The Heretic’s Creed

by FIONA BUCKLEY

  Gladys Morgan was a Welshwoman who had become attached to me, also many years ago, when Brockley rescued her from a charge of witchcraft. She had fallen foul of the same charge a second time, after we had brought her to Hawkswood, and was very nearly hanged for it. Gladys was an unprepossessing old woman (one couldn’t possibly refer to her as a lady), whose teeth were like brown fangs, with gaps in between them. She disliked washing, though I did insist on this as far as I could, and she had a horrible turn of invective if someone upset her. She was good at hurling curses, which had annoyed a vicar or two, and she was gifted with herbal medicine, which had annoyed a physician or two. These things explained the second accusation of witchcraft. She was in my house because there was nowhere else for her to go. She also had an uncomfortable knack of forecasting the approach of catastrophe, and being right.

  The three of them stood in a row, in my path, and brought me to a halt. Brockley cleared his throat, evidently preparing to be their spokesman, and then said: ‘That was Lord Burghley, madam. You’ve been shut in the study with him for a long time when everyone else was dancing.’ His tone of voice bordered on accusation. ‘Madam, what’s afoot?’

  ‘Yes, has he asked you to do something for him? Again? Ma’am, what did he want?’ Dale’s voice was full of anxiety.

  Gladys said: ‘Whatever it is, it’ll mean trouble. It always does, indeed.’

  ‘No trouble,’ I said firmly. ‘He wishes me to visit Edinburgh, and to have a harmless pretext, so the plan is that Sybil shall travel there to see her new grand-daughter, and we will go with her – at least, I will, and so will you, Brockley, and Dale. Not you, Gladys.’

  ‘Couldn’t stand the journey, at my age,’ said Gladys. ‘So, what are you really going to Scotland for?’

  ‘We’re going there to deliver a confidential letter to the Scottish court. It is a letter from the queen. On the way back, we are to pay for and collect a valuable book, which is just now in the hands of some ladies in Yorkshire. The queen’s adviser Doctor Dee wants it. That’s all. There’s nothing dangerous about it and no need for you all to look so worried.’

  ‘Why you, madam?’ asked Brockley. ‘Aren’t those tasks for Queen’s Messengers?’

  Three pairs of eyes were fixed on me. I explained the circumstances, emphasizing the harmless appearance of family parties and houses full of pious middle-aged women.

  ‘So we’re to deliver a confidential letter that has already been sent twice, only it apparently didn’t get there and the couriers haven’t returned,’ said Brockley, fastening on the most ominous part of my assignment.

  ‘But there’s nothing dangerous about it?’ said Gladys, her snapping black eyes boring into me like gimlets.

  Dale said: ‘I don’t like the sound of this at all.’

  ‘You needn’t come if you feel doubtful,’ I told her. That was sheer cunning on my part, for I knew what the answer would be.

  ‘I know you wouldn’t leave Roger behind,’ said Dale stiffly, ‘and you will also need my services. So will Mistress Jester.’

  Which meant, essentially, that Dale wouldn’t want Brockley to go without her.

  ‘Splendid. Then that’s settled. And we shall all be perfectly all right,’ I said.

  ‘Now, how many times have we all heard that?’ remarked Gladys.

  ‘Be quiet, Gladys!’ I snapped. ‘How you love to croak like a raven! You’re always prophesying trouble. All will go well and we’ll be home again in a month. Wait and see.’

  ‘Reckon you’ll be the one as does the seeing,’ Gladys said.

  I brushed them all aside and walked on into the hall. The fire had warmed it through by now, aided by the flames of the numerous candles stuck in the holders round the wall, and from the perspiring bodies of people who were still exerting themselves in the dance. The atmosphere was merry.

  I didn’t feel like joining in. I was sorry about the disappearance of Bernard Hardwicke, as one might be sorry to hear of such a thing happening to anyone, but where Christopher Spelton was concerned, I was horrified, and it wasn’t just on my own account. He was Eric’s cousin as well as my friend. For the moment, I thought, I must keep that piece of news to myself and let the young couple enjoy their day, and their wedding night. They would have to be told, but not now, not here.

  If only that female raven Gladys, in her uncanny way, hadn’t forecast disaster so often before and been proved correct.

  I pasted a smile on to my face and walked steadily forward. A moment later, one of the gentlemen guests came up to me, holding out a hand. I took it and joined the dance.

  FIVE

  Just a Family Party

  I finally decided not to tell Eric and Kate of Spelton’s disappearance. There was still the possibility that he might reappear and meanwhile I chose to let them enjoy the first days of marriage. They looked so happy when they came to breakfast that I couldn’t bear to do otherwise. I waved them off to their new home, with a determined smile on my face, and then got on with the preparations for travel.

  At heart, the members of my household were all against my new assignment but they helped, all the same. A journey of any length needs careful planning and when it is to be made in winter, through the wild north, it needs to be prepared very thoroughly indeed.

  Brockley went over the coach inch by inch, cleaning, polishing, and making sure that the wheels and shafts were sound. Gladys, because I have a tendency to migraine, gave me a bottle of the herbal mixture with which she treated it. It worked with varying success but it was sometimes effective. She made her potions in the kitchen, rather to the annoyance of John Hawthorn and Ben Flood, but they tolerated her, on my orders, and I allowed her to keep a number of preparations in my still room, where they were always in readiness.

  ‘What are these other things?’ I asked her, as she filled my bottle from one of the jars on the shelf.

  ‘That’s to help a body sleep,’ said Gladys, pointing. ‘And that’s for loose bowels and that’s for bowels as won’t work, and that little one’s for pain but I’d only give that to someone as was half dying anyway. Smell it!’

  She handed me the jar and I unstoppered it and sniffed. ‘Ugh! Whatever is it?’

  ‘Smells like cats’ piss, don’t it?’ said Gladys, with her horrid, gap-toothed grin. ‘One of our kitchen cat’s best efforts, wouldn’t you say? Reckon even she never managed to produce anything that stank that much. Hemlock, that’s what it is. It’s dangerous. Only for desperate things. There’s a safer one there.’ She pointed. ‘Got chamomile in it, that has. Soothing, if you’ve got colic or rheumatics.’

  I took a phial of that, as well. A journey to the north, in winter, might well induce rheumatics.

  The last thing of note that happened in the house before we set off was the death, to our dismay, of the kitchen cat that Gladys had mentioned. She was a big sleek tabby with a white front and four white paws and her name was Huntress, because her prowess at catching mice and rats was legendary and her kittens always took after her. We never had to drown Huntress’s progeny; there were always homes eager to welcome them. On this occasion, annoyingly, it happened that we had just found homes for all of her last litter so that for the moment the Hawkswood kitchen was without a cat.

  ‘If you find a likely stray in the streets of Edinburgh, madam,’ said Hawthorn, ‘please bring it back with you.’

  ‘Somewhere in Hawkswood village, or in some household we know of, there must be a cat with expectations!’ I said. ‘Keep on enquiring while we’re away. We need a cat. I saw mouse droppings in the kitchen this morning.’

  ‘I dare say. Holding a celebration dance, I expect, madam,’ said Hawthorn.

  I had no time to pursue feline enquiries myself. The letter I was to deliver to James Douglas and Cecil’s accompanying letter of introduction had just arrived, by courier. I gave my prospective travel companions a last chance to withdraw from the expedition.

  ‘I will understand if you don’t want to come. No one is forcing
you. But I really am just going to deliver a letter and collect a book from a household of ladies.’

  ‘You’re not supposed to be looking for the missing Messengers?’ Brockley enquired.

  ‘No, though I shall naturally keep my eyes open.’ I explained about Christopher’s secret signs, which I had not mentioned before.

  There were pursed lips and eyes that rolled upwards as if to plead with the heavens for protection. But no one accepted the invitation to stay behind.

  It took us a fortnight to reach Edinburgh. I had had Hugh’s coach, which was originally designed to be drawn by two horses, adapted for four. I had lately added some extra horses to our stable, all of them accustomed to both harness and saddle, and could provide a four-horse team. Sybil, Dale, and I travelled in the coach, and one of my grooms, Joseph, a taciturn but good-natured young man who was a very competent driver, took the reins. Brockley rode alongside on his sturdy cob Mealy. Brockley regarded himself as a bodyguard and carried a sword. I suspected that under his doublet he also had an ancient breastplate!

  It was Brockley who insisted that we should bring four sets of saddlery with us, in boxes, tied on the coach roof.

  ‘You never know with coach travel,’ he said. ‘Winter weather, lonely places. What if the thing gets stuck somewhere, miles from any habitation? We would have to unhitch the team and take to horseback to seek for help and shelter. Well, it would be better if no one has to ride bareback! And the long reins you need for driving won’t do for riders. We need to take some spare tack with us. And saddlebags. If we have to take to riding because the coach is mired, we’ll need to take our belongings as well. There are brackets for extra luggage on the roof. We can put what’s needed into crates and strap the crates on.’

  ‘Aye.’ Our head groom, Arthur Watts, who had been checking the team’s harness, joined in. ‘I always keep useful oddments handy. I’ve got straps and boxes.’

  We were several miles from home when I remembered that what we hadn’t packed were leggings for the ladies, though if we did have to take to the saddle we would miss them, as stirrup leathers could pinch. Brockley and Joseph had riding boots, but we did not. However, it was too late to turn back. I held my tongue.

  Driving conditions were actually good. The weather was cold, but it remained dry and above freezing, if only just, and the skies were mainly clear. As on previous occasions, we went by way of Lincoln, as far as York on the well-used main road that was first created by the Romans. During my long talk with Cecil in Hugh’s study, I had thought to ask him the name of the remount stables that Hardwicke and Spelton had used in York, and when we reached the city, I visited them, taking the others with me.

  The proprietor was a Master Maxton, who was large, ginger, and bearded and had a way of standing with his feet apart and his hands on his hips. He looked, in fact, so astoundingly like the portrait I had seen at court that the court painter Hans Holbein had made of King Henry the Eighth – who was my father – that I almost gaped at him, and found myself trying to remember what, if anything, I knew of any visits King Henry might have paid to York. Until Master Maxton himself grinned at me and said: ‘I know who I look like. No need for your pop eyes, mistress. I’ve had many a comment from Queen’s Messengers who’ve been at court and seen portraits. One of the older ones had even seen King Henry himself. It’s all just an accident. My ma’s dad came from Wales and there’s Welsh blood in the royal family, or so I’ve heard. Maybe that accounts for it.’

  Embarrassed, I pulled myself together, stopped gaping, and enquired after Hardwicke and Spelton. Had they indeed used the stable; had any word of them been heard since; did they say where they were bound?

  They had used the stable, they were bound for a godforsaken place called Thorby, where there was said to be a house called Stonemoor, they had ridden off on two of the stable’s best horses, and nothing had been heard of either of them since and where, demanded Master Maxton indignantly, were the well-bred brown mare that he had given Master Spelton, and the beautiful part-Barb chestnut that Master Hardwicke had taken? Neither hide nor hair of either of them had been seen anywhere, and Master Maxton would very much like to know why.

  It seemed that both men had got into their saddles, nodded goodbye, and ridden off into eternity. I debated whether to change my mind and travel towards Stonemoor at once, but so much time had gone by since the two men vanished that it probably wouldn’t matter if more time was lost, and meanwhile, to divert from the direct road to Scotland might look suspicious – if anyone should be on the watch. We were a family party bound for Edinburgh. We would do best to go on looking like one.

  We went on our way later that same day. After York, the road became less good and we had to take care because of the ruts. However, the only problem we encountered was when the nearside wheels of the coach ran into a muddy verge and stuck because we had moved over in a narrow place to let a wagon carrying sackloads of something and half a dozen farm labourers, noisy fellows who were having a singsong, pass us going the other way.

  However, the labourers realized what had happened, stopped singing, and came to our aid. With eight stout men to help push and our four horses tugging nobly, the coach was safely back on the track in a few minutes.

  Considering the difficulties that could sometimes attend travel into the wild and barren north, our journey to Edinburgh was as smooth as cream. No one was lying in wait for us, no one assailed us. Brockley’s sword remained peacefully sheathed all the way. Wherever we stopped, we all kept our eyes open for Christopher Spelton’s chalk signs but never discovered any.

  We never even needed to consult the two maps I carried. We arrived in the city in good order on the fifteenth morning, with the horses still brisk and glossy in their harness.

  Though we ourselves could not have been described as brisk or glossy, for we were tired and travel-stained by then. Still, as we came into Edinburgh and entered the main street, we looked up at the castle on its hill above the city, and at the tall houses with the arched alleyways here and there between them, and we all had a sense of familiarity, for we had all, except Joseph, been there before. This was the end of travelling for a while, and we were thankful.

  We found Sybil’s daughter Ambrosia, and her sensible, likeable husband James Hale, in the best of health and full of good cheer. Somewhat noisy cheer, in fact. Sybil’s new-born namesake had a fine pair of lungs which she exercised frequently, and also Ambrosia’s spirited twins by her first marriage, five-year-old Paul and Tommy, and her two stepdaughters, Lucy, aged eight, and May, who was four, had the run of the house and kept it in a state of mainly good-natured tumult. On arrival, after we had first been shown (and nearly deafened by) the infant Sybil, we went to sit in the pleasant parlour and partake of wine and oatcakes, and the children bounced round us without ceasing, demanding to know all about our journey and bubbling with excitement because of the new addition to the family.

  In the midst of all the jolly uproar, Brockley, who was helpfully handing the oatcakes round, leant towards me as he offered the dish, and said quietly: ‘When do you intend going to Holyrood, madam?’

  The precious letter was on my person. It and Cecil’s letter of introduction were both folded safely into a pouch that was stitched out of sight inside my open over-gown. I always wore the open style, with a decorative kirtle beneath. It had never gone out of fashion and it allowed me to have such pouches in nearly all my outfits. In them, I carried a variety of useful things. Such as money, and a small dagger in its sheath, and a set of picklocks. The tasks I performed for Queen Elizabeth sometimes required some curious and unfeminine tools. I always took these things with me when I set off on an assignment.

  Even when Cecil had insisted that there was no danger.

  I said, also quietly: ‘I felt that to start with, I should look as though we really are – just a family party. If anyone has been paying attention, I hope they’re now satisfied of that. I mean to go tomorrow.’

  ‘Fran and I will accom
pany you, madam,’ Brockley said.

  SIX

  Holyrood

  We went to Holyrood the next morning. Sybil did not come with us, but stayed behind with Ambrosia and the children, not wanting to miss a single hour of their company. ‘Who knows when I shall ever visit Edinburgh again?’ she said. But Brockley and Dale walked with me, one on each side. Brockley, his sword at his side, was on my right as an armed guardian should be, leaving his own right arm, his sword arm, free play, while Dale, on my left, kept a respectful half a pace behind.

  We had all dressed with care. I had brought a suitable dress for court, a pale-green damask sprinkled with little pink roses over a cream kirtle dotted with the same pink roses. My sleeves were puffed at the shoulder, with slashings to match the kirtle. And, naturally, inside my open overskirt, I had my usual hidden pouch, in which Cecil’s letter of introduction and the letter for James Douglas were concealed, along with the other items that I had transferred from the much less fashionable dress I used for travelling.

  I also had a smart pale-green hat and a necklace and earrings of freshwater pearls. My green shoes had silver buckles. While I was outdoors, my finery was hidden by a warm brown cloak with a glossy, deep-brown marten-fur trim. Dale was in blue, hat, dress, and cloak alike, while Brockley was all in soldierly buff. We were making it clear that we were people of dignity – who were also prepared for anything.

  We went on foot, for Holyrood Palace was only at the end of the main street, the opposite end from the castle hill. It didn’t take us long. To the gatehouse guards, I presented Cecil’s letter with his distinctive seal. This was examined with care and then returned to me, and a guard escorted us through the gatehouse and presented us at one of the palace doors. Here, we were passed to a higher-ranking guard and taken into an entrance hall, panelled and decoratively paved, with a fine ceiling of carved beams. Our escort then handed us over to a still more senior guard, and at last to an usher, who politely but firmly relieved us of our cloaks and hats and Brockley’s sword.