I would have liked it to include Rafe’s behavior but after all, what could I say? That he had given me a challenging look when talking about the haunted tower, had held my hand too closely as he helped me over a step, and that it had been difficult to squeeze past him in a doorway? I pushed Rafe out of my thoughts, and joined my hostess on the window seat.
The window, which looked down toward the courtyard, was no dismal arrow slit, but was large and handsome with diamond-leaded panes and decorative mullions. No doubt it had been put in by the up-to-date Sir Thomas Vetch. It shed rather too much light on Lady Thomasine, though. She was beautifully dressed, in a loose gown of oyster damask, with a fresh pair of slippers, high-heeled and very pretty, of tawny velvet embroidered with roses in gleaming cerise silk. But although her skin had been powdered, I could see a cobweb of lines not hitherto visible, and the amethyst and agate rings on her fingers could not quite conceal her thickening knuckles.
She wasted no time on small talk. “You know why I have asked you here,” she said. “Cecil has sent you to help me, has he not?”
“Yes, Lady Thomasine.” I studied her gravely, and then put into words the problem that had been worrying me since I first agreed to undertake this inquiry. “But I must say I am puzzled as to how I can help. I believe you are anxious to learn what is going on in your son’s mind but if you, his mother, are not in his confidence, how may I hope to do better? I have said I will try, and I will, but all the same …”
“How much did Cecil tell you, Mistress Blanchard?”
“He told me that Sir Philip wishes to get back the property and honors which belonged to his Mortimer ancestors, or at least their equivalents, and that he seems to think he can persuade the queen to give them to him. Do I have it right?”
She nodded. “Yes. Quite right. And yesterday, at supper, you heard my son hinting at these plans of his. Did you understand?”
“When he talked of Vetch Castle becoming a center for good society and noble company?”
“Exactly. You heard the way he said it, too. With such assurance. Do you wonder that I am worried? I can’t get him to tell me how he means to go about it. But Luke Blanchard told me that you have some skill at learning secrets.”
I wished my former father-in-law had kept quiet. “I’ve uncovered secrets in the past,” I said frankly, “but I wouldn’t boast of my skill. As I said, I will try, but …” I hesitated. “There is a question I think I should ask. I hope it will not offend you. But I believe that Sir Philip was once at court and was obliged to leave for some reason. I would like to know …”
“What that reason was? I understand why you are asking, but I can only tell you that it has nothing to do with this. He fought in a duel and the other man was killed. Those were the days of Queen Mary. She did not approve of such things. Philip would never explain fully what the duel was about though both his father and I tried to get it out of him, but he did say once that it was to do with a woman. He said it was a commonplace affair that he wanted to forget. He never mentioned the lady’s name. In the end, we ceased to press him. It hardly concerns this present matter, anyway.”
She might or might not be telling the truth, but I could see no way of discovering more, at least not for the moment. I considered. “I suppose,” I said, “that I could begin by talking to him in case I can get him to let out anything of interest. That would be the simplest approach. Does he—forgive me—does he drink much wine?”
“Not to excess.” Lady Thomasine accepted the question as sensible. “All the same,” she said thoughtfully, “when he makes the remarks which alarm me so much, it usually is after he has drunk a little. He was taking wine at supper last night. He still didn’t let out any details, but—yes, why not? Try persuading him to drink more than is good for him at dinner today and then ask a few artless questions. He likes to impress guests and with a charming young woman, perhaps he may be more forthcoming than he is with me. I spoke with Master Henderson last night and he tells me that you are willing to stay for two weeks. If this scheme fails, there is time to try others.”
“I’ll make every effort,” I said. “Lady Thomasine, have you no idea at all what form these plans of his take?”
“No, my dear, I haven’t.” Lady Thomasine paused, as someone bumped against the door to the stairs. “Come in. Is that Olwen?” she called. The door opened to admit a sturdy, pretty girl, slightly breathless and disheveled with the effort of carrying a heavy tray up the spiral steps. Her brown, curly hair was tumbling out of her cap and her face was flushed.
“Your breakfast, my lady.”
“Thank you, Olwen. Bring that table over here and leave the tray on it. And do tidy your hair. These girls!” said Lady Thomasine, as Olwen set our breakfast down, bobbed a curtsy, and withdrew. “One must watch them all the time. One of the others has a baby at nurse in the village although there’s no sign of a husband and Olwen will be in no better case, one of these days.”
“Indeed?” I said, wondering if this was what Mattie had meant by her mysterious hints. But why, if so, hadn’t she said so straight out, and why should she take it so seriously? Flighty maidservants were hardly a rarity. But perhaps Olwen had been particularly blatant and set what Mattie thought was a bad example to Meg. At any rate, I had agreed to send Meg out of the castle, and I would keep to that.
“Lady Thomasine,” I said, as we began to partake of the excellent breakfast, “I’m not entirely happy about having my little daughter here while I am … well, looking into things. But I do intend to take her back to France with me and I want her to have some new clothes before she travels. While I am here, Mistress Henderson has offered to take her to London and get the new gowns and so forth. You would not think me discourteous if I sent Meg off with her?”
“Oh, my dear, of course not. I hope you have found your daughter well, though? I think she has enjoyed her stay here. But it might indeed be better if you had no distraction during your two weeks. In fact, you are likely to be somewhat distracted as it is. It is most unfortunate, but—did Sir William Cecil tell you I had a daughter?”
“Yes, I believe he did. What is her name?”
“Bess. She’s married and lives on a manor some miles away. It doesn’t compare with Vetch,” said Lady Thomasine, faintly disdainful, “but St. Catherine’s Well is a respectable estate, up on the west side of the Malverns—it’s a few miles north of a landmark you may have heard of, called Herefordshire Beacon …”
I shook my head. I knew nothing of the local geography. Lady Thomasine said: “Well, the Beacon is high and exposed, of course, you can see it for miles; but the fields of St. Catherine’s are lower and more sheltered—it’s quite good land. Bess and her husband are to visit us in a day or two. Philip has been helping to arrange a match for their daughter and the betrothal will be celebrated here. The castle will be very busy. I hope you won’t find …”
There was a rush of feet on the spiral stairs. Then the door crashed unceremoniously open and there was Mattie on the threshold with Dale at her shoulder, both of them wide-eyed with alarm.
“Lady Thomasine … !”
“Oh, ma’am!”
“What is it?” I shot to my feet, too startled to let Lady Thomasine speak first. “Is Meg … ?”
“Meg is quite all right. It’s Brockley!” said Mattie breathlessly. “Rob’s gone off hawking with Sir Philip so they can’t help, and Brockley’s got himself mixed up in something to do with a witch.”
6
Champion for a Witch
I was bewildered but Lady Thomasine was quite unsurprised and also undisturbed. “A witch? Oh, Gladys Morgan, I suppose. You saw her in the hall yesterday, Mistress Blanchard, tending one of our lambs. She took it home with her last night. Ah well. Trouble’s been brewing there this long time.”
“Well, the trouble’s arrived, and Roger Brockley’s in the middle of it. He’s Mistress Blanchard’s manservant. He’s down in the village now. Lady Thomasine …” said Mattie appealingly.
“My dear Mattie,” said Lady Thomasine, not moving from the window seat but on the contrary, continuing with her breakfast, “we rarely interfere with the villagers. They are all either half-Welsh or all-Welsh and they have their own ways of running their affairs. The village elders keep order and they do it very well. Whatever is happening, they will deal with it themselves.”
“But …” I began.
Lady Thomasine glanced at me. “I myself never intrude. If Philip were here, I would send him, but since he isn’t—well, if this man is your servant, Mistress Blanchard, you had better fetch him into the castle immediately and tell him to mind his own business in future.”
“Do I need to take any men with me?” I was already at the door.
“Of course not. You are my guest and will be respected. They will know who you are. The village always knows everything. You are in no danger. Show Mistress Blanchard the way, Mattie. You know the shortcut through the stable yard gate that my father had made for bringing in fodder?”
“Quickly!” pleaded Dale.
I could scarcely believe that Lady Thomasine meant me to deal with this on my own, but she seemed to think the matter merely trivial. Dale, however, was frantic, and fairly hustled me down the tower stairs. “But what’s happened?” I demanded.
“Roger and I just came out to walk, that’s all. We went out of the gatehouse and walked round the castle,” Dale gasped, as we rushed through a door at the foot of the tower and into the stable yard. “We found a village and … they were going to stone her! They were calling her a witch …”
“Over here,” said Mattie urgently, tugging me across the stable yard to a small door in the outer wall. I went with her, groaning aloud. I had once told Matthew that Brockley had been a good son to his mother. What I hadn’t told him was that Brockley’s mother had been accused of witchcraft, and he had only just succeeded in saving her from the gallows. Since then, I had seen him rush to help another aged woman in danger of the same accusation. The combination of old age and a charge of witchcraft was guaranteed to have Brockley, figuratively speaking, leaping astride a white horse and galloping to the rescue like Sir Galahad, and with about as much regard for personal danger.
The door let us out onto a path above a steep hillside. Down below was a squat church tower and a cluster of thatched roofs, which had to be the village. A rapid scramble down a zigzag path brought us to it. Led by Dale, we ran past some outlying cottages, until we heard the sound of raised voices and then, suddenly, found ourselves at the back of a crowd. We stopped, gasping. I stood on tiptoe to see over the shoulders of the people in front of me, and saw Brockley.
There he was, my gallant manservant, arms folded, confronting the throng, which gave off hostility as green firewood gives off smoke. They were of every age and both sexes, the women with either tall black hats or shawls on their heads, most of the men bareheaded, but all united in calling abuse, in a mixture of English and Welsh. A pile of stones was nearby and many of the crowd had stones in their hands. Behind Brockley, backed against the wall of a cottage, was Gladys.
She was certainly not an attractive old woman. She had on the same grubby gown and shawl that she had been wearing yesterday, and in daylight, her gray trailing hair and fanglike teeth looked even more horrible than they had in the shadowed hall. From behind Brockley, she was glaring at the crowd and screeching ruderies back at them. But there was a red splash of blood on her forehead and she clutched her shawl across her skinny chest as though to protect herself. “Come on!” I said, and we started to shove our way to the front. As we came near enough to see her clearly, I saw that, for all her defiance, she was trembling.
Pity instantly stabbed through me. I was willing to believe in ghosts, but Gerald and Brockley between them had taught me not to believe in witches. The crowd probably thought they were attacking one of hell’s minions. I saw only a woman made ugly by age, injured and afraid. So did Mattie. “Poor old thing,” she muttered.
A man at the front of the crowd had stepped into my path. “You will be Mistress Blanchard?” he said. He had the Welsh intonation but his English was easy. “Your woman”—his eyes went briefly to Dale—“said she would fetch you. I am Hugh Cooper, freeholder, and senior man in this hamlet. The man is in your service, I think. He is interfering in our business. I have held the villagers back from harming him until you—or someone—came from the castle but now that you are here, will you do us the kindness to remove him?”
“What’s he done?” I asked.
“I told you, mistress. He’s pushing into matters that are no concern of his.”
His authoritative voice was loud enough for Brockley to hear. “It’s the concern of any decent person who chances to be passing!” he shouted. “This poor old soul here has been accused of putting the evil eye on someone’s child. These splendid people had pulled her from her cottage and they were going to stone her to death.”
“Not to death, not unless she’s fool enough to defy us. We were going to drive her from the village,” said Cooper calmly. “Which is more merciful, indeed, than English law would allow. In England, they would burn her for doing murder by witchcraft. We merely wish to be rid of her. At the moment,” he added, jerking his head toward Brockley, “we also wish to be rid of him. So, once again, mistress, I ask you to take your man away.”
I looked helplessly at my retainer. Roger Brockley was a down-to-earth kind of man, neither handsome nor homely, and today he was dressed as usual in workmanlike brown fustian. But his stocky, compact build was full of strength and his impassive face with its high forehead was full of dignity. Standing there, defending Gladys, he was not only behaving like one of King Arthur’s knights, he even somehow looked like one. I knew quite well that I had no power to take him away; he wouldn’t budge no matter how I ordered him, and I admired him for it.
But I wished with all my heart that Lady Thomasine, or Sir Philip, or someone with real authority at Vetch were with me, because since I couldn’t control Brockley, I would have to try to control the villagers instead. “What exactly is the woman’s crime?” I inquired. “Her name is Gladys Morgan, isn’t it?”
Quite a number of people tried to tell me what Gladys had done, all at the same time. Cooper made damping-down gestures at them and the babble faded. He turned to me.
“Yes, this is Gladys. She’s been trouble for a long while, selling love philters to silly wenches and making believe to tell fortunes but this time she’s gone too far. She laid a curse on a child of nine years old, the son of David and Pen Howell. Come forward, David and Pen.”
A couple stepped out of the crowd. They were about my age, but with the worn faces of people who have had hard lives. The woman had a baby in the crook of one arm. They looked at me with dislike. “After Gladys cursed the boy,” said Cooper, “he fell sick. They begged her to reverse the curse but she would not. Last week, he died.”
“And he deserved it!” Gladys screeched from behind Brockley. “Little bugger threw stones at me, called me an ugly old hag. So I put a curse on him. How’d you like it, Pen Howell—bein’ called names because you’re old and you’ve lost your looks? If you live long enough, maybe it’ll happen to you! You’ve got a long nose and a stickin’-out chin already. Make a good nutcracker face, yours will, one day!”
Somewhere in the crowd was an unmistakable snigger.
It is annoying to find that you have taken an instinctive dislike to someone you fully realize you should pity. I knew I ought to sympathize with the bereaved and weary Howells but their sharp, hard eyes and straight, hard mouths sent my sympathy veering straight toward Gladys.
“Our son’s dead,” Pen snapped. “Dead of a fever that no one can explain. What else is that but witchcraft? Answer me that!”
“But people are always dying of fevers,” I protested.
“Quite right, they are,” Brockley declared. “Young and old. It happens. It’s the will of God. If this woman Gladys had the power to curse, why doesn’t she
curse you and be done with it?” He jabbed a finger at the Howells. “Seeing what you’ve brought on her today, why doesn’t she bring you out in a rash or turn you into toads? In her place I’d do it this minute!”
“Yes, I would!” shouted Gladys.
“But you both look healthy enough to me,” Brockley said relentlessly.
“True enough. My husband says there are no such things as witches,” Mattie declared, backing us up, head high and plump hands clasped at her waist; the lady of the manor reproving ill-behaved servants.
“I’ve just lost a child,” I said to Pen. “My son was born dead and I nearly died myself. But it was misfortune, not witchcraft. My first husband died of smallpox, before he was thirty. That wasn’t witchcraft, either.”
“That’s as may be, but this was!” Pen shouted at me. “She cursed him. She cursed him! I heard her!”
“Your bloody brat stoned me for being ugly. I’m glad he’s dead!” shrieked Gladys, hardly helping her own cause.
“And we’re going to stone you out of Vetch Village!” shouted David Howell, and with that, he picked up a stone from the nearest pile and threw it.
A shower of other stones followed. Brockley ducked, putting up his hands to protect his head. Dale screamed and threw herself in front of him, and without stopping to think, Mattie and I ran to join her. “Stop this, or you’ll have Lady Thomasine and Sir Philip to deal with!” Mattie shouted.
The stones stopped momentarily, but then someone called out something in Welsh. The name of Lady Thomasine was embedded in it somewhere and I thought I heard the word Mortimer as well.
“What are they saying?” Mattie demanded of Gladys.
“That Sir Philip and Lady Thomasine won’t care for the likes of me,” said Gladys sullenly, and after a suspicious pause, as though she had belatedly decided on discretion. What had really been said had been more disparaging than that. I wondered what it was. Then another stone came through the air and I lost interest in the matter. I ducked just in time, and a frighteningly big stone followed, barely missing Mattie. “Master Cooper!” I screamed. “Do something!”
To Ruin A Queen: An Ursula Blanchard Mystery at Queen Elizabeth I's Court Page 7
