by The Treasure
My Lady Isabella
Mr. Fort
Peter Garrett
The list went on to those privileged to dine “in the Parlour,” immediately below my lord’s table. Next came “The Clerk’s Table” at which sat the upper servants such as the clerks of the kitchen and the yeomen of the buttery and pantry. Lower servants sat at the “Long Table in the Hall”—grooms, farriers, falconers, and bird-catchers. There were other tables where lowly persons like “Diggory Dyer and Marfidy Snipt” dined.
Emmie’s lips curled. “Diggory Dyer, Monsieur d’Or. Ha!”
She glanced at the letter on the reverse of the household register, put it down, and immediately picked it up again. The date was March 23, 1588, and it was addressed to Henry Beaufort from Ferdinand Guzman de Silva, secretary to the Spanish ambassador to England.
“Eighty-eight,” Emmie whispered to herself. “Eighty-eight. That’s the year of the Armada.”
Swiftly she read the phrases. “Arm yourself,” “The fleet sails from Lisbon in May.”
“Hmm. It’s no wonder he hid this.”
She read the second letter, which was from Beaufort to de Silva detailing his preparations to rise against Queen Elizabeth. Emmie was about to lose interest in the contents when she read Henry Beaufort’s last words: “I have received the gold and will employ it well.”
“The gold.” The words were a long sigh.
Letting the paper fall from her hands, Emmie stared at the two missives. The letters had been written first. That was obvious, for one didn’t write to the Spanish ambassador’s secretary on the back of a list of household room assignments, and certainly the secretary wouldn’t have written his letter on something of Beaufort’s. Which meant that someone had reused the letters. But Henry Beaufort would have concealed such treasonous correspondence, not given it to his servants to use as scrap paper.
“So Beaufort himself must have added the household register, the poem, and the foreign phrases. Why?”
Emmie looked at the additions again. It was a huge household, evidence of the marquess’s great rank. He even had a Frenchman staying with him, Monsieur d’Or. Possibly a friend? Or a French tutor for the daughters, Lady Margaret and Lady Isabella.
Poor girls. While they were learning French with Monsieur d’Or, their idiot father was committing treason and getting himself thrown in the Tower. What happened to them and to poor Monsieur d’Or?
“D’Or.” Emmie blinked at the name scrawled in ink with a quill, remembering Mother’s French lessons.
“D’Or,” she repeated as she stared at the household register. “Un anneau d’or, a gold ring. Fil d’or, gold thread. A French tutor named Master Gold. I think not.”
With growing excitement Emmie looked at the poem that had been written on the back of the Spaniard’s letter. It referred to casting out the heretic serpent to avenge one born of the true church, so these additions to the letters were from the time shortly before the Armada. And the Armada had been sent to avenge the death of the Catholic Mary, Queen of Scots, at the hands of Elizabeth. Mary Stewart had been born into the true church.
Henry Beaufort was recording something important, something he had to conceal—the Spanish gold, Monsieur d’Or. What of the room assignments on the back of Beaufort’s letter? Everyone seemed to have ordinary rooms except Monsieur d’Or, who was lodged in “la chambre sur la spirale,” whatever that meant. “The room under the spiral”?
Shoving the Beaufort letter aside, Emmie examined the paper bearing the various phrases. The first phrase was in English, and Biblical: “For where your treasure is, there will your heart be also. Matthew 6:21.”
“Poor Henry,” Emmie said. “Did you really think to fool a man like Throckmorton or a queen like Elizabeth with such obvious ruses? It’s amazing you weren’t found out sooner.”
It seemed that the only clever thing Beaufort did was hide the papers. Something here must tell the location of the gold!
Emmie dropped the paper, jumped up, and began pacing. She would have to translate the foreign phrases. She’d need those old Latin and French dictionaries of her mother’s. She halted in mid-stride.
“Gracious mercy, all that blunt hid in North’s house, and I can’t get to it.” She rubbed her forehead. “Humbling the marquess will have to wait.”
She resumed her march around the sitting room, passing the couch with its patched upholstery concealed by pillows. “I must get into Agincourt Hall by some handy means.”
She could go as Agnes Cowper, but it would be hard to maneuver as an old lady in a place as large as Agincourt. A disguise as a parlor maid would be easy enough, but a servant’s time wasn’t her own. Her movements would be hampered by supervision from the butler and housekeeper, and she would have to work from dawn until late at night.
No, the best choice was to go as a young lady. Forbidden by convention from pursuing many activities and professions open to men, young women of breeding had abundant time on their hands.
“Just the thing,” Emmie said. She plopped down on the sofa and tapped her front teeth with her fingernail. “Who shall I be?”
A few moments later she clapped her hands and stood, her eyes gleaming as she announced to the sitting room, “Valin North, prepare to meet Miss Emily Charlotte de Winter. Whether you like it or not, your aunt is going to invite her to Agincourt Hall for a long, long visit.”
3
A fugitive in his own home, Valin tiptoed past the top of the staircase with his collie, Megan, right behind him. He paused to listen to his aunt’s squalling.
“Thistlethwayte? Thi—stle—thwayte! These flowers are wilting, and the guests haven’t even arrived. Thistlethwayte!”
This last cry was more of a screech. Valin winced, and Megan ducked her head and gave a soft moan.
“Come on, girl.”
He sped along the landing to the east wing. He could hear Megan’s nails clicking on the floor as he crept past his own rooms and around a corner. Slipping through a door, he entered the book-lined chamber he’d made into his study. Valin shut the door while Megan trotted over to the fireplace and curled up on the large embroidered cushion reserved for her. Valin turned the key in the lock, sighed, and smiled at the collie.
“We’ll get a bit of peace in here, girl. Can’t hear Aunt at all.”
Unbuttoning his evening coat, Valin estimated he had almost an hour before he had to receive the guests who’d been invited to Ottoline’s ball. This evening’s entertainment was yet another attempt to match him with a suitable young lady. Aunt wasn’t about to give up, and Valin had resigned himself to the necessity of marrying. He’d avoided it for years, but he was thirty-one, and it was time.
Still, he couldn’t help being resentful. He wouldn’t have to marry at all if his brothers weren’t so unsatisfactory. If Acton were to inherit, he’d ruin the estates in a year with his debts, and poor Courtland was so caught up in his research he barely remembered what month it was. If a subject had nothing to do with his medieval studies, it wouldn’t hold Courtland’s attention for more than two minutes.
Had either of his brothers showed the talent or inclination to manage the vast North holdings, Valin would have remained single. It was all he was fit for—solitude. Now he would have to find a young woman he could tolerate. Once married, he’d spend his life dreading that his wife might discover the secret he’d kept so long.
Valin closed his eyes as images forced themselves upon him. Flames, twisting, jumping flames. The heat blistering wood, baking brick. Timbers snapping and crashing as the roof of the old lodge collapsed. He could feel his skin burn as he stood on the lawn and watched hell’s destruction overtake his father and his stepmother. He could see their writhing figures—black silhouettes that danced before the windows.
Something touched his leg, jolting Valin out of the nightmare. He glanced down to find Megan tapping him with her paw. Her ears pricked, and he knelt to stroke her.
“Thanks, Meggie. You’re a good girl. I’l
l look at my letters, shall I?”
He went to the deep leather wing-back chair behind his desk. His secretary had left the mail, and Valin began to read through it. He served on a committee with Miss Nightingale and Mr. Gladstone, Chancellor of the Exchequer. They were working to provide employment for veterans of the Crimean War, care for the permanently disabled, and support and education for the war widows and orphans. There were too many men with arms and legs blown away. Too many women who had never buried their husbands because the Russian cannons had left nothing to send home.
Valin worked for a few minutes, then turned his attention to a scheme to educate and place scientifically trained nurses in hospitals. He was cursing the backwardness of the old medical establishment when his secretary, Wycliffe Leslie, knocked and asked to be admitted. Valin opened the door. With a wooden expression, Mr. Leslie held out a thick envelope. His manner sent a chill of warning through Valin as he accepted the envelope.
“Thank you, Leslie. What is it?”
Mr. Leslie cleared his throat. “Items given to me by Lord Acton, which he wishes to bring to your attention immediately, sir.”
Refraining from expressing his true feelings, Valin thanked his secretary and dismissed him. He shut the door and leaned against it while he glared at the envelope.
“Hell and damnation. Not again.”
Inside the packet, Valin found almost a dozen markers, debts his brother owed from horse racing and gambling. “Bloody hell and damnation!”
The door rattled against his back. Whirling around, Valin yanked it open. Acton stood with his hand raised to knock.
“Damnation, Acton.”
His brother held out a folded piece of paper. “I forgot this one.”
Valin rolled his eyes without taking the paper and stood aside. “Come in.”
“Got to dress for the ball, old man.”
“I said come in.”
With a nonchalant air, Acton strolled into the study and rested a hip on Valin’s desk. Valin stalked toward him, plucked the debt from Acton’s fingers, and read it. Looking up slowly, he stared at his brother. Then he dropped the pile of notes on the desktop and went to the window. He brushed aside a heavy velvet curtain and stared at the darkened garden.
Without turning around, he said, “You realize, of course, that you’ve managed to waste half your yearly allowance, and it’s only April.”
“If you weren’t such a miser, I wouldn’t be caught short,” Acton said lightly.
Valin concealed the hurt this response caused him. It never did to reveal one’s feelings to Acton. “You get exactly what Father provided, and I give you additional funds.”
“A pittance compared to what you have.”
Valin released the curtain and faced his brother. “I’ve told you over and over, the income from the North estates is large, but it goes to maintain the houses, the lands, the servants and tenants.”
“And the beggars and loose women you call veterans and nurses,” Acton said with a bitter smile.
“I’ll not deprive men of bravery and honor because you waste money playing Ecarte and All Fours. If you can’t control yourself, don’t play cards. If you can’t pick a winning horse, don’t place bets.”
Acton’s air of insouciance vanished. He swore and banged his fist on the desk. “Why should I live like a pauper just because I was born three years later than you? It’s not fair, by God. Everyone thinks I’d make a better marquess than you. I’m generous and open and easy to talk to. All you do is hide at Agincourt Hall and scowl and yell at everyone.”
“There’s more to a title than waving and bowing, Acton.” Valin kept his feelings in check as he planted his hands on the desk and leaned toward his brother. “All you think about are the luxuries and privileges of rank, not the responsibilities and damned hard work that go with them.”
“Ha!” Acton strutted to the door. “Are you going to pay those or not?”
Valin’s shoulders drooped, and he turned away. “I’ll pay them.”
“I think it’s the least you can do.” Acton left, slamming the door behind him.
Feeling himself descend into the wasteland of misery Acton knew how to invoke so well, Valin wandered over to Megan and knelt to stroke her silky fur. He never wanted to fight with Acton. The younger man had suffered when they were children. While their father had browbeaten, criticized, and scolded Valin for his imperfections and treated Courtland as a genius whose eccentricities should be indulged, he’d ignored Acton. Neither the heir nor the genius, neither the hope for the future nor the youngest child, the old marquess had found Acton uninteresting.
Valin considered this neglect surprising, since it had been Acton who shared their father’s interests—riding, hunting, shooting, gambling, clubs, the London Season, loose women. Acton had nearly ridden himself to death trying to impress the marquess with his equestrian prowess. It had been left to Valin to provide the admiration and attention Acton craved.
Valin rubbed his cheek against the top of the collie’s head. “Is it my fault he’s so spoiled, Megan?” The dog licked the back of his hand. “You think so? Well, you’re usually right, but Mother was dead. Who else was there to—”
“Valin?” The door opened again to reveal a stack of books with legs.
“Come in, Courtland.” Valin jumped up and grabbed some of the books as they threatened to spill to the floor.
“Thanks.” Courtland was out of breath. He dropped into the wing-back chair in front of the desk and set his load of heavy tomes on his lap. “I’m glad I found you.”
“You’re not dressed,” Valin said, placing the volumes he had rescued on the floor.
“No, I’m not,” Courtland replied as he rummaged through a folder of papers on top of the books.
“Courtland.”
“I know I put it in here.”
“Courtland.”
“I distinctly remember putting it in here, because I knew you’d want to see it.”
“Courtland!”
His brother looked up, startled. “What?”
“You’re not dressed.”
“For what?”
“The ball,” Valin said, knowing what question would be next.
“What ball?”
“The one Aunt is giving tonight that you promised to attend.”
“Did I? I don’t remember. Who cares about a ball, when I could have this!” With a flourish Courtland produced a piece of paper.
Valin took it, glanced at it, and raised his brows. “Just explain, Courtland.”
“This will explain.” Courtland set his books and papers aside, retrieved another sheet, and showed it to Valin. “This is a description of a chest containing dozens and dozens of rolls of arms. I found it in an old shop off the Strand.”
“Yes,” Valin said politely.
Courtland gave him a look of exasperation. “I examined them yesterday.” Courtland’s voice became hushed with awe. “They’re all from one visitation of a herald in the sixteenth century under Henry VII, I think. This is only a partial list of what’s in the chest—the roll of arms of the lord of the manor of Long Melford Hall in Suffolk, the Carlisle Roll, tournament rolls, grants of arms, illustrations of achievements.”
“I see,” Valin said. He didn’t really, but there was no one else in the family who cared about Courtland’s medieval studies.
Bending over, Courtland dropped the paper he was holding. It sailed past Megan to land under the desk, as he shuffled through his folder and grabbed another sheet.
“Here it is. Look at this, Valin.” Courtland pointed to an illuminated drawing of coats of arms. “This one is the Moore achievement—Argent between three moorcocks and a chevron sable, and this is Langton—per pale azure and gules overall a bend Or.”
Valin groaned at last. “You know I’ve forgotten most of those terms of heraldry. Stop talking like Clarenceaux, King of Arms.”
“Valin, I think this chest holds some of the oldest records of arms ever discover
ed.” Courtland lowered his voice in reverence again. “Do you know how rare such a find is? And I didn’t look at the things in the bottom of the chest for fear the shopkeeper would realize how interested I was.”
“And now you want to buy it,” Valin finished for him.
Clutching his papers to his chest, Courtland swallowed and nodded.
“Why don’t you?”
“The shopkeeper may not know the historical significance of the contents, but he knows they’re old. He wants quite a bit for the lot.”
Valin glanced at the quotation sheet in his hand again and whistled.
Courtland swallowed hard. “Too much?”
Noting his younger brother’s pale complexion and the way his hands crumpled the papers they still held, Valin sighed and shook his head. Among their fellow English aristocrats for whom sport was the measure of a man, Courtland had suffered derision and isolation for his scholarly interests. He’d been beaten up at university more than once.
“I’ll write you a cheque.”
Papers flew in all directions as Courtland rushed at him. Valin found himself enveloped in a brief but violent hug.
“I knew you’d understand!”
“Of course,” Valin said as he ruffled his brother’s hair. “You’ve made a priceless discovery. Just don’t let the shopkeeper know before you’ve got the bill of sale in your hand.”
Grinning, Courtland began gathering his books and papers. “I won’t.”
When his brother was gone, Valin settled in a chair by the fire to read a letter from the queen’s foreign secretary, Lord John Russell. His hand dropped to stroke Megan, then flinched when a harpylike voice screeched at him.
“Valin, I know you’re in there.” Ottoline banged on the door. “The guests have been arriving for ten minutes, and if you don’t come down and receive, my nerves will suffer a fatal crisis. I feel faint already.”
Megan stuck her head under his chair as Valin rose and opened the door. Ottoline stood on the threshold in yards of pale pink satin more suitable to a girl than a widow. Valin suppressed a smile. Aunt had a good heart and she’d been a second mother to him after his own had died, but she made herself comical. With her short stature, wide face and shoulders, and large, protruding brown eyes, she resembled a King Charles spaniel.
