As far as learning how Mortimer proposed to extract land and honor from the queen, the will gave me no help. It did give me something else, however. Here at last was a clear reason why Mortimer might have wanted Rafe out of the way. John Northcote, it seemed, was a man with a sentimental attachment to his friend Philip Mortimer, and a touching degree of trust in him.
“Since Philip Mortimer once helped me to uncover a steward who had falsified his accounts for personal gain, for which reason I look on him with trust and gratitude; and there being no relatives left to take care of my son Rafe if I should perish before he reaches the age of twenty-one years, I therefore name Sir Philip Mortimer of Vetch Castle in Herefordshire as his guardian. Should Rafe in turn be taken to God before the age of twenty-one (for the chances of this world are many and all life hangs by a thread), in recognition of my past gratitude, I further name Sir Philip Mortimer as my heir after Rafe …”
The will then went on to describe John Northcote’s estate in detail. The manor of Rowans lay a few miles to the west of Shrewsbury and consisted of two sublet farms and a home farm, the latter chiefly concerned with sheep and including around six square miles of hill pasture. So far, Rowans was not remarkable. It would represent wealth to a poor man, but to Sir Philip Mortimer of Vetch Castle it was hardly a temptation.
Then I read the last paragraph.
Alice, trying to convince her elders that Rafe was an eligible husband, had said that his manor had copper deposits. It certainly had. According to the will, John Northcote had had the hill pastures prospected, and the copper deposits found there had a value, at the most conservative estimate, eight times that of all the land and stock put together and could well be worth much more.
If Mortimer were out to make his fortune, he could do worse than start by getting his hands on Rowans. Only Rafe’s life stood between him and those copper deposits. I crouched there, frowning, over the will. Perhaps he had intended at first to be an honest steward, but had been so angry when Rafe made approaches to Alice that rage had pushed him over the edge. I tried to imagine what had gone on in his mind. Not only was Rafe going to get Rowans and all its wealth instead of Mortimer, but the ungrateful youth was apparently hell-bent on swindling his guardian out of the commission Owen Lewis and William Haggard were to pay him for brokering the match, and probably wrecking Mortimer’s friendship with Lewis into the bargain! Rafe didn’t deserve Rowans … and with that, Mortimer, perhaps tempted already, perhaps teetering already on a perilous edge, might step over it.
Yes, it made sense. If a man were desperate enough for money, then here was his motive for doing away with Rafe. It was far more convincing than anger over Rafe’s advances to Alice on its own, or any convoluted notions of protecting his mother’s honor from an amorous young man.
I sat back on my heels, thinking of Rafe’s body, lying in this very room; of Mortimer trying to put the blame on me and Brockley; and with his mother’s help, getting both of us out of the way and hiding the fact that there had been a murder at all. For a moment, my mind checked. Lady Thomasine had been very attached to Rafe. But blood ties are strong. She might be fond of her admiring minstrel boy, her personal Mark Smeaton, yes; but Philip was her own son.
I put the will aside and worked on, wondering if Mortimer was in debt and whether I might find any clue to that in the box. It would account for his desire for money. I could still hear faint noises of revelry from the direction of the hall, but nothing nearer at hand. I was glad that Dale and Brockley were keeping watch, though. The memory of Rafe’s body was suddenly very vivid. I wondered how his meeting with Mortimer in the study had come about. Perhaps Mortimer had enticed him to the study with a message purporting to come from Alice. And been waiting for him, dagger in hand. It was not a pleasant thought.
This was an unpleasant task altogether. I wanted to be done with it, and anyway, the candle in the lantern was burning down. I discovered that Mortimer did indeed have debts, big ones. He had spent huge sums on lawsuits, in trying to regain possession of Mortimer lands, and then needed to borrow money for repairs to the fabric of the castle, and to replace sheep lost in bad weather last winter. I also came across a couple of estimates for new tapestries and furniture, pinned together with a note which said not under present circumstances. Rowans would have cleared his debts and left him money to spare. Had Rafe known the full value of Rowans? I wondered. And had he seen the face of the man who killed him? Had he understood why he was to die?
I had nearly reached the bottom of the pile. So far, nothing had had a bearing on any schemes Mortimer might have for coaxing wealth out of the queen. Perhaps it was just a figment of his imagination, after all; a grandiose daydream. He amused himself with boasting about it; half believed in it, perhaps. He had planned to be in Cambridge when the queen was there … but what had he meant to do there? How on earth did one frame a blatant request for a string of castles and their accompanying lands and incomes? I could find no trace of any lever or threat. Daydreams, I thought: wild imaginings …
The last two items were letters. Like the will, they were written on parchment, but this parchment was old. Even by candlelight, I could see that it was mottled with age and that the ink was faded. The handwriting, the same on both sheets, was difficult and I moved the light to see better. I looked at the dates. I read the first one through. And then, with trembling hands, I put the second letter on top and read that as well.
I looked at the dates again.
My stomach contracted. I felt the crimson run up into my face, as though I had been caught out in some nasty, indecent sin.
This couldn’t be true. Oh no, please, God, don’t let it be true. If this were so, then … I thought about it and it was as though the whole world had turned upside down, and everything that I had thought fixed and certain had tumbled out to lie in a pattern not only alien but ugly; so ugly that every drop of blood in my body surged with horror and fury. No, no, no! It was not to be endured. No claims to honesty or legality could make me willing to endure it. I would not see England, or Elizabeth either, so wounded, not for anyone or anything.
It was borne in on me then that whatever might have happened in the past, I loved Elizabeth. I loved the vulnerable girl behind the royal robes; I loved the strong-minded, valiant queen who lived inside that girl and sometimes strode out into the light to startle and intimidate her council of statesmen who were all male and mostly much older than she was, and yet were often afraid of her. She was all Tudor then; her father’s daughter in every way.
Of course she was. Of course she was. I made myself read the two letters again. My burning flush faded and my hands steadied. The letters might look convincing, but they lied. Not that it mattered. I felt my jaw set with determination. Whether they lied or not, for Elizabeth’s sake and for England’s sake, I would connive at any deception necessary to keep these letters from doing damage.
Mortimer, of course, was insane. These, presumably, were the lever by which he had hoped to wring land and money out of Elizabeth. I wondered again if the duel he was said to have fought, long ago, was somehow involved. I had a feeling, like an itch in the mind, that that duel was part, somehow, of all these machinations. Perhaps he had fought the duel and killed his man in order to suppress these letters! But if so, why had he not destroyed them? Had he, even then, thought that one day he might have another use for them? He was a fool if so. If he really hoped to gain a fortune by threatening to publish them, then he was living in cloud-cuckoo-land. Any such ploy would have put him in the Tower of London on a charge of treason faster than a shooting star can cross the sky. But even so, he might do terrible harm. If anyone not well disposed to Elizabeth should see these documents—if anyone at all who was not discreet should see them—if there were any more such documents, hidden somewhere else …
Something caught my eye. I picked one of the letters up for a closer look. One of the marks on the parchment was surely recent. It was a dirty thumbprint and after one appalled glance, I kne
w whose thumbprint it was. There was no mistaking it. This thumb had had a jagged, weeping zigzag cut across it. I had had a disagreeably close view of that cut, across the dinner table, the day before I made my first attempt to investigate this study.
These letters had been handled by William Haggard. In which case, presumably, he had read them.
They could not be left here. If Mortimer had shown them to even one other person—and he obviously had—then he might do the same thing again. Already, this deadly knowledge might be spreading. I must take the letters at once and Cecil must know what was afoot. Henderson could see them, I supposed, but no one else. I must reach him as fast as possible and we must go straight back to court.
Quickly, I put the other documents back in the strongbox, locked it again, stowed the letters in my hidden pocket, and left the study. Brockley, inappropriately armed with his lute, came toward me as I turned the key in the door.
“Madam? Did you find anything?”
“We’ve got to get away,” I said in an urgent undertone. “Please don’t as much as breathe on that lute; we’ve got to get out at once and we mustn’t—mustn’t—get caught. Find anything? Oh my God, yes. It’s worse than I could ever have imagined. Where’s Dale? Dale, come quickly! We’ve no time to lose.”
It was raining again as we slipped back across the courtyard, but we hurried and didn’t get seriously wet and I didn’t think it mattered. I was wrong.
17
Deep Water
When I said we must get out at once, I meant it literally. The moment we were back in Isabel’s Tower and could talk properly, I told the others that I couldn’t explain to them what I’d found, but I’d rather go about with a pocket full of gunpowder or a handkerchief soaked in pus from a plague victim, and we must be off now, without delay, in the dark.
“I tell you,” I said, “that Mortimer is a thoroughly evil man. I don’t want to stay another hour within these walls.”
But Brockley wouldn’t have it. Brockley, in fact, put down his foot with such a thud that it was a marvel the tower didn’t shake.
“It’s raining again out there, it’s the middle of the night, and Fran’s still exhausted, if you’re not. No matter what you’re carrying in your pocket, madam, no matter if the master of this castle is the devil himself, we sleep until cockcrow. Then we’ll go as quickly as we can, I promise.”
“You address me as madam, but you talk to me like a tutor,” I snapped at him.
“No, madam. I talk to you as a loyal companion with your best interests at heart. We’ll all be ill if we go out in that weather without sleep or food first.”
Again, I didn’t expect to sleep but I was more tired than I knew and I slid into the depths quite easily. I woke, however, at the first tentative notes of a blackbird outside, and as I sat up, I heard the letters crackle in my hidden pocket. The noise brought me instantly out of my coverings to shake the others awake. “It’s time we went. Come on.”
Brockley, of course, forced us to gulp bread and cheese down first. There wasn’t much left when we’d finished, and on top of everything else, I grew anxious about Gladys. “Why don’t you come with us?” I asked her. “You can rest in the inn at Ledbury where Master Henderson’s man is waiting. It’s not so very far.”
“I don’t want to go to Ledbury. It’s farther from home and my old bones are aching that bad. I wanted to know what ’ud happen to Mortimer, but if you’re goin’ away, then it’s different. I want to get home. I’ll get that goose girl Blod to fetch Hugh Cooper to meet me. I told you, Cooper’s not a bad fellow when he’s not trying to keep a mob in order. Two donkeys, he’s got, and three young sons. He can lend me a donkey and send a lad with me to see me safe home. I’ll be all right. A silly old woman, that’s what he’ll think I am, comin’ back to Vetch for nothing and then goin’ all the way back, all over again, but what of it? I found out what lies they’ve been telling about Rafe, anyhow. I’ve been some use, ain’t I?”
“Yes, Gladys, you have. But …”
“You’ll send me word what comes of it all?”
“Of course we will, but …”
She wouldn’t be moved, however, so we left the last of the food with her, and all the bedding, and then I kissed her in farewell. She had earned it.
We finally left the tower in a drizzling daybreak. Everything underfoot was soaking wet. We slithered down the path from the castle and I was afraid all the time that someone would hear us, that at any moment a head would peer over the watchtower above and shout a challenge at us but nothing happened. We found our saddlery safe and dry in its hollow tree and found the hobbled ponies too. The daylight was still pale and young when we started for Ledbury.
It took nearly all day to get there. It was a good twelve miles and the storm had turned the tracks to quagmires. Again and again we had to ride out of our way to avoid patches of floodwater like small lakes, and because we didn’t know the district, we were repeatedly hindered by hidden rivers, or found tracks doubling back on themselves. The drizzle persisted. As the day wore on, we saw that to the east, the sky was night-black with a flicker of lightning now and then. We could only hope that the storm wouldn’t come in our direction. Shelter would be hard to come by. There were cottages and farms here and there, but they were widely scattered.
We did find one farmstead along our route, where a hospitable farmer’s wife was willing to provide three damp travelers with food and ale, but by the time we reached Ledbury, in the late afternoon, we were all hungry again, not to mention tired and wet. We hadn’t been caught in the storm, but the fine rain was bad enough. Mercifully, when we inquired for the Sign of the Feathers, we were directed to it at once. Then I found that, for once, my good memory had failed me and I couldn’t remember the name of the man Rob said he had left there as our contact. Fortunately, although she was sagging with weariness and was complaining of a sore throat, Dale’s memory was better.
“Geoffrey Barker, ma’am,” she said wanly, from her perch behind Brockley.
“Whether he’s here or not, we’re staying the night,” Brockley said grimly, as he helped Dale down in the stable yard. “You’re all in, Fran, I can see it.”
For once, concerned about Dale, he left our mounts to the care of the grooms while he hurried her inside and asked for bedchambers. Entering behind him, I looked through a doorway into a public room, where there were benches and a fire and a pleasant smell of ale, and there, with an ale mug in his hand and his feet stretched out toward the warmth, was a lanky man whom I recognized at once as one of Rob Henderson’s retainers. “Barker?” I said.
“Mistress Blanchard!” He came to his feet at once, and then looked at me sharply. “Is something the matter? Your pardon, mistress, but you look distressed.”
“I have to join Master Henderson and get back to the court as fast as possible. It’s a matter of the greatest urgency … what is it?”
The moment I spoke of joining Henderson, Barker had begun to shake his head. His expression had become grave. “Mistress, urgency or no urgency, it’ll be days before we can get across the Severn pastures to Tewkesbury.”
“Days? It’s only half a day’s ride!”
“Didn’t you know?” said Barker. “With all these storms and heavy rain, the Severn’s overflowed. Remember, people were thinking it might, when we were on our way to Vetch? They were moving the sheep to safety. We heard the news yesterday. The river burst its banks the night before last, in all that downpour. The pastures are deep in water for half a mile, on this side of Tewkesbury.”
Then we’d get hold of a boat and row, I said. There must be boats! Not that we could use, said Geoffrey Barker and the landlord of the Feathers, backing each other up. Boats, yes, but they were all out rescuing stock and people.
“There’s a good many folk have ended up sitting on their roofs,” the landlord said. “Got chicken coops up there with them, some of them have, and pigs and calves sticking their noses out of top floor windows, and those folk are c
alling themselves lucky. Some have been drowned. Whole houses went that night when the river first burst out. I rode over there yesterday—a lot of Ledbury folk have gone to help relatives and I’ve a cousin lives by the pastures. My cousin is all right but he and I saw six bodies brought out of the water. Cattle and sheep are gone that the farmers thought were on safe ground. And it’ll be worse by now! I came home through another storm this morning. Everyone’ll be out rescuing what they can. No one’s interested in running ferry services just now.”
We could go no farther that night, anyway. We all needed warmth and hot food and to sleep in decent beds. Fortunately, Barker had money. Mine had been left behind with my belongings in Vetch and we had spent most of Brockley’s. But Barker said he could cover the bill so we took a good supper and retired. I slept soundly, although I dreamed yet again of the dungeon at Vetch, and of lying on the dirty floor with my nose almost on Lady Thomasine’s wretched slippers. When I woke, I decided that when all this was over, I would make Meg a pair of slippers with roses on, although they wouldn’t be cerise roses on tawny. That was a color scheme I never wanted to see again. Meg should have fat golden roses on emerald green or azure. What bliss it would be, I thought, to have a life quiet enough for embroidery!
Dale, when she woke, was obviously unwell—another worry. I left Brockley with her while I rode out through the hills with Barker to see for myself the floods that lay between us and Tewkesbury. It was a long ride and a desolate spectacle awaited us at the end of it. The water, gray like the sky it reflected, was full of mud and debris, with trees and posts and the tops of dwellings sticking up here and there. On the current of some swallowed-up stream, I saw four dead cattle slowly floating along, bellies distended and feet jutting upward. There were boats, but all a long way off, on the far side of the water.
“But surely we can find a way round!” I said. I wasn’t surprised when Barker shook his head yet again. He was the kind of man, I concluded, who rather enjoyed saying that things couldn’t be done. It would be a long, long ride, he told me, northward, to get around the floods. “I don’t know the area well, mistress, but I thought you might say that, so last night I spoke to the landlord. It’ll be twenty miles at least with the roads hock-deep in mud and no guarantee that the way won’t still be barred when we do come in sight of Tewkesbury. There’s no knowing how far the water extends. We’d do better to wait till it goes down.”
To Ruin A Queen: An Ursula Blanchard Mystery at Queen Elizabeth I's Court Page 20
