‘She was brought up on a farm,’ I remarked.
‘Carrying buckets of pig food and muck for the fields and scything barley?’ said Christopher. ‘That would account for her muscles, I suppose and muscles she surely had.’
I remembered thinking the same, when Bella crouched at her sister’s feet. Her shoulders, surely, were as powerful as a man’s.
Christopher leant back, sipping his wine, and now, as he looked back, he had overcome his shudders and once more seemed half amused. I wondered if I would feel amused if the same things had happened to me and was seized with a great surge of admiration for him, for his courage and his gaiety. Sybil said: ‘Do go on.’
‘Well, this man Shepherd looked after me,’ said Christopher, ‘though he made it plain enough that I was a nuisance. He was always coming and going, seeing to his sheep, then rushing back to give me drinks of water and ale and feed me on bread soaked in broth and put clean straw under me. He hardly ever spoke to me and he glowered all the time. I told him about me and how Hardwicke had vanished, and what that barbarous woman had done to me, but he just shrugged, said it was nowt to do with him, and hardly seemed interested. Just once, he did bestir himself to talk to me a little and he told me that men from the sheriff in York had twice accosted him out on the moor when he was busy with his sheep. Once they asked if he’d seen anything of Hardwicke and then, the second time – which was while I was with him – they were asking after both of us. But he was annoyed at being bothered and having his time wasted, as he called it, and he wouldn’t tell them owt, as he put it. Nobbut pests, that’s what he said they were.’
‘He denied he’d got you in his cottage?’ I said, scandalized.
‘He certainly did. He’s got no sense at all of civic duty. He wouldn’t harm a fellow human being but he hates nearly all of us just the same. He said he’d told the officers, both times, that he knew nothing about any missing men! Just sheer bloody-mindedness, that’s what that was! But he did give me food and drink and he kept me clean as best he could, and he never left me alone too long. I was in a raging fever for ten days and after that, too weak for a long time to do anything much. I healed, but slowly – at one point, I know he had me crying and cursing while he cleaned pus or something out of my scraped back. He made poultices out of some kind of herb. He had dried herbs in jars in his hut and a herb plot just outside. He seemed to know what he was about, however grumpy he was. I suppose he’s had to look after himself, living alone as he does.’
‘I wonder why he hates the human race so much,’ I said, puzzled.
‘He says he prefers sheep. Sheep don’t tell lies or stab you in the back, he told me. I think he must have been very badly treated by his fellow men at some point in his life. But he’s honest enough in his own way and his sheep are cared for better than some men care for their children.’
‘He put himself on the wrong side of the law, denying that he knew where you were,’ Cogge said. ‘But still … he saved your life. I won’t arrange to have him arrested.’
‘You had better not!’ said Christopher with energy. ‘I owe him my life, you’re right about that. Well, eventually, I was fit to go to York. Luckily, I had a horse. Master Shepherd wasn’t going to lend me his pony but he’d caught a stray, wandering on the moor, and brought it in. Gave it some of the winter fodder he keeps for his sheep. He asked me what to do with it – I was recovering by then and capable of a sensible conversation – and I said I’d take it to York when I left.’
‘The chestnut with a white mane and tail!’ I exclaimed. ‘I knew it reminded me of something. Of course!’ Memory had belatedly flooded back. ‘That’s the description of the horse Bernard Hardwicke was riding!’
‘Yes, I thought it might be his,’ said Christopher. ‘Poor thing, it looked cold and hungry by the time Master Shepherd found it. He said it came to him, virtually asking to be stabled and fed!’
‘What of its saddle and bridle?’ Brockley asked.
‘No sign of them,’ said Christopher. ‘No doubt our dark-eyed darling took them off and tossed them into the river, like me! Luckily, my misanthropic host was able to invent a bit and bridle with some rope, and I rode to York bareback. I don’t know what became of the brown mare I was riding when Bella accosted me.’
‘I think the Thwaites have her,’ I said. ‘They keep a farm where we stayed on the way here. They have found a stray brown mare and at the moment they are looking after her.’
‘The Thwaites? I know of them. I’m glad the poor beast has found shelter in this winter weather. I shall have to go and inspect her. I shall recognize her at once if she’s my mare – there’s a scattering of white hairs round the fetlock on her off fore and she has a little scar on her near shoulder.’
‘You must have been glad to have a horse to get to York on,’ said Sybil. ‘It would have been a long trudge on foot.’
I said: ‘Christopher, we found your secret sign, chalked on the underside of a seat chest. But if you put the sign there, it must have been because you thought you could be in danger here. What made you think that?’
‘I knew that Hardwicke had been here,’ said Christopher. ‘I knew because of that distinctive chestnut horse. When I was stabling my own mount here, I made some comment or other about a good-looking strawberry roan that was in the next stall and Walter Cogge here happened to mention that there had been a guest not long ago who had been riding something really remarkable – Barb in type, golden chestnut with a white mane and tail and a star and a white sock. I recognized the description. And that made an alarm bell ring in my head. It rang even louder when Mistress Gould told me that Hardwicke had never been here.’
‘I had no idea that anything was seriously wrong,’ said Cogge contritely. ‘As I have already explained, Mistress Gould told me not to mention Hardwicke’s visit, because she didn’t want anyone to know about her sister’s bad behaviour over the John of Evesham book. It wasn’t my business and I didn’t argue. When the subject of good-looking horses came up, I did describe that chestnut, but I didn’t name the rider. I just called him a passing traveller. Careless of me,’ he added apologetically. ‘There had already been an enquiry after Master Hardwicke, but he was perfectly all right when he left here. So I kept Mistress Gould’s counsel as she wished, and the same when the officers came a second time, looking for you, Master Spelton. I had my own secrets to keep.’
‘I knew from your description of the horse that Hardwicke must have been here,’ said Christopher. ‘But Mistress Gould said she had been waiting for someone to call to collect the book. She was very pleased to see me. It sounded as though Hardwicke hadn’t come after all – yet I was sure he had. So why was she lying? I felt suspicious and … I don’t know how to describe this sensibly, but there seemed to be a … an atmosphere here. A feeling of something dangerous – unpleasant – in the air.’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I have felt that too.’
‘Did you?’ Christopher smiled at me. ‘Well, I asked Mistress Gould outright whether she had seen Hardwicke. She assured me in so many words that he had never come to Stonemoor. I didn’t believe her but there was nothing to get hold of. I decided that I would just take the book and report my suspicions in York. The horse had gone from here, so I guessed that Hardwicke had ridden away but I knew he couldn’t have got far. He would have gone north, and whatever fate overtook him, it must have done so before he reached the Thwaites. I felt very uneasy indeed and I left my mark … just in case.’
‘How do you know about the Thwaites?’ I asked. ‘You can’t have been there yourself.’
‘Through the reports sent in by Fairfax’s officers after they had tried to find Hardwicke. I saw those reports before I was sent off to the north, with orders to deliver a letter to Scotland and find Hardwicke if I could. The farm was mentioned. The Thwaites had said that he hadn’t been there. So if he’d called at Stonemoor, he either never left it, or vanished before he could reach the Thwaites.’
‘This is a horrible st
ory,’ said Dale. ‘This place, this house full of middle-aged ladies, seems so harmless, and yet …!’
‘Oh well,’ said Christopher. ‘I survived Bella’s attentions, thanks to Master Shepherd, and I had Hardwicke’s beautiful horse to get me to York.’
We digested Christopher’s story in silence, until Brockley said: ‘What now? What happens to Mistress Gould and Mistress Yates?’
For answer, Walter Cogge picked up the bell, went to the vestibule door, and rang it vigorously. Mary Haxby responded after a moment and stood gazing resentfully at Cogge, who was standing, ready to ring the bell again if there had been no answer.
‘Please bring Mistress Gould to us,’ said Cogge.
‘She’s upstairs with Mistress Yates. She can’t see you now.’
‘Mistress Gould will see me when and where I please. Kindly fetch her at once. If you don’t, I will go and get her myself. You have obligingly told me where to look, for which I thank you.’
Mary muttered something that could have been a curse. Then she turned sharply and was gone. How those long blue skirts could swish! I was reminded of the way in which my sister Queen Elizabeth sometimes, when provoked, would spin on her heel and make her skirts hiss across the floor with a sound like an angry cat.
Mary did do as she was asked, however. Philippa arrived in a matter of minutes. She held herself well but she was still very pale. Even Walter Cogge looked at her with some concern. His wineglass was empty. He filled it and handed it to her.
‘Mistress Gould, you look unwell. You should drink this. And sit down.’
I rather expected Philippa to brush him and the wineglass aside but instead she took it and drank the wine, in one long swallow. A faint colour appeared on her cheekbones. She sat down as invited. Then she folded her hands in her lap and raised her chin. She did not speak.
‘Were you aware,’ said Cogge conversationally, ‘that the five men who, earlier today, arrived here as guests but have since been removed by officers attached to the sheriff in York, are Jesuit priests, here on an unlawful mission to raise money for the enemies of our sovereign lady Elizabeth, and to seek converts to their heretical faith?’
‘No,’ said Philippa. ‘I didn’t know. I am acquainted, though not closely, with a family called Brownlow, who live twenty miles east of here. I received word that they wished to pass some foreign guests on to me. Gentlemen with business in this country, their message said. They were expected shortly but it was causing a problem as other, unexpected guests, had descended on them and were likely to make a long stay. There was no more room in the Brownlows’ house.’
‘So that was the tale they told you. But you expect me to believe that you didn’t even suspect the truth?’ said Cogge.
‘I have told you the truth as far as I knew it. You are a hateful man.’ Philippa’s cold remoteness suddenly turned into scorching contempt. ‘You have lived here under false pretences, making yourself out to be a priest, anxious to offer the comfort of the Mass and the confessional to a house of women who love the old faith and would otherwise be deprived of these blessings. And all the time, you have been spying on us, on me, and, it seems, holding yourself ready to pounce on my guests like a hawk on a flock of doves …’
‘Your recent quintet of guests,’ said Walter Cogge, ‘had their luggage searched before they were arrested. It can’t have taken long, because we met them as they were being taken down the hill. I presume that incriminating evidence was easily found. Maps, lists of names – of likely helpers and contributors – and also, no doubt, such things as incense and other Jesuitical toys, such as their priests use in their unseemly rituals.’
‘They are not unseemly rituals. They are merely different from yours.’
‘We will not argue the point. But the likelihood that you really had no idea that the visitors who came and went today were Jesuit priests is very slender. You surely suspected, even if you didn’t know for sure.’
‘You can prove nothing.’
‘Ah. That is tantamount to an admission. As for the matter of proof, your confession would solve that little difficulty. Believe me, if you are arrested and taken to London and handed over to Walsingham’s favourite questioner, whose name is Richard Topcliffe and whose reputation is notorious, that confession would soon be forthcoming.’
‘Confessions extracted in such a way are worthless.’ Philippa’s voice shook, but it was also frigid with disdain. ‘I am sure,’ she said, ‘that in the hands of such as Richard Topcliffe, of whom I have indeed heard, I would say anything he wanted me to say. I would probably say it even before he had tried to extract it.’
‘I dare say.’ Cogge’s voice became soft, almost gentle, and all the more frightening for that. ‘Of course, if you do confess, no matter how that comes about, it would mean you have admitted to high treason and that would mean the stake. Don’t for a moment consider yourself as a possible martyr. Martyrs like to think of themselves as nobly true to their faith but when the flames are rising round them, most martyrs wish they had been less noble and more self-regarding.’
The colour had once more ebbed from Philippa’s face. I myself was frozen with horror. Philippa had done me no harm, and here she was in front of me, a living woman, who might soon …
What was it like, to have one’s body destroyed while one was still alive inside it?
‘But as it happens,’ said Cogge smoothly, in that astonishingly cultured voice of his, ‘there is a way out, Mistress Gould. I am empowered to make a bargain with you.’
TWENTY-FOUR
The Judgement of Philippa
‘Empowered to bargain?’ said Philippa.
‘With you,’ said Cogge. ‘Not with Mistress Yates, who has committed murder. She must accompany us to York, where she will probably be tried. But you are somewhat different. There is, shall we say, a possible use for you. I advise you to accept the opportunity. The alternative is so very unpleasant. But you can be left unmolested if you agree to help us.’
‘Help you?’ Philippa’s eyes were those of someone who has been belaboured by too many violent events, too many emotional blows, in too short a time.
‘It is known,’ said Cogge, ‘that in seminaries on the Continent, plans are being laid for what will be virtually an invasion of Jesuit priests into England. The five who have just been arrested under your roof represent the vanguard, as it were.’
‘I didn’t know they were priests! I told you! I only knew that they were guests that some acquaintances of mine, the Brownlows, could not accommodate just now, and who are travelling on into the north of England on business. I am a law-abiding woman! My father always said we should keep Queen Elizabeth’s laws; that we wouldn’t be kept from following our faith, provided we did that. He didn’t think it was wise for the Pope to tell English Catholics that they shouldn’t keep Elizabeth’s laws. He said it wasn’t fair on honest Englishmen,’ said Philippa earnestly.
‘You may be telling the truth,’ said Cogge. ‘I can’t tell. Nor does it particularly matter. Let us leave that aside. Listen carefully. First, you must swear not to let the Brownlows know that the five men were seized while they were with you. You didn’t hesitate to lie when various people asked you if Master Hardwicke and Master Spelton had stayed here; I suggest you adopt an equally flexible attitude towards the Brownlows. Let word reach them, from you, saying that the five men moved on from here. If the Brownlows come to hear that their erstwhile guests have been caught, let them suppose that it happened after they left you and had nothing to do with you. Encourage them to go on thinking that yours is a safe house.’
‘But …’
‘No buts, please, Mistress Gould. Let me continue. We, the queen’s men, will ensure that word is conveyed back to the Continent, to the same effect. We want you to be used as a safe house. We also want you to inform the authorities – by sending word to York – whenever you have Jesuit guests. Try to find out where each of them is going in England, and pass that information along as well. They will be s
eized after they leave you.’
Philippa looked horrified but Cogge appeared not to notice. He continued. ‘You will be given a way to transmit your information. It won’t be through me. I shall leave you, since you now know that I am not what I seem and so no doubt, do your ladies. You have probably told some of them already.’
‘I … yes. Yes, I have.’
‘A replacement will be provided and you will accept him as genuine. You will assure your ladies that he is. He will have a suitable life history in which you must pretend to believe. But he will be your messenger to York when required. Indeed, he will be well aware himself of all that goes on in this house and will probably perform his duties without your instructions. You will need to do little beyond employing him and appearing to believe in him. With luck, it will be quite a long time before it begins to be realized that when priests pass through Stonemoor, they nearly always get arrested shortly afterwards.’
‘You expect me to …!’
‘You know what the alternative is,’ Cogge repeated silkily. ‘On the other hand,’ he added, ‘there are incentives. I believe that this house would welcome extra funds. It would relieve your father from worry as well as you. Sir Francis Walsingham has also empowered me to put that right for you. Given your cooperation.’
There was a long silence. Brockley rose quietly and poured more wine all round. Philippa ignored hers. She was sitting with her eyes lowered, staring down at her hands, which were clasped in her lap and restlessly twitching.
The Heretic’s Creed Page 21
