Queen Without a Crown

by FIONA BUCKLEY

  Brockley, clowning, had caught Trelawny on the hip with the flat of his blade. The audience applauded, and Trelawny, halfway between real and feigned fury, somehow found the spare breath to declare, very loudly, that Brockley’s parents should have drowned him in a rain-butt before he was a day old.

  ‘There was a drought that year,’ said Brockley. He closed in for another clash of blades, evaded a thrust with a neat sidestep and bawled: ‘You send messages with your eyes! Anyone would take them for a couple of royal couriers!’

  ‘I’m just a good liar!’ Trelawny retorted, feinting and then changing direction so that this time Brockley seemed within a hair’s breadth of being chopped in half. Annoyed, he attacked anew, got under Trelawny’s guard again and repeated the clout with the flat of the blade.

  ‘Stop laughing, Ryder!’ Trelawny bellowed. ‘And what the hell are you doing, leaning on that damn blade like a tired housemaid on a broom handle? Come and help me! Two to one!’

  He then launched himself at Brockley with an energy which looked as though it might really turn lethal, and Ryder, accepting the invitation, joined in. Brockley tripped and went down, and for a dreadful moment I thought he was going to be beheaded before my eyes. Even as it was . . .

  ‘At this rate, I won’t have a manservant left!’ I protested to Hugh. ‘Can’t we stop this?’

  ‘Oh, but it’s so funny!’ Meg exclaimed as Brockley scrambled up and knocked Ryder’s blade aside with considerable dexterity, so that he could concentrate on driving Trelawny vengefully back to the centre of their makeshift arena.

  ‘Brockley underestimates himself,’ Hugh said. ‘I wish I were half as fit for my years as he is. He’s puffing a trifle, but I’d be unconscious by now if I tried to play such games. I’m eaten up with envy.’

  I laughed, though a little wryly. Then I was distracted, for Sybil Jester had come out of the castle to find me. I didn’t realize she was there until her voice spoke from behind me.

  ‘Mistress Stannard, I’ve been looking for you. A letter has come for you with the Lockhill seal on it. I have it here.’

  In the arena, Ryder had apparently come to much the same conclusion as I had and was sensibly calling the bout off. I broke the seal on the letter and read it then and there. My heart sank as I did so. It was from Ann Mason, but both she and her son George had signed it. Clearly, they had taken time to study my plea on behalf of Mark Easton. But their decision, though polite, was unyielding.

  They had talked it over repeatedly, all through Christmas. They were sorry for the young couple, and they did not hold Mark responsible for any crime committed by his father, but they still did not wish Jane to marry into a family with a shadow over it. She could do much better. There had been approaches from far more suitable prospects.

  Jane herself had been told that she must put all thoughts of Mark Easton away. She is young, wrote Ann. Time will erase Mark’s memory as long as he keeps away from her. We shall find her a good husband. Her happiness will be considered, believe me, and one day she will thank us.

  That, apparently, was that. We found Mark and broke the news to him. ‘I suppose finding the portrait is the last hope,’ he said. ‘But I can hardly ask you, mistress, to go riding to Westmorland. I will go myself as soon as I’m free, but I can’t take time away from the service of Lord Sussex yet. I can only thank you for all you have tried to do.’

  The thanks were kindly meant, but they didn’t include any money.

  I woke up next morning with a migraine headache.

  ‘So,’ said Hugh, sitting on the side of the bed and looking down at my wan face and wrinkled brow, ‘what brought this on?’

  Those who have never had the migraine can have no idea what it feels like. It seemed to me that an iron band had enclosed my skull, crossing my forehead, and was being slowly, relentlessly, tightened, while an invisible demon struck it repeatedly with a hammer, just over my left eye.

  Miserably, I said: ‘The only lead to the truth about Hoxton is to trace that portrait. If it shows a right-handed man, then Gervase was almost certainly not the one who interfered with Hoxton’s food. It could tell us that much. That might even be enough to make the Masons and the Mosses think again! Then Easton would pay us. He doesn’t expect me to travel north, but I dare say it’s safe enough now. Hugh, I do believe that if I could save Hawkswood, that would be the best medicine in the world for you. Only, I can’t leave you. I ought to go, for your sake, and I ought to stay, for your sake. What shall I do?’

  ‘You stay here,’ said Hugh. ‘I’m not so sure about the safety of the north. I’ve been talking with John Ryder and Trelawny. They’re Cecil’s men, and they hear things. There are some ominous new rumours. When peace is finally established, as he says, Mark can go after the portrait himself. He’s well off; he doesn’t have to stay bound to Lord Sussex. Once this rebellion is completely over, he’ll be free.’

  Brockley said: ‘I’ll go to Westmorland if you and Mistress Stannard will entrust me with the task, sir. I dare say there is some urgency. If Master Easton waits too long, his young lady’s guardians may persuade her, or push her, into a different marriage and then there will be no point in him chasing the portrait at all. Perhaps he would give me a letter of introduction to his great aunt.’

  ‘I don’t want to send you into danger,’ said Hugh worriedly.

  ‘I’ve spent half my life in danger,’ said Brockley, which was true enough, for I had led him into it, time and again. ‘I can face a little more,’ he added, with that rare grin of his.

  I said: ‘The portrait is the only hope left. And I think – I sense – that what is between Mark and Jane may well be a real thing.’ I looked at Hugh. ‘There’s that to think about as well as Hawkswood. You know what I mean.’

  ‘Yes, I know,’ Hugh agreed. He rarely spoke of his first two marriages, and I knew little of his previous wives, except that both had been called Mary, and that one had died of plague and the other from a wasting cough and fever. Now, however, lowering his voice so that only I could hear, he said: ‘My first marriage was arranged. The first Mary and I got on well enough; but my second . . .! We married from choice. Happily, I was acceptable to her parents.’ He smiled. ‘Only a poet could describe her. She was warm sunshine and mysterious moonlight. I have never talked to you much about my special Mary because I didn’t want you to feel that you had to share my heart. But I do know what you mean. More depends on this than just Hawkswood, however dear my home is to me.’

  I glanced past him to where Brockley waited silently by the window, and then towards Dale, who was by the fire, stirring the medicine which Gladys recommended for my headaches. She had said nothing, but her lips were pursed. If I sent Brockley north, I would be sending him away from her. My head pounded. ‘I don’t know what to do,’ I said.

  There came a tap on the door, and Dale went to answer it. On the threshold was Mark.

  He had brought a summons to me, and to Hugh, to attend upon the queen.

  TWELVE

  Compass Needle

  Migraine is a curious illness. It can be born out of mental conflict, and it can be healed, at remarkable speed, by sheer necessity. A summons from Queen Elizabeth amounted to a necessity. The crisis came on within minutes. Hugh held my head; Dale held a basin for me. I threw up, helplessly and miserably, but as they laid me back on my pillows the pain was already beginning to ebb. Presently, as a precaution, I drank some of the brew that Dale and Gladys had made. Soon after that, I was able, shakily, to rise, to let Dale – still a very silent Dale – dress me and tidy my hair, and then, with Hugh and Mark, I set off to the queen’s presence.

  She received us in a small panelled study, lit by candles because the day was dull. She sat at a desk, informally dressed in a loose, ash-coloured gown. Cecil was present too, standing by the window. He looked at us with a certain compassion in his eyes, which alarmed me.

  What the queen had to say alarmed me still more.

  The confidential letter from L
ord Sussex, which Mark had brought to her, contained disquieting news.

  ‘Sussex has spies,’ Elizabeth said. ‘And several of them, from different places, have reported the same tale. The earls of Westmorland and Northumberland and their wives are all supposed to be north of the border by now, but it is being said, or whispered – in taverns, at markets – that all four of them have not, in fact, gone. It is being whispered that one at least is still in England, in hiding, with the intention of reawakening the rebellion. We don’t know which of them it is; we don’t know who else is involved; we don’t know what, precisely, is being planned. We don’t know for sure if the rumours are true, though they seem to be strengthening. Sussex has supplied a list of houses which are possible hiding places for this hidden ringleader, whether man or woman. But investigating them is difficult.’

  ‘Why is that, ma’am?’ I asked. ‘If Lord Sussex has so many spies.’

  Cecil spoke. ‘Dangerous secrets are often hidden well. All the suspect houses are isolated, and Sussex sent spies to them, pretending to be benighted travellers in need of a night’s lodgings. The traditions of the north were kept, and lodgings were always granted. But the spies found nothing suspicious. All was as smooth, they say, as a pond in still weather. Two of them, though, say that they were dispatched on their way the following morning with a certain rapidity, as though their presence was not altogether welcome. There is something under the surface of that pond, and this is where you come in.’

  ‘Ursula,’ said the queen, ‘I have taken a great interest in the work you are doing for Master Easton. I hear from him that much may turn on something shown in a portrait, which may well be in northern England.’

  ‘Her majesty was gracious enough to ask how your enquiries were prospering,’ said Mark, a little awkwardly.

  ‘A lady,’ said Elizabeth, ‘with a romantic and truthful reason for calling at various houses, might have better fortune than Sussex’s male spies. Our conspirators may be less afraid of you – less careful in your presence – and you have a gift for discovering secrets.’

  I had seen it coming, but now that she had put it into words, my stomach, already aching from my recent bout of sickness, turned a somersault. I glanced at Hugh and saw that his face had whitened.

  ‘Ma’am, my husband is unwell. I can’t leave him just now.’

  Elizabeth’s eyes flashed dangerously. And Hugh, though still very pale, said in a calm voice: ‘If the queen commands it, then you will have to leave me, my dear.’

  He had taken that attitude in the past, even when not under Elizabeth’s glittering gaze. I looked at her again and knew that to argue would be in vain. She was the queen, and her realm was in turmoil. She wanted my help and would put all personal considerations aside. Hugh could be on his deathbed and I could be weeping beside it, but if Elizabeth considered that for the good of England I should be dragged away and sent on a mission, then dragged and sent I would be. She had done things to me, just as bad as that, before now. Such as lying to me about Matthew’s death, for instance. There was even a part of me that understood. Just as Hugh did.

  And if I found the portrait and it revealed what I wanted to know, there would be a chance yet of saving Hawkswood. I was silent.

  ‘Your search for the portrait is your excuse and your entrée to any house,’ Elizabeth said. ‘You may or may not find it, but who is to know, unless you tell them? You can go to any house and say you have heard that the portrait had been sold on from hand to hand and this or that house had been mentioned. It will be up to you, then, to find out all you can about who is in the house and what they are doing. You are experienced in this kind of work. You’re the likeliest person to succeed. I want you to leave immediately. Take your own servants. Master Easton here will also go part of the way with you, as he is returning to York, and Cecil will lend you an extra man.’

  Gladys had been perfectly right. When I declared that none of us were going north for any reason whatsoever, I ought to have crossed my fingers. There was no more to be said. With Elizabeth, there never was.

  But once back in our rooms and private with Hugh, I wept with rage. ‘Why must I go? Why me? Why must it be me? Why can’t Lord Sussex provide a harmless-looking man with a harmless-sounding excuse? Oh, I know I might find the portrait and then perhaps we’ll be glad I went, but I don’t want to leave you while you’re ill. It’s not right. And I’m tired of being a spy. I hate this. I hate it!’

  ‘I shall be all right. I really am better, Ursula. I don’t puff so much on the stairs now, not since I’ve been having my daily walks. I shall be anxious about you. You may be going into danger.’

  ‘But the queen has commanded it, and it’s for the benefit of the realm. Even you think it’s my duty to go. We’ve had this argument before. You are the most extraordinary husband any woman ever had.’

  ‘You’re a fairly extraordinary woman. Come, dry your eyes and begin to consider your strategy. And stop worrying about me. Gladys and her potions will look after me till you’re home again.’

  ‘I know.’ I wiped my eyes and said: ‘If I am successful, in my task for the queen, I’ll be paid, you know. I don’t know how much; I never do know. But if I don’t find the portrait, I suppose the money from the queen could be useful . . .’

  ‘Oh, my dear.’ Hugh’s voice was contrite. ‘That the payment should matter so much, because once I was a fool . . .’

  ‘Just wish me well,’ I said.

  Cecil’s extra man was Carew Trelawny. ‘You’ll be safe enough with him and Brockley,’ Hugh said, determinedly cheerful. ‘I wish I could come too, but I know I’m not fit enough. Please don’t look so unhappy.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ After supper, I had been summoned by Cecil, for a detailed briefing and to be given my list of suspicious houses. Rejoining Hugh, I had begun taking clothes from my press and tossing them at Dale to pack in saddlebags. ‘If you fall ill again while I’m away . . . Please don’t.’

  ‘I’ll do my best!’ said Hugh.

  I threw a pile of underlinen at Dale. ‘I just hope that Brockley and Trelawny don’t start fighting.’

  ‘They won’t,’ said Hugh. ‘They’re friends, however oddly they show it. Anyway, they’ll be on duty. You know Brockley better than that, and at heart, Trelawny is a similar type.’

  Dale picked up a filled saddlebag and left the room. I said uncertainly: ‘I can’t take Dale. She’s not getting any younger, and winter travel has always been bad for her. She’ll hate it, that I’m taking Brockley . . .’

  Even though Hugh knew of the odd relationship between myself and Brockley, we hardly ever referred to it. Nor did we speak of it directly now, but as so many times before, Hugh had thought ahead and lifted a burden from me. ‘I’ve talked to Dale, while you were with Cecil. She knows you must go and that Brockley’s presence is necessary and that I have absolute trust in him and in you.’

  Just for a moment, his blue eyes bored into me, not questioningly but as one who drives a nail home to make something secure.

  ‘Your trust won’t be misplaced,’ I said.

  ‘I know. So does Dale. Mistress Jester could go with you, I suppose,’ he said, ‘but she’s a terrible horsewoman and would slow you down nearly as much as Dale or I would. You’ll do better without any of us. Ride as fast as you can. The rest of us will wait for you here. Meg’s portrait will be finished by the time you return, and that’s something to look forward to. How many houses are there on that list?’

  ‘Only four. Well, five in a way, because I’m going to see Mark’s great aunt too. I’m tired of riding north,’ I added. ‘This will be the third time! I feel like a compass needle!’

  ‘You’re my Little Bear, and the constellation of the Little Bear is attached to the Pole Star by its tail,’ said Hugh and tried to laugh.

  We left the next day, in bitter weather. Hugh and I kissed long and hard. Dale wept, but my eyes were dry. For me, the time for tears was past. As Hugh had looked into my eyes, I now looked into
Dale’s, except that I was not seeking a promise and a message of reassurance, but giving them.

  ‘We all have good horses,’ I said to her. ‘Roundel is sturdy; so is Brockley’s Brown Berry. Trelawny’s mare looks almost too well bred, but Trelawny says that she’s the toughest thing on four legs he’s ever come across. Mark uses Lord Sussex’s string of post horses and changes mounts whenever he feels like it. We’re taking packs on our backs and in our saddlebags to save being cluttered with a pack animal. I shall race round the northern counties as fast as I can. Mark says that it’s possible his great aunt or one of her daughters will actually have that portrait. They’re the only members of his family left. Anyway, even if I do have to go from one place to another to find it, some of the four suspect houses I have to visit may be on my route. Why,’ I said, brightly, ‘we could be back here in three weeks!’

  THIRTEEN

  She-Eagle

  We made good speed to Westmorland, but it was in the teeth of a north wind that cut through our hooded woollen cloaks like a scythe through corn. Twice we rode through snowstorms. Several times, we had to stop so that Brockley could clear balled snow from the hooves of the horses.

  We parted from Mark at Sheffield. He went on northwards, to York by way of Leeds, while I and my escort turned north-west for Bolton, Lancaster, and ultimately for Westmorland.

  We could have called at Tyesdale, where Jane was living with my former ward Pen and her husband Clem, but I decided to leave that until we were on our way home. If I could find Gervase Easton’s portrait and it showed a right-handed man, I would have news that was at least hopeful. Besides, two of the houses on Sussex’s list were in Westmorland. I wanted to complete my business and return to Hugh, as fast as possible.

  We pressed on, therefore, using the hours of daylight as best we could, avoiding upland paths which were sure to be choked with snow. My companions were steady and watchful, careful of my welfare and that of the horses. Trelawny, I knew from Cecil, was aware of both our purposes and had been informed of my secret work. He gave me odd, amused looks sometimes, but Brockley told me quietly that I need not worry; I could trust him. Both of them used their clowning habits to keep our spirits up.