A Traitor's Tears

by FIONA BUCKLEY

  It took some time to reach the castle. There was a long winding chalk track up a green hill, towards the fortress at the top. As we neared it, we felt that it was looming over us. We passed under first one arch and then another, leading through walls so massive that they made me shiver. I think they made Brockley shiver, too, and Dale said to me: ‘I’m glad we aren’t staying here. I couldn’t abide that. I’d never sleep, in a place like this. It’s frightening.’

  Once through the second arch, we dismounted and our horses were led away, while we were met by a butler with a gold chain of office, who showed us into the building. There were steps and passages and then, at last, we were brought into a small study where we found Captain Yarrow. There were some stools and the usual ledger-laden shelves and a desk strewn with papers, but Yarrow was not at his desk. He was perched on the window seat beyond it. He was clad in soldierly fashion, with well-polished boots, hose striped in sombre brown and black, and a black jacket with a wide leather collar. A white linen collar on top of this protected his neck from chafing. His hair was short and his beard trimmed. A small crossbow lay beside him, with a bolt placed ready for use. And his strong, square hands were busy with an embroidery frame.

  We all stopped short in astonishment but Captain Yarrow merely put down his improbable occupation and gave us good morning. The window was partly open and outside, we could hear someone barking orders. I moved nearer and saw that down below was an open space covered with sand, where a dozen or so young men appeared to be receiving a lesson in musketry.

  ‘New recruits,’ said Yarrow, jerking his head towards the window. ‘This lot are unusually raw and useless but before Sergeant Burke has finished with them they’ll be well-trained soldiers. He never fails. He’s a hard taskmaster but his methods work … Good God!’

  He had glanced out as he spoke and his body had stiffened. ‘What is that idiot doing? Why hasn’t Burke noticed? Does the stupid boy want to blow the sergeant’s head off? He probably does, Burke being Burke, but it can’t be allowed, no, really, it can’t.’

  He leant forward, snatched up the crossbow, wound it with a couple of swift and expert movements, shoved the window wider, leant out and discharged the bolt. I saw it strike just in front of a lad who was indeed holding his musket awkwardly, with its muzzle pointing towards the instructor, who was engaged just then in shouting at somebody else. The boy sprang back in fright and Yarrow, leaning out of the window, shouted: ‘Never point a musket at anyone unless you’re willing to kill him!’

  I saw the sergeant swing round, and the boy’s pale face turn to look up at the window, but Yarrow simply slammed it shut and put down the crossbow.

  ‘He won’t make that mistake again,’ he said calmly. ‘Of course, there’s no gunpowder in those muskets and the lads at this stage have no means of firing them. They’re just learning to aim straight and obey orders. But they have to grasp first principles. Now, my friends, to business. Everything is prepared.’

  He rubbed his hands in that oddly disagreeable gesture of his, and emitted a laugh that was nearly a giggle. ‘I daresay you are surprised at my choice of a pastime.’ He patted the embroidery frame. ‘I learned this art when I was laid up with a broken leg, after an accident during an exercise. I find it most relaxing. Also creative and even remunerative. I sell my embroideries to be used as cushion covers and dress trimmings and the like.’ His voice altered suddenly. It was still high-pitched, but it had acquired authority. ‘I also give instruction in accurate shooting, muskets or crossbows. People who make mistaken judgements about me, usually change their minds in the end.’

  No one said anything. After the demonstration of the captain’s skill with his weapon, no one would have dared to suggest that his liking for needlework was peculiar.

  ‘In fact,’ he said, quietly now, ‘I somewhat dislike the use of force when questioning people. It’s unpleasant to watch, and produces lies as often as the truth. That’s why I’ve devised the method that you’re about to witness. It isn’t always suitable, of course. One needs to be questioning two people at a time, not just one. But I have found it useful. Come with me.’

  I had a hollow feeling in my stomach as we followed him out of the room. Dale, who had not uttered a word, looked pale and Brockley was uneasy, glancing from side to side as we were taken through a tangle of passages. In my ear, he said softly: ‘I wish I knew what was going to happen. This place makes me nervous. I feel as if we’d all been arrested. Just suppose …’

  He didn’t finish the sentence. I put a hand on his arm, trying to offer reassurance, but I, too, wished I knew what was going to happen.

  We were eventually shown through a heavy oak door with squeaky hinges, and into a cramped stone room, smaller than Yarrow’s office, and shadowy, for the candles in the sconces weren’t lit and the three small windows let in little daylight. The room was poorly furnished. There was an empty hearth, and against one wall was a settle, above which hung a small tapestry, with what looked like a geometric pattern, though in the bad light, I couldn’t be sure. There was nothing else.

  Yarrow, however, led us straight across to a low door on the far side and let us into a bigger, less gloomy chamber. The windows were no better but the candles were lit and the walls were panelled. There seemed to be some kind of cupboard door in the wall between this and the dismal stone room. Yarrow beckoned us towards it and we crowded round to see that we were looking into the adjacent room through a kind of window, or would have been, except that the tapestry had been hung over it, presumably to hide it.

  ‘You’ll find,’ said Yarrow, ‘that if we all stand here in a row, we’ll be able to hear any conversation in the next room quite well. Its height is convenient enough for all of us.’

  ‘Conversation?’ I asked.

  ‘Between Roland Wyse and Gilles Lebrun,’ said Yarrow, rubbing his hands again. ‘I feel sure they’ve a lot to talk about. Don’t you feel that? Hush. Here they come.’

  TWENTY-ONE

  The Living Tool

  We heard the door hinges squeak as someone came into the adjoining room. A man’s voice said curtly: ‘You wait in here till we’re ready to interrogate you. You’ll have company in a moment. We have quite a few of you to get through this morning.’

  Wyse’s voice, shakily, said: ‘Who else?’

  ‘Ballanger and his chief assistant,’ said his escort. ‘A carder and a fuller, suspected of arson. And here’s Master Lebrun. He’s on the list as well.’

  Feet shuffled. A different man said: ‘Just get in there and wait.’ Then came the slam and squeak of the far door being closed, and the thud of a bolt being shot. Wyse said venomously: ‘You!’

  ‘Yes, me. We seem to be in deep water together,’ said Lebrun.

  There was a rustling sound close by. The two of them had probably sat down on the bench below the tapestry. There was nowhere else to sit. Lebrun’s voice said: ‘The sun’s bright enough outside but it’s cold in here.’

  ‘Fear,’ said Wyse. ‘That’s what it is. What’s going to happen to us? I curse the day I ever listened to you. And now I find that you – you! – are one of those damned Jesuits. How could you, Gilles? How could you?’

  ‘God called me.’

  ‘Phooey!’

  ‘I was at a church service, in France, a simple country service, but the priest was a knowledgeable man and he gave a homily about the Jesuits, and their sacred task, the task of bringing true faith to all lost souls, and then I knew. It was like St Paul as he went towards Damascus. I knew. I heard God’s voice calling. I went afterwards to talk to the priest and everything followed from there.’

  ‘You poor, deluded idiot!’

  ‘You don’t understand, though I wish you would. It is wonderful! The yielding up of oneself, the passing through into a great, wide, marvellous world of light and faith! We swear utter obedience to the Pope, you know. If he were to declare that the night sky is white and the stars specks of black, we would believe it.’

  ‘Even
if you could see perfectly clearly that the truth is the opposite?’

  ‘We would know our eyes had been deceived by the Devil.’

  ‘I heard from my guards that you were caught with all your vestments and a silver chalice and a phial of incense. How did you get them past the Dover authorities?’

  ‘I packed my ordinary clothes in a box with a false bottom, of course. What a silly question. And I would have been safe away at cockcrow, but for those fools setting fire to the weaving shed! More of the devil’s work, I fear.’

  ‘You’re frightened now, for all your fine talk of light and faith,’ said Wyse. ‘I can hear it in your voice.’

  ‘The flesh is frail. I shall pray for strength. Strength will be needed, and endurance. When enough Jesuit priests are ready, they will set forth on a major mission. The few priests that are here now are mostly from other Orders, and are mostly here as individuals – because they yearn to bring light into darkness and show lost souls the true way, whatever laws that man Walsingham may pass against them. I am here as an individual myself. I asked permission to come. But the priests that have come to England so far are but a trickle compared to the flood that the Jesuits will let loose when at last they sally forth officially! Oh, if only you had taken my advice and carried it through! Our hopes would be that much greater. Walsingham is dangerous – exceptionally so. Few can match him. My guards let something fall just as yours did – there’s suspicion clinging round you, something to do with two deaths, and a cipher letter. It sounds as if you tried, but something went amiss. What was it?’

  They were silent for a moment, during which Captain Yarrow breathed: ‘Talkative guards. My idea.’

  Then Wyse said, ‘I did try. God’s death, I tried! I hate Walsingham as much as it’s possible for any man to hate another. He murdered my brother. Thomas Howard was not only my brother; he was my best friend. I only found him when I was fully grown and it was as though heaven had given me a marvellous gift. And then Walsingham took him away. Thomas could be foolish – he’d heard of Mary Stuart’s charm; he’d fallen in love with her by hearsay, built absurd hopes round her, made her the centre of an imaginary world – but for all that, he wasn’t wicked. Just … a dreamer. And my kin. But Walsingham destroyed him. I saw it done. I saw my brother die. I wanted to see Walsingham discredited, disgraced, charged with treason himself! I wanted to see him executed! With all my heart I wanted it.’

  ‘So what went wrong?’ said Lebrun.

  There was a pause. Then: ‘I lost my nerve,’ said Wyse.

  After another pause, Lebrun said, without expression: ‘You poor wretch. Well? Just what did happen?’

  ‘I took your advice. I picked a man who was poor and not very clever, and willing enough, if paid well, to carry what I called privy letters to Dover and not ask what was in them. Not the sort of man who’s any loss. His name was Jack Jarvis. He was a cottager – a tenant of a man called Cobbold. I know Cobbold well and call on him sometimes. But things started going wrong from the very beginning. Cobbold’s wife, Jane, a stupid, garrulous woman if ever there was one, had to butt in! She turned up at Jarvis’s cottage while I was talking to him and overheard me from outside. It was a fine day and we had a window open. Then in she comes and starts talking about what she’s heard! God’s teeth, I nearly had a seizure, listening to her.’

  ‘I heard something about this from my guards,’ Lebrun said. ‘She was murdered, wasn’t she? By you? Because she’d overheard too much?’

  ‘Well, what else could I do? What’s all this about you taking secret messages to Dover, Jack? Jack was Jarvis’s first name. Why you? What’s it all about? Well, make sure your chickens and garden are looked after while you’re away. I won’t try to stop you – I heard just now how well you’re going to be paid and I don’t grudge it to you, but my, it must be important. Ah, well, I can see that neither of you are going to tell me anything. How unkind of you, when you can see I long to know all about it!’

  ‘She sounds like a silly woman,’ said Lebrun.

  ‘She was! Arch, silly, and I knew she’d never hold her tongue and when Jarvis disappeared, she’d talk all the more and someone somewhere might link a dead man, carrying an enciphered letter and found on the Dover Road, with the Cobbolds’ missing tenant who was going to Dover with a mysterious message. I told her it was a confidential matter and not something for ladies to concern themselves with, but from that moment on … My God, I was petrified. I couldn’t leave her alive! I nearly put a stop to the whole scheme then and there.’

  ‘I see. Well, I understand that this Jane Cobbold had to be dealt with … By the way, did Jarvis know what you’d done?’

  ‘Good God, no. I said, he wasn’t clever. When Mrs Cobbold left us, he asked if it mattered, what she’d heard, and I laughed and said oh, no, she’s of no importance. Then I left, saying I was on my way to London and so I was but I dealt with silly Mrs Cobbold first. I don’t think Jarvis dreamed I had anything to do with that, though, not until the last moment. I met him at an inn just outside London, as we’d planned. In the London office, I was thought to be visiting my mother in Norfolk. I gave him the letter, and then I intercepted him on the Dover Road and said I had something else to give him – let’s just dismount and sit in the shade under that tree there while I explain, I said. He trusted me until I pulled out my dagger. What he guessed then, I wouldn’t know, but he only had a few seconds to do any guessing, anyway. Then the blade was in his heart and that was that.’

  ‘Poor sod,’ said Lebrun cynically. ‘Ah well. You’d got rid of Mrs Cobbold and you’d carried out the Dover Road plan. So why, after all that, did you lose your nerve, as you put it?

  ‘Because I thought when Jarvis was found he’d be just an unknown corpse. Mrs Cobbold was safely out of the way and I hoped the cipher letter would start the ruin of Walsingham! But Jarvis was recognized all the same! Of all the appalling bad luck! The last thing I expected. A rotten, hateful coincidence!’

  ‘Or the work of the Devil,’ said Lebrun.

  ‘I felt as if Fate was conspiring against me,’ said Wyse, aggrievedly. ‘One of the men who found him had met him before! He’d been with me once or twice when I visited the Cobbold household. He thought he recognized the body. He wasn’t certain but then the Stannard woman turned up in London and identified him for sure and that’s when I knew that it was all going wrong. I didn’t dare to go on. She has a reputation!’

  ‘You should have got rid of her as well.’

  ‘I tried, in the end. Not willingly. I’d already killed one woman. I made a good clean job of it but I didn’t say I liked it. Besides, as it happens, I find Mrs Stannard attractive. Perverse of me, for she’s one of those women who don’t know their place, but who can explain these things? Her manservant Roger Brockley was arrested at first for murdering Jane Cobbold. That should have settled that problem, but Mrs Stannard interfered. She got him freed on bail! Then she arrives in Walsingham’s office, wanting to talk to me, or so I heard later. I wasn’t there when she came. But she’d been to Norfolk and talked to my mother. Obviously, she meant to go on and on, prying and probing, trying to clear Brockley, I suppose. So I tried to marry her, to get control of her. I could have made her love me, I know I could, if she’d only given me the chance, and then I’d keep her in order and she’d lick my hand for it, and keep my counsel. Women are like that. But she’d have none of me. And as I said, she has a reputation.’

  ‘I know,’ said Lebrun dryly. ‘I’ve heard about her. I once met her husband – Matthew de la Roche. He greatly admires her intellect.’

  ‘Women shouldn’t be encouraged to develop their intellects, even if they have them,’ said Wyse irritably. ‘Which they mostly haven’t. In my opinion, Mrs Stannard’s intellect is mostly that of the manservant Brockley. But what of it? She somehow got Brockley out of prison, so she had his help again. I got away to meet Jarvis – and kill him – by saying I had to go to Norfolk because my mother was ill. By the grace of God, none of Walsi
ngham’s other clerks managed to decipher the letter I’d planted on Jarvis and when I came back, it was handed to me to decode. I thankfully snatched at the chance to stop the whole thing. I made up another letter, with something in it about an illicit loom I knew there was in Dover. Fairly harmless, I thought – a mystery that no one would solve. But …’

  ‘You should have been the one to go on and on! You should have finished the work! Think of the gain!’

  ‘Haven’t you understood what I’m saying? It was too bloody dangerous once Jarvis was recognized. I was known to be acquainted with him, known to be a visitor at Cobbold Hall, known to dislike Walsingham. People might start making connections! I wanted to keep in the shadows and I felt as though someone carrying a bright torch was searching those shadows, to shine a light on my face!’

  ‘I suppose you did have some reason to panic,’ agreed Lebrun thoughtfully.

  ‘I’d made further plans in case that one letter wasn’t enough,’ said Wyse glumly. ‘I’d thought, if I could get invited into Walsingham’s house, or go there on some pretext – with a message, something like that – I could plant some more damaging cipher letters, from and to Walsingham. I quite enjoyed planning what they might say, if decoded.’

  ‘Brilliant! Oh, why didn’t you go on?’

  ‘I dared not. Oh, dear God, first that stupid Cobbold woman, and then Ursula Stannard! She wouldn’t let things drop, she just wouldn’t. I thought of trying to get Brockley out of the way – to make it look as if he’d killed himself from guilt or fear – but that was foiled, too …’

  Beside me, Brockley moved sharply, and I saw Ryder’s hand come out and press down, hard, on his shoulder, to keep him silent.

  ‘And after that,’ Wyse was saying, ‘urged no doubt by Brockley, she still kept on probing. I met her by chance in an inn, and she told me she’d found out things about me. She’d found out that Thomas Howard was my brother. She was getting so near, so near. That was when I tried to be rid of her. I thought I’d poisoned her bedtime wine – and then I come here, to Ballanger’s and there she is! Alive and well! Nothing went right for me!’