A Pawn for a Queen: An Ursula Blanchard Mystery at Queen Elizabeth I's (Ursula Blanchard Mystery at Queen Elizabeth I's Court)

by Buckley, Fiona

  “Meg is welcome at any time. You should know that, Ursula. Well, I suppose you did know it, or you wouldn’t be here. Rob would agree, I feel sure. However cross he is with you, he would never turn against a young child who has nothing to do with the dispute.”

  Cautiously, for the sake of courtesy, I said: “How is he?”

  “Well enough when he left here. The fever he caught in Cambridge came back during the autumn but passed off in a few days.” Mattie smiled ruefully. “It hindered his work in Cambridge, didn’t it? That led to some of the trouble between you. I’m sorry. Yes, of course Meg and Bridget can stay here and I will care for them just as usual. Please don’t worry. But, Ursula . . .”

  “Yes?”

  “Are you sure,” said Mattie, “that this journey north is wise? Forgive me, but—is there more to it than just the recovery of some jewelry?”

  I shook my head. “No, indeed.”

  “You know your own business best,” said Mattie.

  I had an uneasy feeling that she didn’t believe me.

  4

  Cuckoos and Ravens

  The skies cleared as we journeyed north, but the cold did not abate. Morning after morning was frosty, with stiff white grass and frozen pools and a cruel little wind that made our noses run and our eyes water. Still, it dried the trackways, and at first we made fair speed. By starting early, taking regular breaks, and judging our pace carefully, we sometimes covered as much as thirty miles a day. We inquired about Edward at the various hostelries that we visited, and once or twice we heard news of him. Soon it was clear that although a lone horseman usually has the advantage of a party, we were catching up. Originally, he had had two days’ start, but by the time we got to York, on Thursday the 25th January, we were only a day behind him.

  If the weather held, we would catch him before he reached Northumberland, but as we rode out of the city of York, I realized that it wouldn’t. The sky was clouding over and the cold was intensifying, gripping our very bones. It was the kind of iron cold that is like a climatic migraine. Migraine, to which I am subject, rarely subsides until I’ve been miserably sick, and that type of bitter cold rarely gives way until it has climaxed with a snowfall.

  At one point I tried to encourage our spirits by suggesting that we should sing, but every song that occurred to us seemed to have spring or summer in it, and when I tried to lead us in declaring that “Summer Is A-Coming In; Loud Sing Cuckoo,” Brockley actually became annoyed.

  “It’s not the season for cuckoos, madam. At least,” he added meaningly, “not ones with wings.”

  “You mean us?” I said. “I take your point, but we’ve also taken on this task. We shall just have to get on with it.”

  “It’ll be worse before it’s better,” said Brockley. I told him to give over croaking like an old raven, but I had an unpleasant feeling that he was right.

  The road we were on avoided the bleak hills to the west and made for Newcastle through lower country, where there were a few farms and hamlets. They were widely scattered, though, and their inhabitants seemed to be staying at home, like squirrels curling up in their drays to let the winter pass. Once the city was behind us, the road was lonely. A lone farmer driving a mule cart crossed the track and called a greeting in an incomprehensible accent, and once we overtook a shepherd with a flock, but that was all.

  Then, quietly and inexorably, the first flakes came. They were small and few to begin with, but soon they were bigger and falling more and more thickly, until we were riding with heads down into a silent, blinding blizzard of flakes the size of half crowns.

  In minutes, the grass verges of the track were vanishing beneath a layer of snow and we could see no farther than a couple of yards ahead. Brockley pulled down the scarf that he had wrapped around his mouth and nose as a defense against the cold, and said grimly: “I knew this would happen.”

  “I wonder how far it is to the next house?” I said. “Or should we turn back to York?”

  “But we’re three hours out from York!” Dale moaned. She fished a napkin out of her sleeve and blew her nose. “And we haven’t passed through a hamlet for two hours at least.”

  “Before this started, I saw chimney smoke somewhere ahead,” Brockley said. “The chief risk is that in this, we’ll ride straight past it!”

  “We just mustn’t,” I said. “How far away was it?”

  “A mile or so, I’d say,” said Brockley. “We won’t miss it if we’re careful. It’ll be beside the track or else there’ll be a track leading off to it. We must keep a sharp lookout.”

  We rode on, keeping together, our pace held down to a walk. Glancing at Dale as she rode beside me, I saw that her features were pinched with the cold and her nostrils bright pink, while the pockmarks that were a legacy from an attack of smallpox long ago were standing out as they always did when she was unhappy or out of sorts. She caught my eye and tried bravely to smile, but her blue eyes were miserable.

  “It’s all right,” I said. “We shall find shelter soon.”

  I didn’t say that I had never ridden through weather such as this before. Dale wasn’t very strong, and as I shook the settling flakes off the backs of my gauntlets, I wondered how long my own strength would hold out in these conditions.

  Brockley was riding in a kind of forward crouch, scanning the ground. “If only the earth wasn’t disappearing under the snow,” he grumbled. “Hoofprints and footmarks might tell us when we were getting near dwellings, but now we can’t see them.”

  “There’s a track off to the left!” Dale exclaimed.

  We pulled up. “The only thing is,” said Brockley, “we don’t know if it leads toward the chimney smoke I saw, or whether it’s just a path to a farmer’s fields.”

  “We’ve got to try,” I said, shivering.

  We were fortunate. We had guessed right. A few minutes later we were in quite a sizable hamlet and pulling up under an inn sign depicting a rather comical blue boar with big tusks at one end but a sweetly curling tail at the other. Then there were grooms to take the horses and unload the saddlebags, and an aproned landlord to greet us and tell us in a broad northern accent just how lucky we’d been.

  “If thee’d not turned in at t’reet place, thee’d have had ten mile or more to ride to find another. T’big house where t’folk live that own the land burnt down afore Christmas and they’ve all gone to live in Leeds.”

  Brockley, as ever, went with the grooms to see that the horses were properly tended. He never trusted strange grooms with our animals. Dale and I, however, were shown to a parlor where a fire was burning. “In this weather, we keep every hearth in the place alight,” the landlord said. “Thee can freeze solid within doors if not.” He took our wet cloaks and gauntlets and disappeared, saying that he would put them to dry in the kitchen and then bring us some mulled wine, and we stood by the fire to thaw out. “Ma’am,” said Dale wanly, “it’s not my place or Brockley’s to tell you this, but do you know what we both wish?”

  “Yes, Dale. That I would stop gallivanting about on one adventure after another and settle down to a quiet domestic life as a well-behaved widowed gentlewoman. Now what is it?” Dale was looking at me with a curious expression, as though she were in some way weighing me up, but not sure whether or not to tell me her conclusions. “If you have something to say, then say it,” I told her.

  “I’m a fair bit older than you, ma’am, past forty-five, to tell the truth, but I remember what it was like to be a young woman. No one wants you to be lonely . . .” She bit her lip, hesitating again.

  “Say it. Whatever it is,” I said.

  “Well, ma’am, I don’t know that living as a widow’ud be the best thing for you, but a quiet life, yes. What I think—what Roger and I think—is that after a while, you ought to get married again, to some nice English husband who’d help you run Withysham and be company for you and help you look after your land and your house. Someone who’d be kind to Meg, of course, I mean. Well, that’s what young widows
do, mostly, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, I know. I’m not offended. You may be quite right.”

  “A young woman like you, ma’am, shouldn’t be alone. That’s what we feel.”

  I couldn’t say: and then you wouldn’t have to ride with me, here, there, and everywhere, hating every moment of it, so as to guard Brockley from my attractions. Nor could I say: you have nothing to fear. He doesn’t need to be guarded because he’s in no danger from me, nor I from him. The thing had, in the past, been put into words but it must not be spoken again because some scars hurt so much when touched, and even if words are the truth, how is one to prove it?

  “I know it will be hard to put the memory of Master de la Roche behind you, ma’am,” Dale said. “But others do it and are glad they did.”

  “I know. In any case, I last saw my husband nearly a year ago. It’s quite a long time.” I smiled at her. “When we’re back at Withysham, I will think your advice over, seriously.”

  “How long will that be, I wonder?” Dale remarked.

  “No longer than I can help,” I told her.

  I glanced at the window. Nothing could be seen but a curtain of steadily falling snow. The landlord, returning with the mulled wine, remarked that it had come on sudden-like and that a party of gentlemen who had stayed at the Blue Boar the night before us and seemed to be in a hurry would probably have got as far as the next hostelry along the road but would be fair tearing their hair by this time, because likely enough, they’d be stuck there for days. “I hope thee’s not in any haste.”

  “We are in a way,” I said. “At least, we’re trying to catch someone up—a . . . a relative of mine who’s gone north and is needed back at home, urgently. His name is Edward Faldene. Has he been through here?”

  “Master Faldene? Oh aye, I mind on him. Slept here the night before last. Left early yesterday, but thee’s not that far behind him.”

  We were too far behind him to please me, for it sounded as though he had gained on us again. I itched to press on farther but knew it was impossible. Still, if we couldn’t move forward then probably he couldn’t either, and if we didn’t after all catch him up before he reached Northumberland, we would surely come up with him while he was paying his various visits there. When we did . . .

  I hadn’t yet given much thought to how I would deal with Edward when we finally found him. How would I persuade him to give up his errand when even his wife and parents couldn’t, when even the argument that his children needed him had had no power? Uncle Herbert had suggested that I use threats. Very typical of Uncle Herbert! But Edward, as a lad, had despised his baseborn cousin Ursula, and I did not know how much his father had really told him about the life I was now leading. Would threats from me really weigh with him?

  I had said that, if need be, I would steal his list and I might perhaps manage to go through his luggage, but what if he was carrying it on his person and sleeping with it under his pillow? I would be left with only one other alternative, which was somehow or other to incapacitate him. If I could get hold of the ingredients, I supposed I could make a purge and slip it into a glass of wine and hope that once he was forced to take to his bed, I would get a chance to examine his discarded clothing. It was a repellent prospect.

  Once again, with all my heart, I wished I hadn’t come.

  Once again, uselessly, I longed for Matthew to be alive once more, so that I could return to our home on the Loire and be Madame de la Roche, and never go adventuring again.

  • • •

  We were stuck at the Sign of the Blue Boar for three days. We could only hope that wherever Edward was, he was similarly trapped. Eventually, the cold eased and a shower of rain in the night made the tracks passable again. Our horses had at least had a rest. We set out once more.

  The state of the road was discouraging. The rain had only partly cleared the snow. The tracks were full of slush, hock-deep in places, and here and there snowdrifts still spilled across our path. Brockley had picked out the sturdiest and most surefooted animals in the Withysham stable, but in these conditions, the finest horses in the realm would have slipped and slithered, just as ours did, and balked at fording streams full of racing, icy meltwater.

  By sheer determination (which meant nagging on my part and what I admit was an unkind blindness to Dale’s drawn face), we kept going, but from the Blue Boar to Newcastle took six days altogether.

  In Newcastle, we heard further news of Edward, and learned that he was still two nights ahead.

  “If only I had wings!” I groaned.

  • • •

  The next news of Edward came from the Elkinthorpe family, who lived in Newcastle and had been the first set of friends on whom Edward had proposed to call. They were wool merchants, well-to-do on the proceeds of fleeces from Cheviot sheep and openly Catholic, as many households were in the north of England, with a chaplain and a small family chapel.

  While dealing with Edward’s friends, I thought it best to say that although in England I was known as Mistress Blanchard, I was actually the widow of Matthew de la Roche, a Catholic Frenchman. I was therefore accepted at once as a fellow Catholic, and learned that Master and Mistress Elkinthorpe and their unmarried daughter showed their faces at the local Anglican church once a month, and had found that if they did so, no one molested them.

  Edward had stayed with them, but only for one night.

  “As though we were an inn,” said Master Elkinthorpe disapprovingly as he showed us into his hall. Here, as at Faldene, the life of the household was still lived in communal fashion in one big, raftered chamber going the height of the house. Elkinthorpe was a large man with a bulging middle and his quilted winter doublet made him look enormous. “It isn’t the way we expect our guests to behave,” he said, in tones of hurt self-importance.

  “But he did say he wanted to get on as fast as he could.” Mistress Elkinthorpe had a plump figure but not the placid countenance that so often goes with it. She was very lined and had an air of enduring patience. I suspected that she spent a good deal of time and effort in soothing a husband who took offense too easily. “He was weary of the road and wanted to put it behind him, and he was on an errand of some importance, I believe,” she said anxiously.

  “And wouldn’t say what it was even when I asked him outright. In my day, young men showed more courtesy to their elders,” said Master Elkinthorpe. “You need to get him back, you say?”

  “Yes. A family matter in Sussex,” I said.

  “And the family sent you, instead of a proper courier?”

  “I have an errand to the north as well,” I improvised hastily, and although his thick white eyebrows rose inquiringly, I didn’t enlarge, leaving him to surmise that I wasn’t going to explain my purpose any more than Edward had, and take offense at me as well, if he chose.

  I think he did choose, because he then became very silent, not to say huffy. The hospitality at the Elkinthorpes’ was good in a fashion, with plenty of food on the table, and comfortable bedchambers, but it couldn’t be called an agreeable visit and we piled on further offense when we expressed a wish to leave the very next day.

  “But it’s a Sunday. You can’t possibly travel on the Sabbath,” said Mistress Elkinthorpe, scandalized. “You’ll surely want to join us in our chapel!” Master Elkinthorpe also made it clear that in his view, it was unthinkable for us to leave. I got the impression that he was almost prepared to bar his gates to stop us. I was passionately against delay, and then, to my exasperation, found that Brockley supported Master Elkinthorpe, though not for the same reason.

  “The horses are very weary again, madam. We’re pushing them too hard. We might be wise to give them a day’s rest.”

  “But we’ll lose ground!”

  “Master Edward must have a tired horse too, madam. Very likely, when he reaches friends who are—er—more easygoing than this household is, he will give his animal a rest as well. It may not make that much difference.”

  “That’s nothing but gue
sswork!”

  “You could call it experience, madam!”

  “Oh, for God’s sake!”

  But I knew Brockley in this mood, and for all my impatience, I also knew that he was highly skilled in the care of horses and that his advice shouldn’t be ignored. Reluctantly, therefore, I yielded, but slept badly that night. We had lost our chance of catching Edward up before he got to Northumberland; and now I was beginning to fear that even our chances of coming up with him before he crossed the Scottish border were melting faster than snow in rain.

  “I just hope his Edinburgh contacts are all away from home!” I said snappily to Brockley. “Because if he gets to them before we get to him, I’ve wasted my journey!”

  I asked Mistress Elkinthorpe, whom I rather liked, how far it was to the Scottish border. “Oh, no more than fifty miles,” she said.

  We would leave at first light on the Monday, I said.

  • • •

  The Wright family were Edward’s next objective. Helene had told me that they lived at a place called Holtby House. When we inquired the way at an inn, however, we learned that the house was empty. The Wrights apparently had another home in the Midlands and had gone south for the winter. Edward could not have stopped there.

  The landlord was an active, well-informed man, though rough in his speech, and was at least able to give us some information about the whereabouts of Grimstone hamlet and Bycroft House, and also of St. Margaret’s, the home of the Thursbys. What he told me gave me an idea.

  As we journeyed on the next day, I said: “We could reach the Bycrofts tomorrow, but I think we should pass them by. It would mean turning aside from the direct road—there’s a left fork, apparently—and going about three miles out of our way. We’d do better to go on to the Thursbys at St. Margaret’s. Just past the fork, there’s supposed to be an inn called the Holly Tree where we could get midday food, and we might well reach as far as St. Margaret’s tomorrow afternoon. If Edward has gone roundabout to see the Bycrofts, we might arrive at St. Margaret’s the same time, or even find him there!”