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

  “Perhaps they’ll know whether we’re really on the Stirling road. Better draw over to the side, though, in case they’re on urgent business and don’t slow down.”

  “Madam, there’s something . . .”

  His hand was on his sword hilt. “Careful!” I said. “There are at least a dozen of them. They’ll probably go straight past us . . .”

  But Brockley had understood what I had not: that the approaching horsemen had their eyes on us. As they raced toward us, they divided, so as to sweep around us on both sides, bringing us perforce to a frightened halt inside a circle of fierce, bearded riders armed with swords and pikes and bestriding small shaggy mounts with thick manes and tails, which swirled in the wind. They sat still for a moment, and then one of them, who was riding a silver-gray pony with a dark mane and tail, rode forward, pulling off the hat that shadowed his face so that I could see him clearly.

  “Sir Brian Dormbois!”

  “Mistress Ursula Blanchard—or Madame de la Roche, whichever you prefer. I give you good morning.”

  “I don’t understand . . . we’re on our way to Stirling, to where the queen is.” Mentioning the queen sounded more impressive than merely saying that I wanted to see Rob Henderson. “Have you come to escort us? But who told you we were going?”

  “Your landlord, sweetheart,” Dormbois informed me, smile broad and molars glittering. “I spoke with him this morning, no mair nor half an hour after you left him. But you’ll no’ be getting to Stirling this day. The hospitality of Roderix Fort awaits you and the place is no great distance away. Be pleased to come with us, my lady.”

  20

  Roderix Fort

  I shouted: “No!” at Brockley as he drew his sword and rode forward. I could see what he was trying to do, which was to make a target of just one man and cleave a way out of the circle for us. Once out, we could indeed have stood a chance. The horses we had chosen for our ride to Scotland were built for stamina rather than speed but they still had longer legs than the hairy ponies that our assailants were riding. We might well have outdistanced them. Sir Brian had promised me “good horses,” but by the look of it, we had very different ideas of what a good horse was.

  But there were too many of them and it was too dangerous. Brockley ignored my cry of warning and a pike took him in the chest, hurling him out of his saddle. Dale screamed. Dormbois seized my horse’s bridle, wrenching the reins from my grasp and whisking them over my horse’s head. I struck at him with my riding whip, but he caught my arm, twisted the whip out of my hand, and threw it away. I heard him shout to his men to bring the tirewoman, saw Dale, her shoulder bag bumping from side to side, throw herself off her horse and go to Brockley, heard her despairing shriek of “Roger!” as someone scooped her up and put her in front of his saddle.

  I glimpsed Brockley lying curled up on the ground, knees protecting his chest and belly and arms over his head as the horses milled close to him. Dale’s loose mount, reins and stirrups flapping, actually leapt over him before bolting away over the heather and vanishing behind a rise. I remembered with thankfulness that Brockley was wearing a breastplate. Then we were galloping, galloping, leaving Brockley behind, racing westward. I thought wildly of the dagger I carried in my hidden pouch, but Dormbois was now out of arm’s reach, and besides, I was outnumbered just as much as Brockley had been. “Where are we going?” I shouted at Dormbois as we tore along, my horse’s head stretched out at the end of the reins, which the Scotsman was using as a tow rope.

  He half turned his head to answer. “Roderix Fort! I told you! Where else?” he shouted.

  A few minutes later we came to a fork and swerved to the right, taking a narrow uphill path. The ponies breasted it with energy, snorting and scrambling, and I glimpsed my gelding’s eyes, white-ringed with fright as it was dragged relentlessly up the slope. Dale was on the pony alongside me, weeping bitterly and still vainly struggling. The man holding her had shoved her bag to one side so that he could hold her tightly against him, and the encircling arm that kept her in place astride the pony’s withers looked as thick and strong as an iron girder.

  We reached the crest of the slope and tore down the far side. I glimpsed small fields, divided by low stone walls, stretching away to either side, and here and there stooping figures with spades and hoes, who straightened up to stare as we went by. At the foot of the hill we sped through a cluster of hovels that huddled in the valley as though seeking protection from the wind. Poultry scattered before us and women with heavy boots below their thick skirts and shawls over their heads appeared in their doorways to watch us go by.

  Another slope rose ahead of us, crowned with a building like a dark finger pointing to the gray sky. The path swept uphill again, this time on a zigzag. Sheep grazing on the hillside raised their heads as we approached and two of them hastily got out of our way, bleating. I saw that the dark building was a tower, and that between us and it was a stout gray wall with a wide gateway in it, standing open.

  Without slowing down, we galloped through the entrance into an open grassy space where more sheep were grazing. Running, plaid-draped figures came from nowhere and I was dimly aware that behind us they were closing the gate. A track led across the grass to another wall and another gate, which two more plaid-clad men were in the process of opening. They had just got the second leaf back when we reached it and they stood back to let us through. They were youngish men, stocky, tough, and martial. If this was Roderix Fort, it was very much a fort.

  Once through the second gate, we pulled up at last in a muddy, unpaved courtyard with outbuildings set untidily here and there against the outer wall. An open stable door had horse-droppings and wisps of straw in front of it and a stablehand, carrying a bucket of oats toward it from what looked like a granary, stopped to look at us. Another building, round with a high slate roof, had a smoking chimney and gave off a smell of cooking meat. The tower was in front of us, a tall, square, battlemented keep, built of the same harsh gray stone as the walls. Steps went up to a main entrance; the ground floor, as at Bycroft, was surely a medieval-style undercroft for animals or storage.

  Dormbois was out of his saddle and lifting me out of mine. “I’ve grooms for the horses. Come with me. Fraser, be bringing the tirewoman and for God’s sake stop her greeting and howling like that. She’s here to serve her mistress, not harrow us all by wailing like a soul demented.”

  “Why shouldn’t she wail?” I shouted at him. “That was her husband you left lying in a heap on the ground! He’s probably dead!”

  “Not he, more’s the pity. I thocht he was, but I looked back and saw him get up. He’ll mak trouble for me, I daresay, though I daresay too that I’ll manage,” retorted Dormbois. “Though how he could get up again after that spear thrust, I wouldna know. He’s a tougher mannie than he looked, that one!”

  The breastplate had done its work, then. With luck, I thought gratefully, Brockley was not only alive but not too badly hurt. And he was free. I could only hope that he would be able to raise the alarm and bring help, although how he would know where to bring it was another matter.

  “Dale!” As the man holding her got down and heaved her and her bag to the ground after him, I caught her hand. “It’s all right. Brockley’s all right! He had armor under his jacket. Stop crying! It’s all right!”

  “Aye, hauld your noise!” said the man called Fraser, marching forward beside us, as Dormbois dragged me toward the steps. I saw that he had a limp and realized that this was probably the brother of Hamish Fraser, the steward of St. Margaret’s and quite possibly the man who had stuck a blade in my cousin. Shuddering, I pulled Dale close to me and farther away from him. I wanted nothing to do with any Fraser.

  Dale’s wails subsided but her tears continued to flow. We were hustled in at the main door and through a wide, chilly hall with an empty hearth and scarcely any furnishings beyond a couple of settles, one long table in the center, and a profusion of stags’ antlers on the stone walls. The flagged floor was innoc
ent even of rushes, let alone rugs, and there wasn’t a cushion to be seen. A pile of fleeces on one of the settles and the fact that logs were stacked in an alcove by the fireplace were the only hints of comfort.

  The cheerless hall even seemed to annoy Dormbois. “Can you idle loons not even light a fire when you know the laird’s coming?” he bellowed as he haled us across the floor, and once again figures came running from nowhere and presumably set about transferring firewood to the hearth. I didn’t have time to watch. A flight of spiral stairs came down into the far corner of the hall and Dormbois ran me and Dale straight to it.

  Up and up we went, stumbling now and then on the narrow, wedge-shaped steps. The only light came through occasional arrow slits and the staircase smelled of damp stone. We passed narrow arched doorways at successively high levels, until at last, Sir Brian thrust one of the doors open and propelled us through it. Breathless, we came to a halt in what appeared to be a parlor of sorts. Or perhaps the medieval term solar would be better, for the room and its contents were very old-fashioned, with narrow, deep-set windows and a disused loom in one corner. Even the lute lying on one of the window seats was of a pattern that had been out-of-date when I was a child.

  One wall was handsomely paneled though, and here at last was a hearth that actually had a fire in it and a sheepskin rug in front. I went to stand there, holding out my hands to the warmth, and Dale, miserably, came with me. She pulled her shoulder bag off and automatically helped me slip mine off as well. We put them down on the fleece. Dormbois had stopped in the middle of the room.

  “It’ll be rough and ready by southron standards, I daresay, but we’ll set that right in time. You’ll say what you want and it’ll be bought. Edinburgh’s been getting a gentler place since Her Majesty came from France and there’s plenty of pretty furnishings to be got there. You’ll appoint your parlor as you will.” He nodded, as though congratulating himself on these kindly plans. “I see that at least the fire in here’s been lit as I ordered. There’ll be wine and food presently and I’ll send someone with hot water and towels.”

  To listen to him, you would have thought that we were willing guests and he the perfect host. I looked at him in bewildered disbelief.

  “The fire’s been lit as you ordered?” I echoed.

  “Yes, indeed. I wouldna give you a cold welcome, lassie.”

  “But when did you order it? You were in Edinburgh yesterday!”

  “I sent a rider off last night,” said Dormbois casually. “I took my men and went to fetch you from that lodging this morning but you’d gone. To Stirling, Master Muir said, after I’d stuck a dagger under his nose to get some sense from him. Well, that was easy enough. I’d only to catch you up on the road.”

  “And now?”

  “Here you are in my home, Roderix Fort. All’s ready. It’ll all be done decent. Father Bell’s ready to wed us; I thocht that would please you best.”

  “So that’s what this is about. Forced marriage.” Beside me, Dale let out a sob. I rested a hand on her shoulder in an attempt to calm her. I wished I had someone to keep me calm as well. I was very angry and also very frightened. In fact, I was wishing I had tried to close with Hugh Stannard’s semi-proposal of marriage. I was no longer aware of Dormbois’s attractions. He had left Brockley, my dear faithful Brockley, Dale’s husband, lying on the ground, to die for all Dormbois cared. He was an enemy now.

  “Please understand,” I said. “I meant what I said yesterday. I have no wish to remarry. I . . .”

  “Grief passes, lassie. I don’t dislike it that you still have such feeling for your dead husband. It shows a good heart and maybe one day, you’ll mourn as much for me. But that’s just it. Life’s short and the dead don’t come back. It’s good to weep awhile but not too long.”

  “Sir Brian, please listen! Yesterday, I said no, and I meant no. I cannot and I will not marry you. I ask you to remember that marriage vows taken under duress are not lawful. If you drag me to the altar with a knife in my ribs, I might give my wedding promises but they would mean nothing. Nor would any honorable priest agree to proceed with the ceremony.”

  “Father Bell will,” Dormbois assured me. “He may argue with me over doctrine but he knows far how he can go. I’m his landlord. He comes up here every day but he lives in one of those cottages at the foot of the hill. I can turn him out and put him into the road in the clothes he’s wearing. But it’ll not come to that. He’ll obey, once you agree. Though he won’t have to worry that ye’re taking vows at knifepoint. What a notion! You’ve hurt my feelings,” said Dormbois, in tones that verged on the plaintive. “What do you take me for? I came to you yesterday with an honest proposal of marriage and I’m still the same honest lover. If you refuse to wed, then you refuse. So be it.”

  I stared at him, and he gave me that glittering smile. I saw it now as diabolical.

  “I can wait,” he said. “At least, I can wait for the wedding vows. But love’s hard to keep reined in.”

  “Love!”

  “Aye, love, my lass. As you’ll learn before long, but when it comes to the point,” he added in soothing tones, “it’ll no’ be so bad. Ever watched a falconer straighten out tangled tail feathers on a hawk? He has to hold them in hot water and it doesnae hurt the bird, but it feels the heat coming up and could harm itself struggling if it were let, so a good man holds the hawk firm and strong so it canna fight, and so the job is done easy and painless. I’ll hold you firm and strong tonight, sweetheart, and I think there’ll be peace between us before the dawn.”

  • • •

  “Oh, ma’am, what are you going to do?”

  “God knows, Dale. I don’t.”

  Dormbois had left us alone in the parlor. A little investigation had shown that it was actually part of a suite. It had three doors. One led to a privy and one, alarmingly, opened into a bedchamber that contained a lady’s toilet stand and an ominously wide bed, hung with green velvet, made up with linen sheets, and piled with glossy fur rugs.

  The third door was the one that gave onto the stairs and this was bolted on the outside. There were windows, all of them looking down onto a sheer drop of something like ninety feet. When I pushed the parlor window open and leaned out, I realized that I could see the firth. There was a lantern bracket next to the window. Presumably Roderix Fort stood so tall that it was also used as a lighthouse. When the visibility was good enough, that would be. In the west, I could see the gray skirts of more approaching rain. I stared wistfully at the world outside. Bleak and lonely though it was, it was still the world of freedom.

  “If we had a rope,” I said, “we could tie it to that lantern holder and escape. You haven’t got a rope in your shoulder bag, have you, Dale?”

  “No, ma’am, what would I want with a rope?” Poor Dale was quite unable to see that I was trying to lighten the air with a feeble joke. “I’ve just a shawl and some shoes and my linen and our medicines! My only proper changes of clothes were in the saddlebags and the horse ran away! I just can’t abide not having a change of clothes, ma’am.”

  “We can ask if someone could go to find your horse. If so, you might get your saddlebags back. I know one thing I’m going to do, Dale, or rather, not do.”

  “Ma’am?”

  “I’m not going to remain Dormbois’s captive, whatever happens. I’ve no doubt,” I said grimly, “that he’s capable of forcing me into bed and even into marriage, but I will still, sooner or later, escape. As I once did from Matthew, at the beginning. And then we’ll go home to England. It doesn’t matter even if I have been married at knifepoint or whatever. I’ve no wish to wed anyone else, and besides, I can probably get an annulment on grounds of duress. The queen will help. Whatever happens, we will somehow get out of here. But it ought to be as soon as possible, before that man gets me with child. Is there any vinegar among the medicines?”

  “No, ma’am. But when they feed us, I can ask for some!” At the thought of doing something useful, Dale brightened a little. “I h
ave a sponge in my shoulder bag. I can cut it up for you, ma’am.”

  “That should hold off the danger for a while,” I agreed. “If I can’t hold Dormbois off.” I stiffened. “Someone’s coming up the stairs!”

  I turned to face the door, bracing myself in case of a new threat, but it proved to be a servant lad with a tray. There seemed to be no women servants in Roderix. The man Fraser came protectively with him, as though Dormbois feared that I might have wrenched a leg off the table and stationed myself behind the door, ready to knock out the first man to enter. Fraser closed the door behind them and stood with his back to it while the lad set out the food and drink on the table.

  “You are Jamie Fraser, aren’t you?” I said. “Your brother’s Hamish Fraser of St. Margaret’s. I know the Thursbys.”

  I found it hard to mention the names either of Hamish or the Thursbys, but in this situation I needed to form what links I could. There was always the hope of bribing or suborning my captor’s servants.

  Jamie was older than Hamish but similar in looks to his brother, with the same stocky body and deceptively boyish face. His blue eyes, however, were hard and blank as he stared back at me.

  “Aye. Jamie Fraser’s the name.”

  “I thought you were the bailiff—the land agent,” I said. “Sir Brian has spoken of you. But here you are indoors.”

  “Aye. I’ve taken over from the old steward that was due for his pension. I’ve a limp, as ye’ve no doot seen. Broke ma leg a few months back and it’s no’ a pairfect mend.”

  “That was unlucky,” I said. “I know that when your brother came to see you, there was some idea of inviting him to replace you, but it came to nothing. Has someone been found to take over from you after all?”