I looked at Brockley. He was a man of courage but his eyes now were full of fear and his skin had turned almost grey with it. I shared that fear, which was for him, for Dale, for all I held dear at Hawkswood. Nothing would ever be the same if Brockley were taken and condemned.
‘Hawthorn,’ I said, trying to keep my voice calm, ‘bless you for this warning. I think we have time to get away. We shall leave at dawn.’
‘Where are we going, madam?’ Brockley enquired. His voice, too, was carefully calm.
‘London,’ I said. ‘The best thing to do, anyway, if we want to find out more about Wyse. If he’s our man, then somewhere in his life, in his past, there is something that is the key to all this mystery. I shan’t write to Cecil now. I want to see him and Walsingham face to face and you’re coming with me.’
‘So I’ll be a fugitive from the law,’ said Brockley bitterly. ‘I never thought to see the day.’
‘No fugitive,’ I said. ‘We’re not supposed to know Sir Edward’s plans. I am going to London and, as part of your duties, you will escort me. But you’ll be out of his reach for a while. I doubt if he’ll chase you to Whitehall. He won’t charge into Whitehall Palace or Cecil’s house to lay hold of you. He’ll most likely wait for us to return. And meanwhile, it’s just possible we may find out something out that will help!’
FOURTEEN
The Nature of Cats
The south of England in August can be so beautiful. The trees are heavy in leaf, the tracks bordered with long grass and white cow parsley, and the pinky-red of foxglove and valerian. Wheat is ripening into expanses of gold, starred with red poppies and blue cornflowers, and in the meadows, sleek cattle enjoy the rich grass and the sunshine on their backs. In our own pastures, my dappled mare Roundel was grazing contentedly with her second foal, now two months old, at her side. I have always loved such summer days.
But when we fled from Hawkswood before Heron’s officers could get there, we raced through the August paradise without noticing it. When I say we, I mean myself, Brockley and Dale. Because we needed speed, I insisted that Dale should ride on her own and for her we took Rusty. I was on Jewel and Brockley rode his sturdy cob, Mealy. We went as fast as possible, galloping and walking alternately, to get the best out of the horses.
Before reaching London, we halted at a small inn, to refresh both the horses and ourselves. While we were hurriedly swallowing our ale and cold chicken, Brockley said quietly: ‘Madam, do you know exactly where we’re going? The queen may still be away on her summer progress. If she is, Lord Burghley will be with her, and possibly Walsingham. Even if they’re not away, they could be at their homes or at any of the Thames-side palaces.’
‘We’re not going to London,’ I said.
‘Not … Ma’am, what do you mean?’ Dale asked.
‘Back at Hawkswood, I said we were, so when Sir Edward’s officers arrive, everyone there will say London’s where we’ve gone. They think it’s true, so they won’t have to lie and they’ll sound convincing when the officers question them, as they assuredly will. In fact, Brockley, I wouldn’t dream of taking you into London. I was talking nonsense when I said that Heron wouldn’t send men to London after you. He’d only have to send one man – a messenger to the London authorities, stating that he had issued a new warrant for Brockley’s arrest, and London would become a trap. Even Cecil and Walsingham might feel obliged to apprehend you. They have to uphold the law, and the authority of County Sheriffs. Oh, they can – as they did – give private advice, but if Heron insists on taking you in, they can’t gainsay him. We’re going to Norfolk instead. I think the questions we want to ask might be better asked in London, but as we dare not go there, let’s see what we can learn at Wyse’s home.’
‘How do you mean?’ said Brockley, puzzled.
‘When we went to Kenninghall before, I simply wanted to find Wyse to ask him about the day Mistress Cobbold died. We talked to Agnes Wyse only because Roland wasn’t there. Now, it’s different. This time we’ll make a point of talking to Agnes Wyse – and anyone else who may have known her son well. I think we should find out … well …’
At this point I had to pause to collect my thoughts. As yet, I had hardly clarified them myself. At length, I said: ‘I think we should ask who his closest friends are – old friends from his childhood in Kenninghall, new friends he made while he was away studying law; perhaps friends he’s met in London. And enquire about his interests, business interests especially. Has he ever, for instance, invested in the wool industry – in a worsted loom in Dover, for example? Things like that. Anything – anything that might shed light on him. And just hope and pray that when we return from Norfolk, we’ll be armed with the kind of information that will keep Heron at bay.’
‘I can’t see it,’ said Dale plaintively. ‘How would that sort of information help? What might Agnes Wyse know that has to do with either Mistress Cobbold or Jarvis?’
‘God knows,’ I said frankly. ‘But there has to be something somewhere! Nothing in this business seems to make any sense whatsoever but the sense must be there even though we can’t see it. Every day, I feel more and more certain that Roland Wyse is at the heart of all this. Heron has dismissed Poole’s story and so we must find out more.’
‘Poole’s story makes a link between Wyse, Jarvis and Mistress Cobbold. Heron’s dismissed it but it seems like something to me. But what if we don’t learn anything else that could be useful?’ said Brockley.
‘If the mission fails,’ I said, ‘then you won’t come back. You will run away and escape to Sweden or Norway, as I advised once before. I shall be shocked and grieved by your flight and I’ll set about selling Withysham.’
‘Madam!’
‘I mean it, Brockley.’ I did mean it too, though at that moment I was seeing Withysham clearly in my memory and to talk of selling it hurt. It was smaller than Hawkswood and I had not spent much time there since I married Hugh, but it was still dear to me. It was a quiet, grey stone house in Sussex, and because it had been an abbey until King Henry dissolved the monastic world, it had the narrow ecclesiastical windows common to most abbeys, and all its rooms were shadowy. But it was not like Sir Edward Heron’s gloomy house. Its tapestries depicted pleasant scenes and its atmosphere was serene. I had happy memories of being there with Meg; of the two of us studying Greek together, seated by an open window on sunny days, looking out towards the green Sussex downs. But compared to Brockley’s safety, I said sternly to myself, it meant nothing.
I’d be taking another risk, as well, naturally. Heron might well suspect me of helping Brockley to escape. I would have to invent a very convincing tale of how he and Dale slipped away one night, unknown to me. But once again, I said to myself, Brockley’s safety came first.
Within the next two days, John Hawthorn had said. His messenger would not yet be on the way to London. We had time in hand. Our straightest route did brush the edge of London, so we pressed on hard, all day, so as to be across London Bridge before evening. Once more, we made our first stop at The Boar. It hadn’t improved since our last visit. Its clientele was as scruffy as ever and its floors even dirtier, but this time we did at least think of asking for a private parlour, though we were slightly surprised to find that there actually was one. It wasn’t all that comfortable, for it needed dusting and its settles had no cushions, but it was at least quiet.
The landlord was a thin, harried-looking man with broken veins in his nose, suggesting a liking for his own wares. His wife was a grey-haired wisp of a woman with an air of being anxious to please and never quite succeeding. I would have hesitated to bully them but Brockley, though he looked and sounded tired, was still strong-minded enough to insist in a loud voice that we should be provided not only with a parlour but also reasonably sized portions of food for our dinner. They did as he told them, though I can’t say the cooking was any better. The most that can be said for The Boar was that the beds were clean (if lumpy) and the stableyard was quite well run, though Brockley as
usual insisted on overseeing the care of our horses himself. At breakfast, however, the bread rolls were yesterday’s and the omelettes leathery. Leaving promptly was no hardship.
We knew the best route this time, and reached Kenninghall late in the afternoon of only the third day. We at once made for the White Hart.
We found few customers there, for it was well past the time for dinner. We took a private parlour and asked for ale to be brought to us there, and as we hadn’t taken dinner anywhere, enquired if hot food was still available.
Ezra sighed and muttered but finally said that they could provide something. ‘We’ve plenty of bread and there’s a mutton ham, only just cut into, and some bean stew we can heat up. And Cat’ll make some almond fritters if you like. Will that do?’
It seemed to me that Ezra wasn’t his usual hospitable self. His voice was flat and his jolly smile was missing. We accepted what was offered and when Cat came in to put spoons and bowls and wooden platters on the table, I saw that she wasn’t her usual self, either. Her mouth was turned down at the corners, giving her a sullen air and she did her table-setting with an ill-tempered rattle.
Brockley noticed it, too. ‘Is anything wrong, Mistress Spinner?’ he asked.
‘Nothing that need trouble you, sir. A bit of lost business that’s taken the shine off the world for a while. That needn’t spoil your food. What brings you back here?’
‘We’ve come to visit Mistress Agnes Wyse,’ I said. ‘It’s possible she can cast a light on something strange that may concern her son. You knew her well at one time. Do you know Roland Wyse, too?’
‘Not really. He was still just a little boy when I married Ezra and left off being maid to his mother. Can’t say I’ve ever exchanged more than good day with him since then.’
‘Were you happy when you worked for Mistress Wyse? I remember you said, last time we were here, that she was a generous mistress.’
‘So she was and I can’t say different.’ Cat rearranged a couple of spoons in a pensive way. ‘All the same,’ she said, ‘I didn’t like the post that much, truth to tell, but there isn’t much choice hereabouts for a wench that needs to earn a living. I tried to get work at Kenninghall, the Duke of Norfolk’s place as it was then – said to belong to the queen now the duke’s dead – but there weren’t any vacancies, and yes, Mistress Wyse paid a good wage, I have to say that. But I was that glad to wed Ezra and come here, where we can work for ourselves, not other folk. I’ve got your stew heating. I’d better go and look at it.’
She disappeared.
‘What are you after?’ Brockley asked me in a low voice. ‘Is she likely to know anything useful?’
‘I’m after anything I can get. Gossip! Master Stannard told me once about the way miners pan for gold or tin. They dig out shovels full of earth and stones and put it all in water and shake it about and if the metal’s there, it’ll separate out – sink to the bottom, being heavier. I want to make everyone who knows Wyse at all talk about him, and maybe somewhere in it will be a few flecks of gold.’
Cat and Ezra came back together, Ezra bringing a tray of pewter goblets and a jug of ale, and Cat a serving dish laden with ham slices. A kitchen wench came behind them with a tureen of stew. The wench went straight back to the kitchen after putting the tureen on the table, but Cat and Ezra stayed, Ezra to fill the goblets and Cat to serve the food.
I said, ‘What was it about working for Mistress Wyse that you didn’t like, Mistress Spinner?’
Cat’s mouth curled. She had an expressive mouth, and her eyes, which were a greenish hazel, had a glint in them. ‘She weren’t so prim and proper as she made out, that’s what I didn’t like. Well, you heard some of the talk, last time you was here, didn’t you?’
‘Now, Cat,’ said Ezra warningly.
Cat, however, tossed her head and I ventured further. ‘Didn’t the Earl of Surrey write a poem for her?’ I asked innocently. ‘She mentioned that to us. Were you working for her at that time? Was it true?’
‘Yes, I was and yes, it is!’ said Cat, almost belligerently. ‘A love poem, too!’
‘Well, that were a compliment,’ said Ezra reasonably. ‘No harm in that. That’s court folk for you. Young gallants writing verses to pretty ladies. It’s what gentlemen like Henry Howard do, and no evil in it. I remember that visit the earl made to his brother of Norfolk. A fine young man was Henry Howard of Surrey, and no one here ever believed he was guilty of treason, for all King Henry had his head off.’
Brockley said, ‘Our three goblets have taken nearly all that jug of ale. Could we have another jugful, master landlord?’
Ezra was obliged to leave us, jug in hand, and I seized my chance. ‘I expect having a poem written for her turned her head a little. It would turn mine!’
I had judged her aright. Cat Spinner disliked Agnes Wyse and wanted to talk about her.
‘Did more than turn her head, I’d say. Truth to tell …’ She lowered her voice. ‘I rather think that Roland Wyse is Henry Howard’s son.’
Into the startled pause that followed this, Dale eventually asked: ‘Why do you say that?’
‘Like I said, I were her maid then. Robert Wyse was away – had been away two months – when the earl came visiting. Only …’ Cat, having filled my bowl, clattered the serving spoon angrily into the tureen. ‘Only,’ she said, ‘to start with, it wasn’t her he was after. No, indeed it wasn’t!’
‘Who was it, then?’ I asked quietly.
‘To start with, it was me!’
I looked at her, startled anew, but held my tongue, not knowing what to make of this.
‘Oh, I daresay I was well out of it!’ Cat’s voice was harsh. ‘I’d have ended up left with a baby, likely as not, and lucky if its dad were honest enough to help us. Great lords with noble wives don’t take much account of servant girls in trouble, even if they’ve caused the trouble in the first place. But I never had the choice. See, he’d talked to me at Kenninghall when I’d gone there with Mistress Wyse – she’d been asked to a Christmas ball. I was to attend on her if she wanted aught, and look after her cloak. There was a feast too and a to-do over it all; I offered to help the Kenninghall servants. Better than sitting by, doing nothing. I didn’t think my lady was likely to want much service. Henry Howard, he met me when I was carrying a tray down some stairs. I tried to step out of his way and the tray began to slip. He put out a hand to steady it …’
Her voice had become softer and her mouth was no longer turned down at the corners. They had lifted into a little reminiscent smile. ‘I thanked him and tried to curtsey and nearly dropped the tray again, and he laughed and said be careful, no need to be so formal and you’re a pretty thing, who are you? I hardly knew what to say. I knew who he was; one of the maids of the house had pointed him out to me. That’s the Earl of Surrey, Henry Howard. Isn’t he handsome? That’s what she said. And another maid said he was a bit of a rogue, though maybe it weren’t surprising – she’d seen his wife once, and she was nice-looking enough but there was no sparkle and all she ever talked of was their children. They had a fair-sized family. No marvel if he likes an adventure now and then. That’s what she said.’
Cat paused, apparently lost in reminiscence. Her eyes weren’t seeing us; they were seeing back into the past, and looking into the face of a young man who had long since died on the block. At length, she said: ‘Well, it’s true he was handsome, and he weren’t a bit haughty, like you’d think an earl would be. Just a fine young fellow with such a smile! I told him who I was. He asked when I’d be out and about on my own, and I said I’d have shopping to do on the morrow, while my lady rested in bed after her late night. He promised to meet me. And so he did! And we walked and talked as I went here and there – buying this and that; can’t remember what. He asked when next I’d be free and I said the evening after next. Madam would be supping with neighbours and wouldn’t need me. Late September, it was, but still light for a fair time in the evenings. He said to meet him under a certain oak tree on the
edge of the duke’s land. We would walk and talk again, he said, and get to know each other.’
Cat’s voice sounded as though she were speaking from a long way off, as though she were far away in time. ‘I was only sixteen,’ she said. ‘An innocent. I didn’t see then where it would lead, or if I half saw, I wouldn’t look. But earls don’t take blacksmith’s daughters or lady’s maids up to their four-posters and feather mattresses. I knew well enough that there was a hay barn not far from that oak tree. That’s where we’d have ended up, sure as can be. But I didn’t let myself think about that. I was bemused. I thought he was wonderful! He saw me home.
‘Yes, he saw me home.’ Now her voice was bitter. ‘He took me to the door and she saw us coming and stepped out to meet us. She was so welcoming! Invited him in – I think they’d danced at the ball – as if he were an old friend and then, if you please, sent me off on another errand! While I was gone, she entertained him in her parlour and by the time I come back, she’d got him dazzled. Oh, she was young, no more than seventeen, just one year older than me, but she knew all the tricks. Born knowing, if you ask me. He was just about to leave and he said goodbye to me as if I was nothing, but he kissed her. I kept the tryst under the oak tree but he didn’t come and when I got back home, he was there. With her. She hadn’t gone out to the neighbour after all. They were in the parlour. She told me to bring them wine. He did smile at me, kind of apologetic like, but …
A Traitor's Tears Page 16
