The Fugitive Queen

by FIONA BUCKLEY

  “What about Littleton and Whitely?” I asked.

  “They and their helpers—except for the woman, Madge Grimsdale, who probably had to do what her husband told her—will be tried, but only for plotting Mary’s release. It will be claimed that she never left Bolton. From the start, I thought it best that as few people should know as possible. The only ones who do know are my own men and a couple of trustworthy women servants. I arranged for the Douglases to go hawking and spend a night with friends at a distance. From now on, they’ll be denied access to Mary, so she will have no chance to tell them.”

  “Sir Francis,” I said, “you never told me how it came about that the dogs lost my scent last night. I remember asking you when you arrived at Fernthorpe, but in all the uproar, you never had a chance to answer.”

  “That!” Knollys snorted furiously. “I’m truly sorry, Mistress Stannard. It was a shocking failure on our part. I was concerned with keeping my men back. I didn’t want to risk your companions glancing behind them and glimpsing them in the moonlight. We let you go out of sight and trusted that the dogs would do the tracking—only, over in one of the laborers’ cottages, there was a bitch in season. Your dogs smelled her and after that they cared nothing for your scented pebbles. They led us to her instead! We didn’t know we were off the line till we were at the cottage and they were throwing themselves against the garden fence. We dragged the brutes away but their hearts weren’t in the work after that and we never found the scent again. And then we got lost in the mist.”

  “So that was it! Our maidservant Bess did tell me once that her father had a bitch and that our dogs usually sired her puppies. What brought you to Fernthorpe at all, then?” I asked. “I’ve never been so glad to see anyone in my life as I was glad to see you. Whitely and Tobias were going to flee to France and Whitely meant to murder me before leaving, because I knew too much.”

  “Fernthorpe was the only lead we had,” said Sir Francis. “That was where Mistress Pen would be taken unless you helped the plotters. You wanted us to lay the trap there in the first place, I recall! Kind of you,” he added dryly, “not to say I told you so! Once we had managed to find our way again, we made for Fernthorpe because it was the only place we could think of. Your man Roger Brockley did splendid work in pretending to be a priest. A remarkable fellow!”

  “He has had some education,” I said. “He even has a little Latin. I’m sure that helped to make his performance convincing.”

  “Indeed, yes. Mistress Stannard, there was another priest at Fernthorpe and I understand that he was hired from a family called Holme, who live in a house known as Lapwings. Is that household involved at all? The men I left at Fernthorpe to question the captives report that according to Robinson and also to Whitely and Littleton, she was merely paid for Robinson’s services as a priest, and nothing more. Is that correct?”

  I thought of Mistress Holme and her five frightened daughters, the girls for whom she was so desperate to find husbands. There had already been two deaths, those of Johnnie Grimsdale and Andrew Thwaite. There were several prisoners possibly facing death, and a grieving father. Madge Grimsdale had not been kept in custody, but I wondered if her husband and her last son would ever come home. It was enough.

  “I imagine so,” I said. “I heard that, too, but nothing more.”

  “Lapwings wasn’t by any chance the safe house that Lady Mary was being taken to?”

  “Sir Francis . . .” I looked him in the eyes. “Lapwings,” I said, “is occupied by a widow and five young girls. The man of the house, now deceased, was among Mary’s supporters. No doubt he left his family with a sense of loyalty towards his . . . his attitudes. But I think that they will reject those attitudes now, out of sheer terror. I doubt if they are still a danger to Queen Elizabeth.”

  “Humph!”

  I had done my best for the Holmes. I could do no more. Uncertain of what Knollys’s Humph meant, I changed the subject. “When I came to Bolton,” I said, “I spoke to you, did I not, about an attempt to kidnap my daughter, and the death of a young man called Harry Hobson?”

  “You did, yes.”

  “Penelope was held prisoner in an old mine working on Fernthorpe land,” I said. “I was taken to her there. In that working, I saw a mound of rubble that looked suspicious. I moved some of the rubble, and yes, there’s someone buried there. I think it could be Harry. I believe the Thwaites were behind the attack, along with a few local men under their sway—possibly including some of the Grimsdales. But I think the man who killed Harry was Andrew Thwaite who is now dead. I don’t want to pursue the matter, though I do want the body retrieved.”

  “You obviously want to leave a good many stones unturned.” Knollys eyed me thoughtfully. “But you may be right. I feel much to blame for this whole debacle. I should not have let Mary leave Bolton at all, and I shall incur Her Majesty’s displeasure if I ever admit that I did!”

  “Then, perhaps, if the stones—apart from those in the old mine workings—remain unturned . . .?” I suggested.

  “We’ve got eight men in custody, if you count Father Robinson,” Knollys said. “Well, eight’s a good haul. But the folk of this district had better be careful henceforth.”

  No one ever contradicted any part of my story. Harry was found, as I expected, in the old mine; his body was taken out reverently and laid to rest in proper fashion in Fritton Churchyard, and the gloomy vicar, accepting what Knollys told him, provided a most dignified funeral service for a young man killed in an encounter with unknown robbers.

  As for the Holme family, I saw the records of the trial later and there was no mention of them at all. Knollys was not a cruel man.

  • • •

  Even through my haze of exhaustion, I had noticed Clem’s kindness to Pen. I also recalled that as we rode into the courtyard on our return, I had heard her say to him: “I’m thankful to be home.” It seemed that she had begun to look on Tyesdale as her home.

  She had had a terrible shock, but I began to see how she might be healed. The day after our return, when Pen, still pale and inclined to be tearful, at last reappeared, I took her on a tour of the house, talking to her about the various improvements that needed to be made. The arrival of a bill from the prospectors who had found the coal on Tyesdale land enabled us to send word to them, ask for a new copy of their report (Magnus Whitely having removed the original), and thus discover just how prosperous Tyesdale could soon hope to be. I also sent her off to ride around the land with Clem and discuss what needed to be done outdoors.

  She returned looking better, so much so that before long, I sent her out with Clem again, to ride in the fresh air. I watched her begin to take an interest in her surroundings, to think about the present rather than the past. It was Pen, indeed, who decided that Bess and Feeb, who had for the time being been asked to stay away, should be employed once more.

  “We need them,” she said seriously. “There are a thousand things to be done and Agnes needs the help.”

  “Tom Smith will be pleased,” said Sybil. “I think he’s sweet on Bess.”

  Pen laughed and I said with some asperity that I hoped the romance would prosper. “I’d like to hear of one with a happy outcome, I must say,” I told them.

  Clem was listening when I said it. He didn’t comment, however. Wait a little, I said to myself. Play the fish with care.

  I had nothing against Tom Smith marrying Bess Clipclop and either bringing her south or staying in Yorkshire with her. I quite liked the girl and if she or Feeb or both of them had spied on us, I knew they had only been doing what their parents told them, and that the parents in turn had probably been bullied by Whitely.

  I still felt very tired. It was an exhaustion of the mind as well as the body, born of homesickness as well as sleeplessness, and it lingered on, day after day. I ached to go home to Hugh. I had borrowed the services of a courier from Sir Francis Knollys and sent a long letter home, explaining most of what had happened and sending Hobson’s sword back
to his family. But for the moment, I knew I must stay where I was. There was still much to do at Tyesdale before it would be fair to leave Clem in charge. Besides, I was waiting for someone.

  Seven days later, just before dinner, he arrived.

  I didn’t recognize him at first, since he was now over twenty and I hadn’t seen him since he was thirteen. At first, when I went down to see who the young man was who was dismounting in the courtyard, I merely thought that he looked vaguely familiar. Then Pen came flying out of the house, ran down the steps with a glad cry, sketched a curtsy, and threw herself into the arms of the newcomer. “George! Mistress Stannard, it’s my brother George!”

  “Your letter reached Lockhill safely,” George said to me, hugging her. “I set out as soon as I could. I spent last night at Bolton Castle. I saw Sir Francis and I hear that two men I thought were my friends are now under arrest for laying a plot concerning Mary Stuart, and I know they tried to force Pen into a marriage she didn’t want. I know what happened at Fernthorpe. Sir Francis questioned me. He is satisfied now that I had nothing to do with any of it but he obviously thought I might have.”

  He frowned at me over Pen’s head. “I’m glad to see her safe, and since you sent for me, I take it that you’ve been on her side, whatever that exactly means. But I’d like a fuller explanation from you.”

  “Come indoors,” I said. “I’ll tell you what you want to know.”

  In the parlor, sometime later, I said quietly: “I am aware that you wanted a Catholic marriage for Pen, and perhaps a family with—shall we say, a willingness to find Mary Stuart acceptable as a queen? Like Sir Francis, I wondered if you were part of the conspiracy. When I wrote to you at Lockhill, it was only partly to summon you to Pen’s aid. It was also to find out where you were. If you were at Lockhill, you could hardly be involved. The plot was created at very short notice, during the few days before I wrote to you. An exchange of letters between Lockhill and Tobias or Whitely would hardly have been possible. They could only have done it if you were here in Yorkshire. Tobias had been in touch with you earlier, I know, when he was thinking of marrying Pen himself. You might have come to the district. I wanted to make sure that you hadn’t. I told the messenger to find out, at Lockhill, whether you had just returned from an absence.”

  “I see,” said George. “Well, he did as he was bid. He talked to my mother and to the servants there, who all told him that I had been there without interruption for months, which is true. My mother sends her good wishes to you, and is wondering why you sent for me so urgently.”

  “I didn’t want to alarm her needlessly,” I said.

  “Thank you for that.” George’s voice was chilly. “Mistress Stannard . . .”

  “Yes?”

  “I do wish my sister to marry into the faith in which she was reared.” He sounded remote, as though I were a public meeting. “I do indeed hope that when God brings about the turn of events which I believe he will eventually bring about, and sets Queen Mary on the English throne, Pen will be with people who are glad to offer Mary their allegiance. But while Queen Elizabeth rules, I will never turn traitor nor would I wish Pen to be connected to traitors. My mother,” said George, suddenly abandoning his orator’s voice and becoming human, “would kill me if I did either.”

  I laughed. “I remember once hearing your father declare that he would never touch a treacherous scheme because his wife wouldn’t let him! Your mother hasn’t changed, it seems.” I became serious. “George, I am sorry that Pen has had such a frightening experience. It wasn’t the sort of thing any young girl should have to face. I have to say, though, that it is high time a husband—a congenial husband—was found for her.”

  “I agree. I gather that as well as running off with Tobias Littleton, she had some kind of infatuation when she was at court.”

  “Yes, she did. I think . . .”

  A tap on the door interrupted us. I called to whoever it might be to enter, and to our surprise, Pen came in, accompanied by Clem Moss. Clem was very tidily dressed and had an air of formality about him. He bowed with great politeness to me and to George Mason.

  Then he said: “I have come—Mistress Penelope and I have come—to ask permission of you, sir, her brother, and you, Mistress Stannard, as her guardian, to marry.”

  • • •

  “He’ll be doing well for himself,” said George. “A younger son, a steward, marrying the lady of the house and, incidentally, marrying a very valuable parcel of land with a potential coal mine on it. I know he says that he decided he wanted to pay court to Pen before he knew the full value of Tyesdale, but who’s to say that’s the truth?”

  “Oh, it is,” I said. “When he arrived at Fernthorpe along with Sir Francis and Pen was in a panic over what might be said at the inquest about Andrew Thwaite’s death, it was Clem who tried to comfort her. He went to her at once, and that was before anyone knew about the coal. I think he means what he says.”

  Which had been frank and to the point. “I like Mistress Penelope and she seems to have takken to me. She’s my kind of lass. I like it that she’s been properly educated, and I like her honest looks. I’ve had my fill of pretty kitten faces. Mistress Pen and I can work side by side to make Tyesdale thrive, if thee’ll give us the chance.”

  Clem, clearly, was not concerned with the fact that Pen wasn’t a beauty. He had recognized the real Pen and valued her.

  “I’ve been thinking for some time,” I said, “that it would be a suitable match. She enjoys his company and he keeps her from brooding about what happened at Fernthorpe. I’ve been hoping that Clem would approach me before I approached him.”

  We were in the parlor, George Mason, Roger Brockley, Sybil Jester, and myself, a conference in session. The young couple had been sent away, Clem to get on with his work as a steward and Pen to sit sewing upstairs with Meg and Fran Dale while I discussed their future with Pen’s brother and my own most trusted companions.

  Brockley, who had got rid of his walnut juice complexion by now but still had a jet-black tonsure, which didn’t suit him, said: “He’s a steady fellow and he knows how to run a manor. He and Mistress Pen won’t need to pay a steward; he can do that himself. That’ll save them money, until the coal mine becomes profitable, which will take a while. I’ve had a look at Whitely’s ledgers and documents myself now. He’s milked Tyesdale of a fortune!”

  “I have a comment,” said Sybil. We turned to her. “From what I’ve observed,” she said, “she hasn’t fallen in love with him, but she likes him very much and feels safe with him. That might be better for her than marrying the kind of man she does fall in love with. Which, so far, have been a tutor old enough to be her father, a married linguist in Sir William’s Cecil’s household, and Tobias Littleton, in romantic thrall to Mary Stuart and prepared to stop at nothing to serve the wretched woman. He valued a fugitive queen under suspicion of murder a great deal more than he valued Pen. Clem, on the other hand, does value Pen. He’s not a courtly lover but he knows her worth. He’ll take care of her.”

  Sybil was not a talkative woman, but she had a remarkable knack, when she did talk, of speaking to the point.

  “Even Pen,” she added, as we all thought this over, “may well be tired of the catastrophes that falling in love has brought her. She is growing up—very rapidly, especially over the last few days. I think that in Clem Moss, she sees a wise choice and a chance of reliable happiness.”

  “And once she’s wed to him,” said Brockley, “Clem won’t let her gaze wander. There’s good stuff in that lad. I’ve got to know him pretty well since we’ve all been back here.”

  George threw up his hands. “Well, my mother put Pen’s marriage in your hands, Mistress Stannard. In the end, you’re the one who should decide. That’s what guardians do and you’ve been appointed her guardian. What’s your opinion?”

  “When I first met the Moss family,” I said, “I’d have said no. But as far as Clem is concerned, I’ve changed my mind completely. I say yes,
with all my heart.”

  We summoned the pair to tell them the news, and to begin planning how the marriage should be organized. This would be no hasty dawn ceremony with coal-dust smudges on the face of the bride and a dubious priest to officiate. It would be held at the parish church in Fritton and banns would be called for three Sundays beforehand in the manner preferred by the Church. The bride would wear the blue velvet gown and the lace-edged ruff that I had so carefully brought for her; her brother would give her away and her mother would come from Lockhill to meet her prospective son-in-law and shed the traditional tears as her daughter took her vows. The feast would consist of . . .

  We had gone that far with the joyful details and I was watching with great relief the new brightness in Pen’s eyes, when Clem suddenly said: “Mistress Stannard, I’m that overset by all these plans and by knowing Pen and I are to be wed, that I’m forgetting things! I’m right sorry. A messenger rode in just before tha sent for me and Pen, and gave me a letter for thee. Jamie’s seen to his horse and Agnes is giving t’fellow food and drink—but here’s t’letter.”

  He pulled it out of his belt pouch and gave it to me. My name was written on it and to my delight, the handwriting was Hugh’s. “Excuse me,” I said, and broke the seal.

  The letter thanked me for mine, which had reached him safely, though, Hugh said, it had been too long in coming. He was sorry to learn of the trouble I had met and deeply grieved to learn of Harry’s death. He was himself well, though missing me.

  But then the letter went on:

  Here at Hawkswood, we too have had trouble. That aged servant of yours, Gladys Morgan, has angered the vicar by expressing some opinions not in accordance with his notions of piety. She doesn’t see why she should accept the aches and pains of age as the will of God. I have aches and pains myself and am inclined to agree with her, but that isn’t all. She has also interfered with the local physician—prescribing her homely medicines for his patients and so on. And now a young woman in Hawkswood village has died suddenly. She wasn’t taking any of Gladys’s potions but she and Gladys had quarreled just before the woman died and the physician and the vicar are convinced that Gladys put a curse on her.