“And when will that be?” I said tartly.
It wasn’t raining just then but a rumble of thunder informed us that another storm might break at any moment. Barker shrugged and smiled. “A little patience, mistress. That’s all you need.”
“Patience! You don’t understand, Barker, and I can’t explain exactly what the urgency is because there’s such a thing as discretion. I trust you; it isn’t that. The news I’m carrying, I haven’t even shared with my own servants, whom I would trust with my life. I shall have to share it with Master Henderson but apart from him, it is for the queen and Sir William Cecil only. As it is, there are too many people already who know about it.”
“As serious as that?” said Barker, looking at me quizzically. I ground my teeth. I could read his mind. This sort of thing was always happening to me. In the eyes of men like Barker, I was a pretty young woman, a dear little thing, to be protected and guided, but it was of course quite impossible that I could be the carrier of any kind of news that actually mattered. I was sweet but trivial and any knowledge in my possession must therefore be trivial too. Rob knew better; Cecil knew better; but they weren’t here and Barker was. I felt like hitting him.
Restraining myself, I turned my pony’s head. “We must get back to the Feathers,” I said.
At the inn, I found Dale up and dressed, though pale and rather hoarse. She was taking some food with Brockley. I went up to my room alone, locked myself in, and took out the letters to look at them by daylight for the first time. I had hoped, I think, that if I read them calmly in a good light, they wouldn’t seem so lethal.
I had been too optimistic. They seemed deadlier than ever.
The most horrific things about them were the dates. One was dated the eleventh day of November 1532, and the other the tenth day of January 1533.
The November one began: My dearest love, once again, I cannot help but put my passion down on paper, for though we often meet and even speak one to the other, we can so rarely say the words we wish or even let our eyes speak for us. When can we hope once more to be lovers? I was so touched by your poem …
The January one began: My heart’s joy, I know that to write to you thus is perilous, but I am so full of love, I cannot always keep it within me. Oh, to relive our Christmas revels. How I wish that moments such as that, when we can be wholly together, could come more often. Yet, my sweeting, what does the future hold for us? I cannot turn back now from the course on which I am set. It gives me pain to tell you that my letters, my unwise letters which I know I should not write but which come unbidden to my pen, must be destroyed when you have read them but …
January 1533. Christmas 1532. November 1532. God Almighty. Elizabeth was born early in September 1533.
If by any dreadful chance these odious epistles were real, then it was clear that others like them had existed and might still exist. And if so, where were they now?
I had likened these letters to a handkerchief dipped in pus from a bubo and that instinctive, horrified response had been right. Whether they were real or not, knowledge of their contents, if it were to travel, would be a terrible infection which might ruin the queen. Elizabeth could be destroyed and with her would go all who loved her and believed in the England that she wanted, the England she was trying to make solvent after the expenditures of her predecessors; the England in which heretics were not hunted to their death.
And the knowledge had spread at least to one other person besides Mortimer himself. One other person had certainly read these loathsome things, and that was William Haggard.
He lived at a place called St. Catherine’s Well. I wondered how far away it was.
I stared out of the window at the gray sky and came to a decision. I had no certainty that what I now planned to do was the right thing, but I had to do something. Impatience and fear were a fever in my veins. The landlord seemed to know his local geography. I put the letters safely back in my hidden pocket and went downstairs to find him.
18
Without Authority
We set off for St. Catherine’s Well the following morning.
This track was not flooded, for it wound uphill onto the flanks of the Malverns, that long range of hills which stands proud of the lower lands to east and west of it, like a huge, petrified roller in a sea otherwise calm. There was a gale blowing, with fierce rain squalls, but they were not like the savage cloudburst which had imprisoned us in Isabel’s Tower and the thick mantles with which Lady Thomasine had so obligingly presented Brockley and myself were an adequate protection. The previous afternoon, Brockley and I seized the chance to buy things in Ledbury and we had at last acquired some genuinely sturdy boots. I had also bought some leggings to protect myself from the stirrup leathers while riding astride. Barker was already well equipped. We kept our heads lowered, and rode resolutely on.
I might have forgotten Barker’s name when we first got to Ledbury, but I could recall what Lady Thomasine had said about St. Catherine’s Well. It was on the Malverns, a few miles north of a landmark called Herefordshire Beacon. The landlord of the Feathers had heard of St. Catherine’s and gave us further directions, though he was a loquacious man and his instructions were inclined to ramble.
“My cousin’s wife worked there when she were a young wench. There’s a track goes off north, just at the foot of the beacon. That’ll take you straight to St. Catherine’s. Used to be a shrine, in the days afore we all changed our ways. Folk still come there to drink the water. My old dad tried it when his bones started giving him trouble but it didn’t help him. The water tasted funny, he said, and his aches just went on aching.”
The directions themselves were accurate and we found the place without difficulty. But despite my seething impatience, which had overcome all the protests that Brockley and Barker could make, I had realized that we must spend one night away from Ledbury and I knew that when Master Haggard heard what I intended to say to him, he wasn’t likely to offer us any hospitality. In fact, I didn’t want either Brockley or Barker to enter his house at all.
According to our landlord there was an inn—its name, rather charmingly, was Kate’s Well—which catered to people wanting to take the waters. We could sleep there and I could arrive at St. Catherine’s early next day, rested, fed, washed, and capable—I hoped—of making a dignified impression.
All going well, we could be back at Ledbury by the evening of that day. It would be a Sunday, when people mostly didn’t travel, but I was in no mood to worry about that.
By “we,” I mean myself, Barker, and Brockley. Dale’s malady had now turned into a bad cold and we had left her in bed at the Feathers, being cared for by the landlord’s wife, who was an amiable soul. We had also hired a messenger and sent him off on the long and muddy circuitous route to Tewkesbury, with orders to find Henderson and bring him to Ledbury as fast as possible.
We found Kate’s Well, and were given beds. The place was adequate if not luxurious. In the morning, we were relieved to find that the stormy weather had given way to a brisk breeze, with patches of sunlight between the clouds. We set out early to cover the last half mile to St. Catherine’s. We rode past a little chapel, probably attached to the medicinal well, and then came suddenly upon the house itself, a beautiful place, thatched and gabled, built of mellow amber-colored brick and facing westward across a bowl-shaped valley on the knees of the Malverns. There was a gatehouse, set in a low wall which stretched away left and right. Here we halted.
After a pause while I studied the place, I gave my instructions. “If you two ride round to the left,” I said to Brockley and Barker, “I think you can position yourselves where you can be seen from those gable windows. If I’m not back, in good health and my right mind, by midday, then ride for Ledbury and as soon as Master Henderson comes, ask for his help. Allow no one else from St. Catherine’s to approach you. You understand?”
“I hope you know what you’re doing, madam,” said Brockley.
So did I. I had slept badly, dreading wh
at I had set out to do. The things I was proposing to say to William Haggard were outrageous, and I would have to face him alone. During the night, I had almost decided to turn back. But if I did that, and in the meantime he shared the horrible implications of those letters with his wife, or a friend, or anyone at all and harm resulted, I would be ashamed for the rest of my life. He might have done so already, of course, and if he had, that would not be my fault. But if there was still time to stop the leak, then stopped it must be. I must go on.
I had dressed with care. Before the cold took its feverish grip on Dale, she had brushed and sponged my gown clean of the dust from Isabel’s Tower and the mud of the road, and in Ledbury, as well as boots and leggings, I had also bought some linen, which she and I had hurriedly stitched to provide us both with fresh undergarments. I looked respectable and at least I didn’t smell.
There was a porter at the gatehouse, a civil young man, who asked my name and then called a groom to take my pony and a manservant to show me into the house. I was led across an unpaved courtyard, where chickens cackled, and a blackbird was taking a bath in a puddle, in through a porch, and then through a door on the left into a pleasant parlor. Bess Haggard and her daughter Alice were sitting together, Bess sewing something while Alice sat at a table, reading.
Bess rose at once, putting her work aside. “Mistress Blanchard? But what brings you here—and on a Sunday! Is no one with you? Alice, look who it is.”
“Good morning, Mistress Blanchard.” Alice stood up as well and curtsied. She looked pale and unhappy. Both she and her mother were dressed in black velvet, which didn’t suit either of them. Bess had no doubt put it on out of respect for the Sabbath but I wondered if Alice had chosen it as mourning for Rafe.
“I have two men with me,” I said. “They are waiting outside. I really need to speak to your husband, Mistress Haggard. It’s a private matter and it’s of great importance, or indeed I would not have broken in on you on a Sunday. Is Master Haggard at home?”
“Yes, but he is out on the farm. This weather … that wind yesterday … the thatch of the cow byre was half ripped off …”
Bess at home was as colorless as she had been at Vetch. She could hardly have been less like her fashionable mother. She was only in her thirties but she was graying already. Her voice trailed away.
“Could you send someone to find him?” I asked. “It really is important.”
“Oh … yes, I suppose so. Well, he’ll be coming back soon so that we can set out for church, but … oh well, if it’s really so necessary … Alice, Sims has been hanging round the kitchen again; send him to find your father. Tell them to bring some wine and pastries while you’re about it. And take Mistress Blanchard’s cloak.”
“Poor Sims,” Alice remarked, as I relinquished my cloak to her. “He’s one of our outside men,” she added to me as she crossed the room to the door. “He’s courting one of the maidservants. He finds excuses to be near her.”
“He’s forever wasting his time dangling after her instead of doing his work,” said Bess, quite sharply.
“No one ever wants to help young lovers,” said Alice, and left the room before her mother could answer.
“Oh dear,” I said.
“She’s wearing black for Rafe,” said Bess. “Her father is angry but I told him, let her have her way for a little while. We must get her into prettier colors soon, though. Owen Lewis has sent word that he’s coming to see her. The betrothal never took place, you know. Master Lewis said it would be in bad taste, after Rafe had died like that. But when he comes here, we do hope … oh well.” She sighed and then brightened as a maid arrived with a tray. “You’ll have some refreshment?”
I sipped wine, nibbled a chicken pasty, and listened to Bess talking hopefully about brideclothes for Alice, and wondered how long it would take the lovelorn Sims to fetch his master from the byre. But in less than half an hour, William Haggard arrived, in dun-colored working clothes, smelling of the cattle shed and with a flush of irritation on his weathered face.
“It’s not that I’m not happy to see you, Mistress Blanchard, and on a Sunday one ought to be able to welcome visitors, but the weather takes no account of the days of the week and if the wind rips the roof off a cowshed on a Saturday night, then the farmer has to put it back on the Sunday if he cares a straw for his stock. I doubt I’ll see the inside of a church today. You must make my excuses, Bess. Well, Mistress Blanchard. Sims came running to say that you’re here, on your own apparently, with an urgent message for me. What’s all this about? If something’s wrong at Vetch, how is it that you’re the messenger? If I sound rude, I’m sorry for it, but …”
“I need to speak to you alone, Master Haggard. If you would be so kind.”
“Very well.” He pulled his cap off his thinning sandy hair. “I’ve got a study. Come with me.”
The study was cold and untidy, with ledgers and papers and a document box all anyhow on the table, and the only seating consisted of a couple of stools, one of them at the table, the other against the wall. Haggard deposited himself at the table and said: “If you want to sit down, bring the other stool forward. Then tell me what all this is about.”
I moved the stool as bidden, sat down, and then paused. I was actually thinking about Geoffrey Barker. Barker was taking my orders because Rob Henderson would expect it and Brockley was insisting, but privately, because I was female and quite young at that, Barker thought me trivial. Haggard might well hold similar views. How on earth, without credentials or natural authority, was I ever to make him listen to me?
I wished I had brought Brockley in with me but if things turned nasty, then Brockley could have been used in some way as a hostage. No doubt Haggard had men at call. No, I had been right to come alone. If I failed, I failed, but at least I would have tried. The pause was making him impatient; I could see it. Before he could burst into irritable speech, I took a deep breath, and seized the bull by the horns.
“Master Haggard, because I am a woman, you may find it hard to take me seriously but I must implore you to do so for your own sake. The queen is also a woman, and I am at this moment acting on her behalf. You are aware that I am married and have a home in France?”
“Yes, yes. Lady Thomasine told Bess all about that. What of it?”
“I just wish to explain my position clearly. My home is abroad, but I remain Elizabeth’s loyal subject. Before I went to France, I was one of her ladies and in those days I sometimes undertook—let us call them private tasks—for her. During my present visit to England, I have undertaken yet another. I am here now as her representative, and a man called Master Robert Henderson, who is in the employ of Sir William Cecil, the Secretary of State, would be with me now, except that the Severn meadows have flooded and kept him from joining me. I came without waiting for him, because the matter seems so urgent that I dared not delay. Will you look at these, please. I think you’ve seen them before.”
Haggard was so busy staring at me in astonishment that at first he scarcely heeded the two letters as I took them from my hidden pouch and spread them on the table in front of him, the right way up for him to read them. I had to draw his attention to them a second time. “Please examine them, Master Haggard.”
He gave the letters a puzzled glance. I saw his weather-beaten face become very still. Then it crimsoned.
“What the devil’s all this? Where’d you get these?”
“From Sir Philip Mortimer’s strongbox, Master Haggard.”
“What? What? You’ve been a-meddling in his private papers? Is that what you’re telling me?” The crimson deepened to a furious magenta and he half rose to his feet, gripping the edge of his desk. “Poking about, piddling your fingers in other folks’ business …”
“By no means.” I gripped my hands together in my lap. It was difficult to remain calm and dignified. He had an intimidating presence and he was years older than I was as well. But I kept my eyes steadily on his and kept my voice level too, as I said: “From any o
f the gable windows which look toward the gatehouse, you will be able to see, beyond the wall, two men waiting on horseback. They are in my service. If I do not return to them by midday, they will go for help.”
“What?”
“Far from poking about,” I said, “I was on a serious mission. I have been officially asked to discover what is going on at Vetch, in Sir Philip Mortimer’s mind. There are suspicions connected with treason. Even his mother is worried. From the look of these, no wonder! I want to know why Sir Philip Mortimer showed them to you, and where he got them, and what he intends to do with them.”
“You say you’re here on behalf of the queen? That one of Sir William Cecil’s men is helping you?”
“Yes, Master Haggard, just that.”
“D’you expect me to believe such rubbish?”
“You think I’m talking rubbish? Would you like to place a wager on it? You do realize, I hope, that possession of these letters—even knowledge of their existence—could be held to be treason?”
The flush subsided and he sank down again onto his stool but his fingers went on gripping the desk and his bulging pale blue eyes were stubborn. “Whatever these things are, they’re naught to do with me.” He peered at the papers, tracing a line or two with his forefinger. “I’m no hand at reading. Love letters of some sort, ain’t they? What makes you think I know anything about them?”
“You recognized them.”
“Wrong, my lady. I’ve never seen ’em before.”
To Ruin A Queen: An Ursula Blanchard Mystery at Queen Elizabeth I's Court Page 21
