The Fugitive Queen

by FIONA BUCKLEY

  “She’s never been that in her life,” I said.

  “I agree. But you should hear her. On and on; and yes, I have pitied her, though in the light of what you are telling me now—I fear I have become sarcastic. I dislike sarcasm, but really! All the same, I think that she really is unwell, though I don’t know what the trouble is. It worries me because I am responsible for her health.”

  “She says she wants to visit me, and that she could return to Bolton the same day,” I said thoughtfully. “But I’ve been told to prepare to put her up overnight and put her in a particular room.”

  “I fancy that the idea is for her to use an attack of illness to ensure that she stays overnight, I should think. Then something will happen. Rescuers will try to remove her.”

  “Yes, I see that. I was thinking of something else.”

  “Which is?”

  “All they want me to do is make her welcome for one night and put her in a specified room. It hardly seems worthwhile to force me into it. I would hardly refuse to shelter her if she were unwell and Mary Stuart would only have to ask to have a certain bedchamber because she liked the view from the window and I don’t suppose I’d refuse that either. I think,” I said, “that in all this there is a good deal of Magnus Whitely taking revenge on me.”

  “I daresay, but what of it? For whatever reason, you have been asked to perform this service. Let us consider what it means. You’ve been asked to give her a particular room. Where is it, precisely?”

  “At the back of the house. Quite high up. The moat is just below.”

  Sir Francis opened a box, brought out a sheet of paper, and pushed his writing set toward me. “Can you draw a plan of the house for me?”

  “Sir Francis . . .”

  “Yes?”

  I said slowly: “I don’t quite know what’s in your mind—but wouldn’t the best thing, now that I’ve succeeded in reaching you, be to send a squad of men to Fernthorpe and wait for the conspirators to bring Pen there? If Mary doesn’t go to Tyesdale and therefore can’t be rescued, I suppose Whitely and Littleton will carry out their threat. We’d catch them and save Pen at one and the same time.”

  “We might,” Knollys agreed. “But in that case, what could we arrest them for? Any charges would rest only on your word and that of your manservant Brockley—who had his ear to the door. Pretty behavior in a servant, and anyway, he’s been your trusted helper for years, has he not? No doubt he would say whatever you asked him to say.”

  “But . . .” I stopped, speechless.

  “You and Whitely,” said Sir Francis, “are in dispute. What if he complains that your talk of plots is only a fabrication made out of spite against him?”

  “Sir Francis!”

  “I didn’t say I believed that. I don’t. But he might say it. After all, the only thing he would be caught doing would be bringing a bride to Fernthorpe. An unwilling bride, perhaps, but in fact the Thwaites are of good blood and the marriage is reasonable by many people’s standards. It may sound harsh to you, but Penelope Mason is not my responsibility. My task is to keep Mary Stuart in English hands and bring to book anyone who tries to get her out of them. I want these conspirators caught in the act. Now, if you please, Mistress Stannard, would you make the sketch?”

  Silently, my hand shaking a little, I did as I was told, making separate sketches for each floor and then doing a plan of the house, moat, and courtyard. He examined the result thoughtfully. “There’s no outer wall at the back, then. Beyond the moat is open ground?”

  “Yes. There are some sheep pens there, and a little path in between, leading out to a pasture.”

  “I see. So the house could be easily approached from the rear—especially at night?”

  “I would think so.” I tried not to speak sullenly. “You can see the laborers’ cottages—where our two maidservants live—from those back bedchambers, but they’re not directly to the rear or very near. They’re a good distance off to the right and there’s a wide meadow and a stone wall or two in between. After dark, no one in the cottages would notice anything. But no one could get in or out from the back of Tyesdale, Sir Francis. The wall goes sheer down from the bedchamber windows to the moat. And the windows really are high off the ground.”

  “So the only way out is through the house?”

  “Yes, through an upper passage and then down the stairs and through the main hall. There’s a front door with steps leading down to the courtyard . . .” I pointed to where I had marked these things on my plan “ . . . and a kitchen door with a few narrow steps, round at the side.”

  “If she did stay a night with you, there would be guards posted in the hall and the courtyard and at both the main and the kitchen doors,” said Knollys. “But at the rear . . . how wide is the moat?”

  I tried to thrust away the thought of Pen, alone and afraid and wondering what I was doing to save her and attempted to visualize the moat. “Twenty feet, perhaps. With a steep drop from the edge to the water level.”

  “And the house wall at the back really goes straight down into it?”

  “I believe there’s a very narrow ledge. Yes, there is. We saw a couple of ducks squatting on it only the other day.”

  “How big is the window of the bedchamber?”

  “The windows on that floor are mullions, modern ones. I think I could squeeze through them,” I said. “If so, Mary Stuart could, too.”

  “We’re guessing,” Sir Francis said. “But you have been told that Mary Stuart may make an overnight stay with you, and that she is to have that bedchamber. I would make sure that she couldn’t escape through the door and our schemers would surely foresee that. If they think otherwise, their brains have gone begging. But if she had outside help, the window sounds possible. Our plotters will be gambling on the assumption that you will be too frightened for Mistress Mason’s sake to betray them, and that we won’t therefore be expecting an attempt at rescuing Lady Mary. So we may not do much about patrolling the back of the house. If we did, they’d no doubt start some sort of diversion in the front. But I fancy they’ll expect us to look on the moat as an adequate obstacle.”

  Toothpicks had been provided with breakfast. He took one from its pot and absentmindedly prodded at his front teeth. “Without outside help,” he said, “the moat would indeed be a difficult obstacle. But with help—that’s different. They’d only need a light boat and a rope ladder.”

  “How would they get the ladder up to her?”

  “That’s easy. Any soldier knows that one. You fasten a length of thin, strong twine to the end of your rope and a more slender thread still to the end of that, and fix the other end of the thread to a blunt arrow, and shoot the arrow through the window. Whoever is in the room just hauls everything in. I’m assuming a rope ladder. She’s quite athletic enough to manage one, and since they’ll presumably arrive on horseback, a real ladder will be difficult to carry.”

  “Will be?” I queried.

  “Ah. You are sharp, mistress. Yes. Will be.” Sir Francis sprang up and began to walk about the room. “I’ve let her beguile me; I know I have, but it’s over now. Well, there’s no harm done. You realize what I want, I think? We should let the plot proceed and catch them red-handed. I don’t care for the idea that there are people at large in Her Majesty’s realm who are willing to act against her in this fashion. If Mary Stuart once gets to France, she will certainly find sympathetic kinfolk there, by blood and by marriage. Before we know it, she’ll be back in Scotland and . . .”

  He threw himself back into his chair and stared at me. “You think that I am indifferent to the fate of your ward, Mistress Mason. It isn’t that. But they aren’t proposing to murder her. Just to marry her off. And here in the north . . .”

  “I know. Here in the north, marriage by capture is still winked at,” I said bitterly.

  “Yes. I am sorry, Ursula, but Pen Mason cannot be my first concern and shouldn’t be yours, either. What if Mary were forcibly restored to her throne by a French army?
They’d have to invade Scotland to do it. What would happen next? If the said French army were then to go meekly home like a bunch of farm laborers after a good day’s harvesting, then I am the King of Cathay. They’d be over the Scottish border in no time, annexing pieces of England, gathering support among the Catholics here in the north, and fomenting a rising to put Mary where Elizabeth is now. I’m not leaving these conspirators at large. I want to net them all.”

  “You mean you want to grant her wish and let her come to Tyesdale?”

  “And we will have men on watch so that whoever comes to fetch her will walk straight into a trap. A far better trap than any we could set at Fernthorpe. They’ll try to get her out through that window, sure as sunrise. I’ll send an official request to Tyesdale this morning, asking if you will receive her tomorrow. You can ride back as part of my deputation.”

  “I’ve got to get back unseen,” I said.

  “You can borrow a set of breeches and a helmet, and ride astride, looking like a young soldier. That dappled mare of yours is a trifle distinctive; I’ll find you another horse. You can travel in the middle of the group. The men who came with you can stay here until tomorrow and then accompany the escort that brings Mary to Tyesdale. I’ll have them helmeted to avoid recognition, too. I’ll keep the mare until it’s all over.”

  “I understand. But . . .”

  “Yes, Mistress Stannard, I know. Penelope! But once we have these traitors in our hands, they will tell us where she is. I can assure you,” said Sir Francis, “that they will tell us. Within half an hour of their capture, we will have the information.”

  I was silent again, thinking of the fatherly and reliable Ryder, who last night had shown a very different aspect of his nature, and thinking too of things I had heard Cecil say. Ryder, Cecil, Knollys. The three of them were similar in many ways: civilized and essentially good-hearted. When they revealed their capacity for ruthlessness, it was astonishingly chilling.

  At length I said: “I would like to borrow one of your couriers and send a letter to Pen’s eldest brother George, at Lockhill, asking him to come at once to Tyesdale. Just that, no more. That way, her mother won’t be alarmed. But I think her brother should be fetched to Yorkshire.”

  “By all means. I can have a man ready to go within the hour, if you will write the letter and provide him with directions. I will protect your ward as far as I can. If she has been forcibly married before we reach her, no doubt a way can be found to annul it. She will have had a distressing experience, very likely, but Mistress Stannard, the danger, if Mary Stuart gets away to France, is so great . . .”

  “I know. Penelope may have to be sacrificed. I understand,” I said wearily, and hoped to heaven that whatever scheme for her protection Brockley had in mind, he would carry through successfully.

  20

  The Heartbroken Enchantress

  We spent a little more time on the details, but I was back at Tyesdale by midday, wearing borrowed man’s clothing and accompanied by four men-at-arms and a captain. Knowing that Feeb and Bess Clipclop were probably in the house and might not be trustworthy, I waited, still in the saddle, among the men-at-arms until I had sent the captain in to fetch Sybil. She hurried out and came to my stirrup.

  “I’m so glad to see you. We’ve been worrying ourselves to death. Dale was afraid the maidservants would notice you weren’t here. She’s making them clean the chapel again. They’ve been told not to go near your room—you’re supposed to be in bed with another migraine and I said that the noise of their clogs might make you feel worse.”

  “Bless you all,” I said. “Now, if I can get up to my room unseen, I can emerge in a few minutes’ time, looking normal but wan, which shouldn’t be difficult, as I’ve been up all night, riding to Bolton, and I’ve just ridden the fifteen miles back. In the meantime, you can be the hostess and look after this deputation from Sir Francis. Where’s Dale now?”

  But Dale was already at the top of the steps. I swung out of the saddle and ran up to meet her. Within a few minutes I was safe in my bedchamber and Dale was helping me out of my boots and breeches. I seized the chance to say: “Is there any word from Brockley?” but she only shook her head dolefully.

  “Nothing, ma’am, nothing and I’m worried as I can be. I can’t abide this waiting, not hearing, not knowing, but what else can I do?”

  “Brockley is capable; he’ll look after himself.” My heart was as heavy for Pen as hers was for Brockley but I tried to encourage us both. “He only left last night. Give him time. Now, be quick. I want to be seen as soon as possible, by Feeb and Bess, looking like myself.”

  Soon, dressed in housewifely fashion, I was making my way down to the hall, declaring that my head was better and I was ready to “receive my visitors.” Sybil had called the maidservants from the chapel to attend to the refreshments and in their interested presence, I pretended to learn (to my flustered surprise, of course) that Sir Francis Knollys wished to dine with me on the morrow and would be bringing his illustrious guest Lady Mary Stuart. Under heavy guard, naturally, and I would have to be prepared to feed numerous extra mouths.

  Sir Francis’s men, who knew all about it, thought the whole thing as amusing as a masque, and their captain, who was young, slightly foppish, and regrettably mischievous, grinned so outrageously that I feared that even Feeb, let alone the much brighter Bess, would notice and become suspicious. I frowned at him fiercely and also vainly, for all he did was pretend to look frightened.

  Fortunately, Tom Smith had come into the hall to listen and was sharp enough to distract Bess with a flirtatious remark, which made her giggle, while Feeb was luckily preoccupied with pouring ale and not dribbling it. They noticed nothing and, mercifully, the rest of the Bolton men had the good sense to remove the grins from their faces.

  The captain and his men went off after dinner, ostensibly to carry my acceptance back to Bolton. I announced that my headache had returned and retired to bed for some sleep. Sybil and Agnes told our two maids that they weren’t needed next day, as Sir Francis would bring his own servants. Before dinner the following morning, he arrived, with Mary.

  • • •

  As promised, the party was accompanied by a whole squad of armed men, but no ladies. “Seton decided not to come in case this turned out to be another hot day, as indeed it has,” Sir Francis said to me expressionlessly, preceding the others up the steps to where I stood waiting to welcome the arrivals, “and Lady Mary herself said that she did not need attendants, just to ride out and visit a friend informally. She sounded,” he added with a sigh, “as innocent as a baby.”

  “Mary Seton knows what’s afoot?” I asked in an undertone.

  “One would imagine so.”

  “Well, she can’t be blamed. Her loyalty is with her mistress, as one would expect. Please come in.”

  Mary Stuart followed him up, lifted me as usual from my polite curtsy, and put her arm about me as we went into the hall. “This is so kind of you, dear Ursula. I have been so far from well with that wearisome pain in my side, for which there is never any explanation, except that it often comes when I am unhappy. To live in a cage is unbearable to me.”

  And then, as we moved across the hall and into the parlor, she turned me a little so as to look into my face. “I believe,” she whispered, “that you know the plan. Tobias said that if you agreed to receive me here, it would mean that you did. Oh, my dearest Ursula, you can never know how grateful I am for such a friend. One day, when I am a queen again, I will show my gratitude, believe me.”

  Her charm was like a sweet scent or a touching melody. It still moved me, despite the knowledge I now had. “Your Majesty,” I said solemnly, aware of being a hypocrite, and not liking it.

  “Dear, dear Ursula. I so much miss even being addressed as I should be. Queen of France and Scotland—and all I get from Sir Francis is a miserable ‘my lady.’ Is this your parlor? What a delightful room.”

  It was nothing of the kind, though it was better than i
t had been. Cecily Moss had told us where to buy new tapestries, but so far we hadn’t had time to see to it. Two of the least motheaten hangings had been put on the walls in the meantime and I had had the scratched old settles polished and found some respectable cushions for them. There were fresh rushes on the floor. “It’s not luxurious, but we haven’t been here long enough to do more,” I said. “I hope the dinner will please you, however.”

  Feeding so many mouths at short notice could have been difficult, but fortunately, Agnes had onions and cabbages enough in her vegetable patch and Sir Francis had had the forethought to help me out. The escort had brought some useful supplies, loaded onto a packhorse. I didn’t have to slaughter Tyesdale chickens or make drastic inroads into its limited supply of hams or its modest stores of flour and sugar and raisins.

  Except for a minor contretemps when Agnes caught the dog Gambol in the kitchen, trying to steal a capon, and chased him out into the hall, calling him names and brandishing a broom, the dinner was all it should be and was conducted with the decorum befitting a royal guest.

  It was as the meal was finishing, when a sweet white wine (provided by Sir Francis) was being served as an accompaniment to a marchpane confection shaped (by Sybil, who was good with her fingers) to look like a little manor house, that Mary put her hand to her side and said in a weak voice: “I am sorry. I feel unwell again. I must withdraw. Please, you are all to finish dining. This is no time for ceremony, or for me to say that because I can eat no more, no one else must take a mouthful either. I am not so royal as that. Dear Mistress Stannard, if I might rest upstairs for a while . . .?”