“And I just walked off on my own,” said Clem. “But there it is. Mabel won’t be comin’ after all, mistress.”
“It’ll probably all come right,” I said awkwardly. “Mistress Holme obviously wants the match to go ahead and I’m sure that when Mabel gets over her upset . . .”
“She can get over it or not as far as I’m concerned,” said Clem. “She broke it off there in front of half Fritton and that’s it. I’ll not lay myself open to’t twice over. I won’t marry her now, no, not if she and her mother both come here together and go down on bended knee to me.”
Peter set down his own tankard and stood up. “Time I took my leave, mistress. I’ll be over to see you, Clem, when I get time.”
“I’ll dance at your wedding,” said Clem. “As long as Mabel’s not my partner.”
“Maybe if she were . . .” I began.
“No, mistress,” said Clem quietly. “Beggin’ your pardon, but not now. Truth to tell, her mother and mine fixed it up for me and Mabel. I’d been keen on another lass, over Bolton way, but her parents found her someone better off than me, so I didn’t argue when Ma said she’d got Mabel for me. She didn’t ask me my opinion. If she had, happen I’d have said I weren’t that struck on Mabel. She’s pretty but we all have our tastes and she’s not that much to mine. Too much of a kitten-face and not practical. Kate’s that, but not Mabel. I wouldn’t have picked her, ’cept that at the time I didn’t care much. Well, now I’m out of it, I’m staying out. Not Mabel now or ever.”
Away from Cecily, both the Moss boys seemed to blossom into forceful characters in the most remarkable way. Clem’s angry flush had subsided, but his round face, which at first had looked so ingenuous, had somehow acquired contours of firmness, and when he said not Mabel now or ever, he meant it. “You’re welcome with or without a wife,” I said.
Peter took his leave. Brockley and Ryder had just returned from another fruitless search for traces which might mean Harry’s grave, so Brockley was in the house. I asked him to take Clem on a tour of the Tyesdale land. Then I took Pen and Meg out to discuss creating a proper herb garden next to the vegetable plot. As I had hoped, talking about the herb garden caught Pen’s interest and when we went indoors again, she fetched writing things and made a list of the plants we wanted.
Ryder and Brockley were growing discouraged by their failure to find anything suspicious. I, too, now thought that our search would probably be in vain. I had still not written again to Hugh, but I couldn’t put it off much longer. I must do it tomorrow, I thought. I must also talk with Brockley and decide how long we should go on looking before we gave up.
At least, life within Tyesdale was becoming more normal. We had some music in the hall after supper that evening. Dick Dodd played his lute for us and everyone sang. Clem reported that he had removed the rusty old plow—“Broke it up, put it in sacks, in bits, mistress, and buried it in t’old diggings”—and assured me that his mother would be glad to let us have some herb plants.
I retired that night feeling quieter in my mind. I had performed my errands for the queen and Cecil. That at least was done. I ought to find a proper tenant for Tyesdale, who would pay a healthy rent to Pen. After that—well, perhaps we would have to give Harry up for lost. We knew who had killed him but what use was that if we couldn’t prove it? I must, very soon, write that promised second letter to Hugh. When I did, I could ask if Harry’s sword had had any other distinguishing mark besides the amethyst in the hilt. Meanwhile, I ought to think of sending Pen home, ahead of me if need be. I ought to get her away from here. I talked of these plans to Sybil for a while before we went to sleep and we agreed that they were good sense.
They were swept away within hours of being made. I was wakened by Meg, anxiously shaking me. “Mother—oh, Mother!”
“What is it?” I sat up in alarm. So did Sybil. It was daybreak and the birds were singing. “What’s the matter, Meg?”
“Mother, I woke up and Pen was gone and I can’t find her anywhere and then, on the window seat, weighed down with a workbox, I found this,” said my daughter, and thrust a note into my hand.
It was in Pen’s writing. It was on the back of the list of herb plants. She was running away with Tobias. She had been meeting him when she rode out alone. Brief meetings, I gathered, but somehow they had managed it. Whenever she had been out of sight for ten minutes or so, she had not been simply on the other side of a stone wall or a fold of the land, but having a tryst with Tobias.
By the time I saw her again, said her note, she would be Mistress Tobias Littleton. She hoped I would understand and forgive her. She was sure I would. Had I not run away with my first husband? She was grateful for all my care of her, but she loved Tobias. Like birds freed from a cage, they were taking flight together.
“She went during the night,” said Meg. “She must have crept out. I suppose he was outside, waiting to meet her.”
“My God,” I said, “what will her mother say to this?”
16
Striking a Bargain
I left Meg at home, with Sybil, Dale, and the Appletrees. The rest of us rode off to hunt for the pair. Clem being new to the household, I told him how Meg had recognized the Thwaites at her kidnappers. Someone must go to Fernthorpe, I said, since Whitely knew the Thwaites and Tobias was his cousin. Clem at once volunteered, but he was so indignant that I sent Ryder and Dodd instead and despatched Clem to ask if the couple had approached the vicar at Fritton and to call at Moss House in case Cecily had news of them. Tom Smith I sent to Lapwings, while I took Brockley to Bolton.
We were all back home by sunset. There had been no trace of the missing lovers anywhere. The Thwaites said they hadn’t set eyes on Whitely or Tobias in the last few days and had no idea where either of them might be. Ryder had asked bluntly if he might look upstairs “and they put on a show of being affronted but they let me. The bedchambers are better kept than the rooms downstairs, though not much, but there was no one up there.”
At Fritton vicarage, Moss House, and Lapwings, it was apparently all shaking heads and no, sorry, we’ve seen nothing of Master Littleton or Mistress Pen. The vicar and Cecily Moss were both scandalized and promised to keep a sharp lookout, but Cecily reckoned the couple had probably put as much distance as possible between Tyesdale and themselves and had very likely made for York. She might well be right, I thought, in which case they had far too great a start.
At Bolton, Sir Francis had told me that Tobias had left the castle two days before. “Asked the Douglases to tell me on his behalf, packed his things, and went! Well, he must have thought he’d been caught out. I daresay he’s annoyed with Lady Mary for being so indiscreet with you! I never said anything to him, you know. He must have wondered when I would! Maybe it’s surprising he didn’t go sooner. And now you say your ward’s gone with him? What a way to behave!”
Sir Francis’s inquiries into Tobias’s background hadn’t revealed that he was related to the Tyesdale steward. He did suggest that Tobias might have taken Pen to his own parents in Bolton, but a messenger who was sent off at speed to inquire came back to say that Tobias’s family were very shocked to hear of the matter, knew nothing about it, and could not even suggest where Tobias might have taken Pen. They didn’t know where Whitely might have gone, either.
Like Cecily, Sir Francis said that York was the couple’s most probable destination. “I truly feel for you,” he said. “This is a most distressing affair.”
“Tomorrow,” I said, when I had heard what all the other inquiries had brought forth, or rather, failed to bring forth, “we must ride to York. I’ll make one of the party.”
But in the morning, I was in no condition to go on a journey anywhere. The migraine, which had threatened me once already, had arrived. I awoke with iron pincers gripping my temples and an invisible demon plying a hammer just above my left eye. Migraine does no permanent harm, leaves no traces, but this was a violent attack and until it subsided, I wouldn’t even be able to get out of bed, l
et alone into a saddle.
• • •
“Bring Brockley here,” I said miserably to Dale. “He and Ryder will have to take charge of the hunt. It’s got to go ahead, and at once. Even as things are, it’s probably too late. What her mother is going to say . . .”
I tailed off, as the hammer blows increased in violence. “I’ll make you a potion,” said Dale in alarm. “I haven’t the makings of the one that Gladys used to make for you, but there’s chamomile in that apology for a herb patch outside. That used to work sometimes. I can’t abide this place, and that’s the truth. I’ll be glad to see us home again.”
“You’re always glad to see us home again, wherever we go,” I said, trying to smile. “Make me a potion, yes. But send Brockley first.”
Brockley came in softly and stood beside the bed, looking concernedly down at me. Once more, I made an effort to smile.
My migraines always had anxiety of some kind behind them. This time, I knew it was guilt at my own failure, and my fear that I wouldn’t be able to put it right. But more than once, Brockley had solved my dilemmas for me. For all his country accent and his life in service, he was an intelligent man and, as he had told me, he had had some schooling when he was a boy. He had been a soldier, too. He knew the world. I had a deep trust both in him and in Dale. They had been my constant companions for years. We had been in danger together; we had been afraid together; we had on occasion saved each other’s lives. Such a bond is powerful, so powerful that we had no need of words to remind us that it was there.
Only one thing had ever imperiled it. Once, a long time ago now, Brockley and I had been so drawn to each other that we had come very near to crossing the line between mistress and servant and turning into lovers. We had drawn back from the brink but Dale had guessed and it was the reason why she didn’t like our little shared jokes.
Matthew had guessed, as well. To Matthew, I had stoutly denied it. Dale, I had reassured by swearing that there had never been any such attraction between myself and Brockley (which was a lie), and that we had never been, and never intended to be, lovers (which was true).
Hugh had been a blessing, for, unlike Matthew, he never did things I couldn’t bear—such as plotting the downfall of Elizabeth. I had no need to look for comfort elsewhere. But Hugh was far away and now Brockley’s calm, high brow, with its dusting of gold freckles, and his bland gray-blue gaze, was the most steadying sight in my world.
“Brockley,” I said, “if I don’t get Pen back in time, I’ll have let her mother down and let Pen down, too. I don’t trust Tobias to be a good husband to her. Even if they’re married when I catch up with them, I’ll do my best to have it overturned. I hope if they do go through a ceremony, it’s a thoroughly hole-in-the-corner affair with no witnesses and a dubious priest. Take Ryder with you and go to York. You’ll have to inquire at inns and churches . . .”
“I’ll do all I can, madam. I’ll take Clem as well, if you agree—he’s been to York before and knows the way. If we find a scent, we’ll follow till we catch up with them.”
“Like hounds,” I said. I really did smile then and so did he. Dale wasn’t by and we could afford one small shared jest.
“Exactly like hounds, madam,” Brockley said.
“Thank you, Brockley. Is Brown Berry still fit after yesterday’s hard riding? This is demanding for the horses but we can’t waste time.”
“Brown Berry will take me a fair way, madam. Clem says it’s more than fifty miles from here but there are places where we can change horses. For the sake of speed, we’d better. I’ll do my best, I promise. You must rest, madam. What Pen has done is not your fault.”
“Well, it is. I should have watched her more closely and not given her permission to ride out alone. She was clever,” I said grimly. “They both were. She didn’t go far but they still found ways to meet.” The hammer swung furiously again and I wrinkled my brow in pain. “I was a fool not to guess she might be up to something.”
“You’d hardly have expected this from a modestly reared wench like Mistress Pen,” said Brockley. “She needs a bit of stick, and when you get her back, you’d best see she gets it.”
“I don’t like doing that,” I told him. “I had enough of that kind of thing from my dear aunt Tabitha. You’d better go and saddle up.”
“The horses are being got ready now, madam. If you listen, you can hear the hooves down in the courtyard.”
“Dear Brockley. Always a step ahead, thank heavens. Sybil will give you whatever money you need. I know you’ll do your best; you hardly need to promise that. Is that Dale with my potion?”
But the footsteps approaching my door were not those of Dale. The two who appeared in the doorway were Agnes Appletree, looking extremely flustered, with a face as crimson as a woodpecker’s crest, and behind her, incredibly, was Magnus Whitely.
• • •
“You!” said Brockley furiously. “What are you doing here?”
“Brockley . . .” I said weakly.
“He says he’s got to see the mistress,” said Agnes. “He says he’s got news of Mistress Pen!”
I had known it from the moment I set eyes on him. After all, Tobias was his cousin. Painfully, I hitched myself up on my pillows, gritting my teeth as the pain crashed through my skull. “Good day, Master Whitely. As you see, I am indisposed but I am capable of hearing news. What have you to tell me? Do you know where Penelope Mason is?”
“Not exactly, at this moment, Mistress Stannard,” said Whitely. He was as nondescript as ever in face and dress, but once again, if you looked at his clothing, you could see how good the materials were, and the cut. On the middle finger of his left hand, he wore a ruby ring. The sight of it made me want to grit my teeth even more. He came over to the bed and stood looking down at me. His expression wasn’t sympathetic, which didn’t surprise me.
“At this moment? What does that mean?” I asked him.
“It means, Mistress Stannard, that where she is just now is something I don’t know. Better you don’t know, my cousin Tobias said to me, then no one can bribe or beat it out of you. But where she’ll be in a few days’ time—that’s quite another matter. That’s for you to say. I’d like to speak to you in private.”
Brockley bristled and so did Agnes but I shook my head at them. I regretted this at once and hoped that the nauseous climax of migraine wouldn’t happen in the presence of Tyesdale’s odious ex-steward.
“I’ll be within call, madam,” Brockley said as he marshaled Agnes out of the door. I hoped he would have the sense to put his ear to it. “Well?” I said, as soon as Whitely and I were apparently alone.
Uninvited, he sat down on the edge of my bed. “Penelope Mason is in the care of Tobias Littleton,” he said. “But they are not married. Nor will they be. I’m charged to tell you that Queen Mary of Scotland is in deep distress over her future. She . . .”
“Queen Mary? What has she to do with Pen?”
“A lot, if you’ll hear me out, mistress. You’ll have seen her lately and you’ll have seen for yourself what I’ve only heard of from Tobias. He says she’s been foolish in some way but he doesn’t blame her because she’s ill, poor soul, with fear for her good name and her freedom. This latest news—you know of it, I think—of words taken from honest letters and used to condemn her, has broken her, her heart and her hope. She knows now that she was in error to come to England; that Elizabeth would rather be in Moray’s pocket than stand her cousin’s friend. She should have gone to France in the first place.”
“I daresay.” Migraine is a very strange illness. If there comes a demand for action that is imperative enough, it will yield. I sensed such a demand in the offing. I had known when I woke that I could send others to York in my stead, but something was coming now that would need me in person—and suddenly the breakers of anguish in my head were less violent, as though the tide were turning. I straightened myself more firmly against my pillows. “What has all this to do with Pen?”
“Simply this, mistress. Queen Mary’s friends, among whom I and my cousin Tobias are honored to be numbered, have laid a plan to get her away from Bolton and off to France. It needs your help. If you give it, Penelope Mason will be returned to you quite unharmed—in all respects. She will no doubt,” said Whitely sententiously, “be the wiser for the experience, if a little sadder.”
I chose to ignore the moralizing. “And if I refuse?”
“The Thwaites badly want her as a wife for Andrew. They are not concerned in the plot to rescue the queen; we could not trust them for that. That family lost their taste for plots over thirty years ago when they lost half their land. But they are my friends. I have seen them and given them to understand that I may be able to bring her to them, and that they should have a priest ready. Tobias says that Mistress Pen has told him that she is afraid of the Thwaites and that they once tried to kidnap her. She even believes they had something to do with the death of one of your men. Nonsense, in my opinion—but marriage to Andrew wouldn’t be to her taste.”
“You’re taking a risk,” I said. “I might sacrifice her for the greater good.”
“Penelope herself begs you not to, for her sake and her mother’s. She knows what is planned for her. When I saw her last, this morning—in a shepherd’s hut on the moors, just before Tobias took her on to another hiding place—she was in tears. Floods of them,” said Whitely with satisfaction.
I regarded him with hatred.
“I believe you’re fond of Queen Mary yourself,” he said. “Do you like to think of her ill and frightened, a prisoner maybe forever?”
I didn’t. Even though I now knew more about Mary than was at all comfortable, I didn’t like that, no. She had certainly been foolish, in a number of ways. She had been too much a woman and not enough of a queen. She had handed Darnley’s fate to her nobles, because they were the strong men she instinctively wanted to rely on. She had tried to pretend that because she had not actually said kill him, she was not responsible when they did precisely that, and finally, she had become hysterical when the guilt came winging home to her.
The Fugitive Queen Page 18
