s in t’dairy making butter; there’ll be skim milk to be had.”

  He disappeared again, this time to the back regions, and I heard him shouting. Once more he reappeared, with a fat young woman at his heels, carrying a jug and some beakers. The girl had a dairymaid’s good skin
but also, unfortunately, a terrible squint. Somehow, she seemed to be just the sort of dairymaid that a place like Fernthorpe would have. No one, I felt, would work here if they could find somewhere better. When I got a closer look at her and saw that as well as a squint, she had the remains of a recent black eye, I was surer of that than ever. They obviously didn’t starve her but they probably knocked her about. Pen’s immediate aversion to Andrew Thwaite had come from a sound instinct.

  She waddled around, offering skim milk to all of us. I accepted mine dubiously, hoping she hadn’t had her grubby fingers in it. Everything in this place was grimy. The tools on the walls hadn’t been cleaned before being hung up. Spade, rake, hoe, all had earth still caked on them. The pike heads were dull and I would have wagered that the muskets wouldn’t fire and that if the swords were unsheathed, their blades would not be clear, either.

  I was staring at the swords and gingerly sipping my milk, when Will Thwaite spoke to me. “Why are t’rest o’ you still hanging about out there in t’sun? Fetch them in, lass. Horses can go in t’byre. Water them first—there’s water in trough and happen they need some.”

  I put my milk beaker down on the table and hurried outside. As I came out of the door, Pen met me. She had dismounted and was leading her mare. “Mistress Stannard!”

  “What is it, Pen? Master Thwaite says we can water the horses and . . .”

  “We’ve watered them. We found a trough. Mistress Stannard, Meg won’t come inside. She says . . .”

  “Meg?” My daughter was still on her pony, hanging back from the house, with Tobias positioned as though he were shielding her from it. I hastened across the yard to her. “Meg, what’s the matter?”

  “Mother! Oh, Mother!” She was pale and trembling. “This house! That man!”

  “That’s Master Will Thwaite. He’s visited us at Tyesdale—surely you saw him? No, perhaps you didn’t; you were out with Brockley when he came the first time, of course, and the second time, you were upstairs with Sybil and Master Whitely entertained them. But . . .”

  “I never saw him when he came to Tyesdale but, Mother, he came out of the house just now and spoke to you and I knew his voice! It’s the way the gaps in his teeth make his s’s splutter!” Meg looked petrified. “He’s one of the men who abducted me! I knew his eyes, too. I’ll never forget how they looked at me. They were so cold. And that’s not all. The sun was lighting up the passageway and I recognized this place. So I turned my pony and edged away before I was noticed. This is where they brought me and Master Thwaite’s the man who said I was too young!”

  My entire stomach did a somersault. “Oh, dear God!” I said. “And there’s a sword on the wall in there that has an amethyst in the hilt just like the one Harry had! I didn’t know—I wasn’t sure—many swords have jewels in their hilts. But now . . .”

  “They’re the people who killed Harry,” said Pen in a horrified whisper.

  12

  Matters of the Heart

  “Tobias,” I said, “and Tom. Take Meg and Pen home to Tyesdale. Now. At once. Into your saddle, Pen.” I gave her a leg up myself. “We’ll follow with Seton as soon as we can,” I said. “I’ll look after our horses. Pen and Meg must be got away from here immediately. Hurry!”

  I put our horses—Ryder’s, Seton’s, and mine—into the byre with their tack still on, though I loosened their girths. Returning to Seton, I found that her migraine had reached the point of nausea, no doubt helped by the combination of pigsty stench and rather warm skim milk. The fat dairymaid was now holding a bucket for her, while Ryder hovered, looking anxious.

  Facing Will Thwaite was difficult but somehow I managed to smile, and speak calmly as I said: “We are too large a party to descend on you without warning. I’ve sent the others home. Ryder and I will take Mistress Seton as soon as she can sit a horse again.” I caught Ryder’s eye and tried to convey with a meaningful stare that I had my reasons. He gave me a small nod, which I knew meant that he would back me up, whether or not he understood what I was about.

  “Well, that’ll not be yetawhile,” said Thwaite, with a glance at the groaning Seton. Handing me my beaker of milk again, he gestured to me to take one of the stools, and then sat himself down on the other. “It’s a pity maybe that Mistress Pen’s not come in and I’m sorry my son Andrew’s not here but happen it’s as well. He insisted on coming when I called at Tyesdale t’other day but to my mind, some things are best talked over by parents and guardians when t’young folk aren’t about.”

  “I beg your pardon?” I said.

  Master Thwaite smiled. “Whitely and Mistress Appletree must have said that we called at Tyesdale when thee were away?”

  “Yes. Yes, I knew that. But . . .”

  “Master Whitely said thee were at Bolton Castle,” Thwaite remarked. “And Mistress Pen as well. I like that. Visiting terms with castle folk—that’s the kind of family I want for Andrew.”

  “I’m not sure I . . .”

  “Oh, come now. We nearly came to t’point when we called on thee t’first time. I had it in mind from t’moment I heard that there was a young lass coming to take t’reins at Tyesdale. A girl can’t run such a place all alone, so Mistress Pen needs a husband and rightly enough, thee’s looking for one. Well, I want a wife for my Andrew. So—let’s put t’cards ont table. How about making a match of it between them?”

  This was hustling matters along, by anyone’s standards. Standing where Thwaite couldn’t see him, Ryder raised his eyebrows and pursed his lips into a silent whew!

  My pulses were jumping with alarm. Had it been physically possible, I would have abandoned my beaker, dragged Ryder and Seton out, grabbed our horses, and fled from Fernthorpe as though it were infected with the plague. Only with great difficulty could I keep from turning my head and staring at the jeweled sword hilt that had caught my attention the moment I first entered the room.

  But the retching Seton could not yet be moved so I was trapped where I was, fending off a proposal of marriage from the family that had struck down Harry, stolen his body away, abducted my daughter, and only rejected her because she was “too young.” For breeding, presumably. No doubt the existence of a dowry had been assumed and was a further encouragement to kidnapping. Had Meg been just a little older, what might have befallen her before I found her? I quaked.

  “Pen and your son have hardly seen each other,” I said, keeping my eyes on Will Thwaite’s face with difficulty. The sun was shining on the sword hilt and making the amethyst give off violet flashes. “They have had no time to get to know each other, to know whether they . . .”

  “Oh, come now, Mistress Stannard. There’s more to marriage than a couple of doves billing and cooing. T’pair can meet and talk before t’ceremony if you reckon that’s important but nature’s nature; it’ll work out just as well if you leave it till after. In any case . . . ah, Andrew!”

  “I saw horsemen,” said Andrew Thwaite, stepping into the room and hanging a further hoe and a wide-brimmed hat up on the wall. He was dressed in loose, patched hose and a dirty shirt and had an old leather jerkin slung over one shoulder. In this farming gear he still looked as faun-like as ever, except that he now resembled a rustic English faun instead of a legend from classical Greece. He jerked his head at the fat dairymaid. “Get me some ale, Rosie, and be quick about it. It’s hot as hell out there.”

  Rosie, glancing at him as though she were scared of him, which I could well believe, scurried away. I wondered if she were the only house servant here in this otherwise masculine household and whether she had other functions besides that of housemaid and cook. Very likely! I thought. There were methods of making sure that the farm wasn’t cluttered up with accidental babies.

  “I was telling Mistress Stannard here,” said his father, “that we want to ask for Mistress Pen as a wife for thee. Mistress Stannard’s talking about love, but as far as that goes, we’re halfway there already, aren’t we?”

  “Indeed we are,” Andrew said. “One glance at M
istress Pen was enough for me. She’s charming, Mistress Stannard. I’ll love her right enough; no fear that I won’t.” The corners of his mouth curved up in the most disquieting grin I had ever seen on a living human being, although I had seen grins like it on the masks that people sometimes wear at May Day fairs, especially when they’re impersonating the Green Man of the Woods, who accompanies the hobbyhorse. And is eagerly touched by childless women because he is supposed to cure infertility. (Vicars of all persuasions are forever trying to forbid the more outrageously heathen aspects of May Day celebrations but they never succeed for long.)

  I was in no doubt what the word love meant to Andrew. Not that there’s anything amiss with that; but it shouldn’t stop there. It is supposed to have a context of kindness and concern and anxiety for the loved one’s well-being. I felt strongly that this context was as unknown to the Thwaites as it would be to any pagan forest god. Pen, to Andrew and his father, would be just a better-off, slimmer, and legalized version of Rosie.

  I thought fast. “The fact is,” I said confidingly and untruthfully, “that while we were at Bolton, Sir Francis Knollys suggested a possible match for Pen. Plans are in hand to introduce the young people. So you see, I am in an awkward position. Of course, if for one reason or another, the plan comes to nothing, then we will have to think further but . . .”

  “I know what’s wrong, Father,” said Andrew, taking the far end of the settle from Mary Seton, who by now had sat gingerly upright and was leaning back, eyes closed, but complexion improving. “It’s this place. It’s so untidy. Mistress Stannard, we do realize that.”