A Traitor's Tears

by FIONA BUCKLEY

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Brockley frankly. ‘But then, neither do the Spinners. I expect it’s unpleasant. We’ve done them a favour, warning them.’ He paused, with a hand on the latch of their bedchamber door. ‘After Lewes, I wouldn’t throw anyone into the jaws of the law for anything short of rape or murder – or maybe arson. But the Spinners don’t know that, either.’

  That night, I found it hard to sleep. I didn’t like the feeling that we were under the roof of two people who hated us. I didn’t really suppose that they would murder their own guests in the night, but I felt their hatred as though it were a loathsome smell, oozing under the door of my room.

  The night was too warm for comfort. I left my bed curtains open and opened a window as well, but still sleep eluded me. Restlessly, I turned and turned again, seeking a cool place on my pillow and then losing the pleasant chill because my own hot skin warmed the linen. At last, cross and weary, I got up, put on a robe and slippers and went out on to the gallery to lean on the balustrade and gaze into the courtyard. A misshapen moon, two or three days past the full, cast a pallid light into the courtyard. By it, I saw a dark figure emerge from the shadows below, and begin to prowl back and forth.

  I leant further over the balustrade, trying to see more clearly. Then I recognized the figure. Its shape, its proportions, the set of the shoulders, the manner of the stride, were all familiar to me. For some reason, Brockley, too, was sleepless and was now pacing about in the open air as though in desperate unease.

  I made for the stairs and hastened down to the courtyard. When Brockley’s ramblings brought him within earshot, I said his name in a low voice. He stopped short and spun round. ‘Who’s there? Who is it?’

  ‘Ursula Stannard,’ I said. ‘Brockley, why are you out here in the middle of the night? Did the heat keep you awake?’

  I saw his shoulders slump. ‘Did it do the same for you? I hope it’s only been this once, at least. I’ve not had a good night’s sleep since we heard that Heron was out to re-arrest me.’

  ‘I’ve thought once or twice that you seemed tired.’

  ‘Tired! It’s like a continual ache. Madam, what progress have we made? Didn’t we come to Kenninghall hoping to learn something, anything, new about Roland Wyse, something that might point to a new solution, a new answer to these deaths, Mistress Cobbold’s and John Jarvis’s? Something that would make sense of all that and this business of worsted looms? But have we? It’s plain that even if we’d asked the questions we had in mind, Mistress Wyse didn’t know the answers. I can’t suppose that anyone else in Kenninghall does either. Most of Wyse’s life is at court, nowadays.’

  ‘But we did learn a few things we didn’t expect,’ I said. ‘Maybe coming here wasn’t a mistake after all. Perhaps the answers we need are hidden in the things we did learn. We know now that Wyse can be violent – enough to worry his mother. We know that he has become harder as the years go by. And we know that he has a grudge against Walsingham. Admittedly, I can’t quite see how that connects up, but it looks like the beginning of some sort of track. Brockley, I think I must go to London.’

  ‘I can’t see what you mean by the beginning of a track, madam. Yes, we now know for sure that Wyse has a violent temper and we’ve found out that he was half-brother to the Duke of Norfolk and grieved by Norfolk’s execution and detests Walsingham on that account, but does that really help? Will any of that send Heron off on another scent?’

  ‘Not on its own,’ I said. ‘And that’s why I must go to London. I think I ought to look at that cipher letter for myself. I know I said to Master Cobbold that Walsingham was sure to have had it checked, but how do I know? If he didn’t, then there may have been some deception by Wyse. That was a clever idea that Cobbold and Poole came up with. I have the key – what’s supposed to be the key – and I want to decode it and make sure that the letter really is about that loom. I should have thought of that before.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ said Brockley carefully, ‘no useful piece of evidence exists.’ He paused and then said: ‘Have you ever really considered, madam, that perhaps I might be guilty?’

  ‘Brockley!’ I was taken completely aback. ‘Of course not!’

  ‘It would make sense.’ His voice was cool, without inflection. ‘Perhaps I did slink into the Cobbold Hall garden, catch Mistress Cobbold there alone, tax her with the way she had slandered you, receive a dismissive answer, lose my temper with her and kill her?’

  Moonlight shows outlines more than detail. I could see Brockley clearly enough but I could not see his eyes. He was a shape and a voice, a voice so devoid of feeling that it was almost sinister. Which was nonsense. This was Brockley, whom I had known for years, who had shared danger with me. We had protected each other, been loyal to each other. That Brockley could not possibly have done what he had just said.

  ‘Well, did you?’ I asked, keeping my own voice as brisk and normal as possible.

  ‘No, I didn’t,’ said Brockley. ‘But will I ever be able to prove it?’

  ‘You were in Woking, within two miles of Cobbold Hall at the time of her death, and on previous occasions you were rough with men who repeated the slanders. That is all the evidence against you that there is. No, Brockley. I don’t believe you did it and unless you are prepared to go into a church and put your hand on the Bible there and swear that you are guilty and are making a true confession, I never will.’

  ‘I’m sorry to be causing you so much anxiety, madam.’

  ‘There’s no need to be sorry, Brockley. It isn’t your fault.’

  ‘Thank you.’ He turned his head away from me as though he didn’t want me to look at his face, even by the inadequate light of a waning moon. Then, painfully, he said: ‘The truth is, I’m afraid. I’m more than afraid. Lewes was … Dear God, I’ve been a soldier. I’ve fought. I’ve killed – in battle, not in cold blood; but yes, I have killed. I have also been in danger, many times. But I’ve never been afraid like this before. The thought of that place … the thought of hanging … I can’t …’

  I made a quick decision. ‘I shall go to London, as I said, but I’ll go alone. You and Dale must make for … Lowestoft would do, I should think. You know how to get there. I’ll give you some extra money.’

  ‘The ports could have been warned, madam. If Heron has sent word that he’s issued a warrant to take me, a port could be a trap.’

  ‘I doubt it,’ I said. ‘He’ll have been told by now that I’ve gone to London, taking you, and he doesn’t know we were aware of the new warrant. I think the ports are probably safe for the moment. It shouldn’t be too hard to get a passage across to Norway, Denmark, Sweden – any of them. One day you’ll be able to come back; I’m sure of it. But no, you must never return to Lewes.’

  Brockley was shaking his head before I was halfway through this speech. ‘No! You can’t travel all the way from here to London unescorted, madam. I can’t allow it.’

  ‘Of course I can! I’ve travelled alone before and stayed in an inn alone – don’t you remember? You had been captured and I came to your aid. I’m perfectly able to—’

  ‘I daresay, but it wasn’t right or safe. Lone travellers – lone women above all – are always at risk. Footpads exist. I repeat, I can’t allow you to make such a journey with no escort.’

  ‘And I can’t allow you to risk yourself for me, Brockley!’

  ‘I know my duty,’ said Brockley. I could hear the tremor in his voice and it tore my heart. ‘And Dale would agree. We can’t run off and leave you alone. We’re your servants; we take wages from you. We have duties.’

  ‘Your duties include doing as I tell you!’

  ‘Not always,’ said Brockley.

  ‘I’m trying to protect you!’

  ‘And we, you,’ Brockley pointed out. He added: ‘Dale is afraid for me, just as you are. I think that now that things seem to have come to a head, she finds even the idea of exile in a strange country bearable. But she knows it would be wrong to desert you so far from home. That is
final.’

  ‘Oh, really!’ I didn’t know whether or not to be furious with him. I also knew that if I lost my temper, it would have no effect on him. I searched for a compromise. ‘Very well, but neither of you are to enter London. On that I do insist. You know the danger. God’s teeth, I can surely ride unescorted for just a short distance through London, in broad daylight to wherever Walsingham is – assuming he’s in London! Through thronged streets and on a good horse I’m not likely to come to harm. I need not spend a night away from you, or if I do, it will be at court or perhaps with Lady Mildred in Cecil’s house. But you and Dale must stay outside the city. If, when I get to Walsingham, I can’t lift the threat from you, I’ll get word to you. Either in person, or by hiring a courier privately. Then you and Dale must pack up and make for the coast – Lowestoft, Dover, as you choose – and do it immediately. If Cecil isn’t there, Lady Burghley will see I have an escort when I go home. On this matter I won’t be argued with. Do you hear me, Brockley? I can’t bear to think of you being taken again and nor can Dale. Will you at least obey this order?’

  There was a silence. I could feel him hesitating, struggling to decide, his sense of duty battling against his fear. I waited. At last he answered me.

  ‘Very well, madam. Fran and I won’t enter the city. We’ll come with you to its outskirts and wait there. If I am taken,’ Brockley said grimly, ‘well, I didn’t kill Jane Cobbold but I think I might kill myself.’

  ‘Brockley, for the love of heaven! Well, that settles it. If I learn nothing to help you when I reach Walsingham – which I fear very much may be the case – then you must leave England at once.’

  ‘You’ll find yourself selling Withysham,’ said Brockley painfully.

  ‘It doesn’t matter!’

  ‘And I know it does. But I can only thank you – and pray it won’t be necessary.’

  There was a stillness between us as we stood there in the midnight courtyard. It was a long time now since we had realized that our friendship was hurtful to Dale and that we must step away from each other, back into the persons of mistress and servant. Now I knew that the old bond had never broken; only been stretched. Here, in the mingled shadows and white moonlight, it had drawn us together again. I love this man.

  But I must not. And at that moment, to my alarm, I felt within me a treacherous jab of desire, something I had long since sworn I must never feel for Brockley, never again. I was within an inch of walking into his arms and at the same moment, he took half a step towards me.

  We must not.

  I stepped back. ‘Go back to bed,’ I said. ‘That’s an order, Brockley. Did you leave Dale asleep?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘If she wakes, she’ll wonder where you are. Go back to her. Let her comfort you. I noticed an apothecary’s shop here in Kenninghall when we arrived. Tomorrow, if he has the makings, I’ll get him to make up a brew to help you sleep. I can give him one of Gladys’s recipes. I know it by heart. Brockley, somehow, some way, I will one day have us all peacefully living at Hawkswood together. Even if you do have to spend some time in exile first. Go upstairs, Brockley. Now.’

  We set off early the next morning, although we didn’t leave Kenninghall quite as soon as we would have liked because first we had to stop at the apothecary’s and then, just as we were passing a little shop where bronze and brassware were on view on tables set out in front, a young couple stepped out of it, arm in arm. The girl, who was carrying in her spare hand a basket with bronze dishes in it, glanced up at us and exclaimed: ‘Mistress Stannard!’

  We pulled up. ‘Blanche!’ I said, and then looked at the young man and recognized the tow-head, beaky nose, jutting cheekbones and intelligent hazel eyes. It was Gilbert Shore. They beamed at us and I gazed at Blanche in astonishment. Here before me was a girl who was happy and in love and the difference between her and the mousey, gawky Blanche I had met in Agnes Wyse’s house was staggering. This girl was graceful and assured and even the hair in front of her linen hood now gleamed golden brown. ‘Blanche … Shore?’ I said.

  ‘Blanche Shore,’ said Gilbert proudly. ‘And we are buying things for our new home. I have begged a morning off by promising to make up the time by working late for a few days. I’ve rented a cottage in this street – that one.’ He pointed. ‘I couldn’t take Blanche to the cottage on the estate; I was sharing that with three other young men. Can you spare a little time to take some ale with us, at home? There’s a stable at the back, for my cob, but there are empty stalls as well.’

  They were longing to entertain, longing to show off their very first home. We could only say yes.

  ‘We heard from Mistress Wyse that you had married,’ I said, when we were sipping ale in their tiny but cosy parlour.

  ‘I don’t suppose she was happy about it,’ said Blanche, without concern. ‘I never did understand what she really wanted for me, whether she hoped for a wealthier marriage than this, or no marriage at all so that I could go on being her companion. But either way, I prefer Gilbert!’ She gave him a sparkling look and he grinned back.

  ‘I can tell you exactly what she wanted for you,’ he said. ‘To be the unworldly, admiring little cousin, walking in the shadow of an oh-so elegant and fascinating older woman. You escaped and I hear she’s furious. I find it a pleasant thought!’

  ‘You really did dislike her!’ I said.

  ‘Dislike her?’ Gilbert’s Norfolk accent deepened under the influence of emotion. ‘I nearly never got born because of her!’

  ‘Er …’ I said, not understanding.

  ‘I’m twenty-two,’ said Gilbert. ‘Twenty-four years ago, my father was betrothed to my mother, but still living with his own parents and they were neighbours of Agnes Wyse, on visiting terms. She never took much heed of my future dad then. Until he was betrothed, and then sometimes my mother, just a young girl, would join him and her future in-laws when they went visiting. Agnes didn’t like that! That woman can’t bear to see a man more attracted to another woman than to her. Oh, she couldn’t have shown it so openly if her husband had been there, but Robert Wyse was often away and then my lady was free to ogle.’

  ‘You mean she …?’ said Brockley, looking as though he had just bitten into an unripe lemon.

  ‘Dunno whether it would ever have gone beyond ogling,’ said Gilbert. ‘But she flattered my dad, who was no more then than a lad of nineteen, and offered him the best of the pasties she made with her own pretty hands – so important that a young woman should cook well; can you cook, my dear? That’s what she said to my mother. As well as advising her on beauty, the kind of advice that makes it clear to a wench that she ain’t beautiful enough as she is, and asking my dad if he was clever about repairing things – a chair of hers needed a new leg and there was a leak in her cottage roof; maybe he could come round some time and see to them.’

  ‘Good grief!’ said Dale.

  ‘Oh, I know all about it,’ Gilbert said. ‘My granddad – my father’s father – told me. It was him put a stop to it. Seems my father was fair bemused by it all, and started going to see Agnes on his own and my mother’s parents heard about it and came near to breaking the betrothal off. But they had the good sense to tell Granddad, and he said enough was enough and forbade any of his family to go near Mistress Fascinating Wyse. He hurried the marriage on – and saw to it that my parents went to live in another village, away from here. But it was a near thing. I came very close to never existing! Think of that, Blanche!’

  ‘I do, and it’s a dreadful thought,’ said Blanche. ‘All the same, she was kind to me in her way. She did take me in when I was orphaned.’

  ‘Just as well,’ said Gilbert. ‘The likes of Mistress Wyse need something on the credit side of the Recording Angel’s ledger! You’re too soft-hearted, my love. That one’s the sort as has to be queen of the hive, and women like that are dangerous.’

  But as he looked at her, he was smiling, and she smiled back. They would be all right, I thought. Blanche had got away and Agnes h
ad never had a hope of snaring Gilbert. She’d nearly kept his parents from marrying, and he clearly didn’t mean to forgive that.

  Blanche said, with laughter in her voice: ‘Her son, Roland, he made her cross once by speaking up for us. During the last visit he made, just after she’d found out that Gilbert was courting me. He met us out walking and talked to us and got on well with you, didn’t he, Gilbert? Then, when he came back to the house he said to Cousin Agnes, how nice it was that I had a suitor, and that he approved of Gilbert. Oh, she didn’t like that. Said she had other plans for me and would he please mind his own business. I wasn’t in the room, but I overheard.’

  ‘He seemed a curious character,’ Gilbert remarked. ‘I can’t quite say why, but he did. But generous. Before he left, he quietly slipped Blanche and me a couple of gifts. He gave Blanche a pretty necklace of freshwater pearls, and he gave me a very handsome dagger. I’d never owned one before. That’s it, up on the wall above the hearth.’

  We all turned to look, and my stomach jolted, for I immediately recognized the silver hilt with its pattern of curving, interlinked lines. I had seen it last in unforgettable circumstances.

  Jutting out of Jane Cobbold’s heart.

  ‘It isn’t that valuable, I understand,’ Gilbert said. ‘The hilt’s not solid silver or anything like that. But it’s a handsome bit of work and daggers like that are popular among young men in London and at court, so Roland said. He said he’d bought several of them because they made such acceptable gifts – for Christmas and so forth.’

  ‘It doesn’t prove anything,’ I said to Brockley and Dale, as we made our way out of Kenninghall village. ‘Those daggers are common in London. Roland Wyse owned several, and such a dagger was used to kill Jane Cobbold, but that isn’t evidence that it belonged to him.’