In straightforward practical matters, however, he was at home and alert. ‘When did Lady Northumberland’s messengers leave for Scotland?’ he said. ‘Early on the sixteenth of January? This is the eighteenth, and it’s nearly evening. They’ve had three days to get there, so far. The roads are bad but not impossible, and the weather’s improving. I know where the Regent is now – he’s at Linlithgow, near the head of the Firth. It’s eighty miles or so from Carlisle in a straight line and much the same from Ramsfold, I’d say. A resolute rider able to get fresh horses on the way could do it in three days. The message was for Archbishop Hamilton, you say? He’s to arrange an assassin? Is there no end to the madness of these rebels?’
‘One message was for him, Lord Sussex,’ I told him. ‘The other was for the escaped rebels you’re chasing. We overheard plans being made to tell them they were being pursued.’
‘It doesn’t matter if they’ve been warned as long as I know of it. I can outflank them. It’s the Regent I’m worried about. Hamilton’s in Linlithgow too, I believe. If he has a pet assassin at hand . . . Dear God, the Regent could be dead already. I’ll send a warning, but we may be too late. And now . . . tell me again, what you learned about the Papal Bull.’
I recited, as well as I could from memory, the gist of that dreadful letter from the Vatican, promising to release all English Catholics from their duty to Queen Elizabeth and in effect making it lawful for any of them murder her. That meant: any who could come within range of her with a loaded musket or a sharp dagger. Any who feared damnation in the hereafter more than they feared a traitor’s death.
Sussex understood. His face was grim as he listened. He said what I had been thinking all along. ‘The queen must know of this. I will have to spare men to ride to Linlithgow and others to go south to the queen, though there is time in hand in the latter case. The Bull won’t be issued instantly, from what you say. Not until the outcome of this rebellion is known in Rome and has been mulled over. Mistress Stannard . . .’
‘I’ll carry the news to the queen,’ I said.
We went by way of Tyesdale.
It wasn’t far out of my way, and it had been in my mind, ever since I set out for the north, that on the way back I should visit my former ward Penelope and her husband, and see Jane Mason, too.
The portrait of Gervase had told me nothing helpful, and I was bearing only ill news to Jane, but I wanted to see what she was like now that she was grown, and to assess her feelings for Mark. I wondered, too, how marriage suited my former ward. Penelope really had been a difficult girl, and a plain one as well, with her high, bulging forehead and mousey hair. She was intelligent and practical, though, qualities which Clem Moss had had the wisdom to recognize. I hoped that all was well with them, but I wished to see for myself.
If I sensed that Jane cared for Mark as he did for her, I would, I decided, try to talk a little sense into Pen, who might in turn be able to influence her mother. I liked Mark and felt that Jane had made no mistake in falling for him. Pen had a far less admirable record, for until she met the sensible Clem Moss, she had been wildly in love with a whole succession of completely unsuitable men. My former ward, I thought, was in no position to preach to her sister.
There were maps in Carlisle, and Lord Sussex helped me to study the route. In such unsettled times, Sussex wasn’t happy to see me travel with only Brockley as a companion. The villagers from St John’s-On-The-Hill could not be asked to travel further from home, but Sussex seconded two men to go with us. We stayed two clear days at Carlisle because both we and our horses still needed time for recovery and, having left most of our belongings at Ramsfold, there were things we needed to buy. Sussex found me a woman who salved my welts and bruises and was comfortingly shocked to see them; Brockley kept apart and dealt with his sorrow as best he could. Then, once more, we were on our way.
It was a fairly easy journey now that we and our mounts were no longer burdened with baggage. We were taking the mare Strawberry with us, so that Cecil could return her to Trelawny’s next of kin, if he had any, and we bought a packsaddle for her so that she could carry our belongings. No one had been able to find a side-saddle for me, but I had acquired some breeches, which made riding astride more comfortable. We were not a talkative party, however. Brockley was still very quiet, and I knew that his grief for Trelawny was unabated. Only the weather encouraged any cheerfulness. The thaw had continued, and the sun was out. Trees dripped and sparkled; now and then a few birds sang. At noon on the fifth day, Tyesdale came in sight.
It had been Pen’s dowry, and when it came into her possession it was in a very poor state. However, Mark had reported that matters were now improved, and I knew that good coal deposits had been found on the property, which should have made a difference.
And so it had. We saw it at once. Stone walls had been repaired; ditches dug out; paths cleared; fields ploughed. Smoke streamed cheerfully from the chimneys. Tyesdale had a real moat, which had been stagnant the last time I saw it. Now it was clean, with a little broken ice on the surface, and as we crossed the bridge to the gatehouse I looked down into the water and saw the silvery flicker of a fish in the depths.
‘I hardly know the place!’ I said to Brockley and was glad to see him smile.
‘I knew the lass had good sense, at heart,’ he said. ‘For all her goings-on when she was a girl.’
Pen’s goings-on, as he put it, had considerably annoyed Brockley at one time, I remembered. For the first time in days, I laughed. ‘Clem wouldn’t put up with goings-on,’ I said. ‘And here they are!’
We had ridden into the courtyard and there they were indeed, Pen and Clem together, hurrying down the steps from the main door to greet us, exclaiming that they had seen us from a window. On their heels, also exclaiming, came their housekeeper, Agnes Appletree, looking just as I remembered her, a tiny figure with a red face, red hair and a crimson dress that clashed horribly with both; and round the corner of the house, barking lustily, came two big grey dogs, though they sat down obediently when commanded by Clem, thumping their tails in welcome.
Clem hadn’t changed, either, beyond that indefinable air of maturity which contentedly married men acquire. Otherwise he was just as I remembered: a big, powerful man with round blue eyes and an amiable expression.
The greatest change was in Pen. All her waywardness and awkwardness had gone. This new Pen was self-possessed and charming. Her businesslike dark-blue gown suited her. The grey eyes, which had always been her chief beauty, met mine with a new, calm assurance. She came gravely to meet me as I dismounted and dropped a curtsey.
‘Mistress Stannard! Oh, my dear Mistress Stannard! And you, Brockley! How are you? How is Fran Dale? Is she not with you?’
‘I’m well, mistress, but for once we left my wife behind. You know how Fran hates travelling.’
‘And in this weather, who can blame her? Come you in; t’parlour has a fine fire, and Mistress Jane’s settin’ there, playin’ wi’ t’baby, and I’ve a rabbit pie in t’oven that’ll just do for us all for dinner . . .’ Agnes Appletree was voluble with delight.
‘It’s so good to see you both.’ Pen led the way towards the front steps. ‘Only, we had no word that you were coming north, so we’ve had no chance to prepare! What brings you here?’
‘The queen’s business,’ I said evasively. ‘But I wanted to know how you and Clem were and see your baby . . .’
‘You’ll hear him before long! He has such a pair of lungs, has my Leonard, and when he’s hungry, he roars like a lion in the queen’s menagerie! He’s well grown for five months. He takes after his father.’
‘And I wanted to see Jane, too.’
‘You’re mighty welcome, advance warning or not, mistress,’ said Clem, in his slow, warm voice. ‘These’ll be your escort?’ He nodded towards Sussex’s men. ‘We’ll see to t’horses. Brockley, now, thee knows thee can trust me with them. You go wi’ t’mistress and get warm by t’parlour fire.’
We were led inside
by Pen into the familiar hall, although it was hardly recognizable as the uncared-for place I recalled. Then, it was full of scratched furniture and tapestries with moth holes in them. Now, new tables, benches and stools, gleaming with beeswax, stood about on the rush-strewn floor; the hearth fire crackled merrily; fresh modern tapestries hung on the walls.
‘I take it,’ I said, ‘that the coal deposits weren’t a disappointment?’
‘They certainly were not,’ said Pen. ‘As you see! Not that we’ve been extravagant. A new plough and younger oxen for the farm; they came first. Those tapestries weren’t the most costly, either, believe me. Here’s the parlour. Jane! Jane!’
Jane Mason didn’t get up from her stool as we entered the parlour, for the good reason that she had a lapful of an infant who was certainly well grown for five months. I looked at Master Leonard Moss and concluded that if ever there was a child whose paternity was written all over him, he was that child. He was Clem in miniature, with the same round blue eyes and sturdy limbs which would one day have Clem’s ox-like power. Clem’s mother was big too. It must run in his family.
But it was the girl who was holding him, his aunt, who interested me most. I looked at her, smiling. ‘I haven’t seen you for many years, Jane. Nine, isn’t it?’
Pen took the child so that her sister could get to her feet. I saw that Jane was still the stockier of the two, and rounder of face, lacking Pen’s high, bulging forehead. Jane’s eyes, like Pen’s, were grey and beautifully set, but where Pen’s hair was mousey, Jane’s was a rich beech-nut brown, and when she curtsied to me, the hands which lifted her skirt hem were shapely and, as far as I could see, not adorned with pinpricks. The clumsiness of childhood had vanished. And there was something else.
Maturity had brought her a great sweetness. When she smiled, I saw it: saw how gentle and how perfect was the moulding of her mouth, and how those fine eyes smiled along with it. I saw, in fact, exactly what Mark Easton must have seen, and loved.
And realized, in the same moment, that I did not know whether he had ever been able to tell her that he and I were trying to clear his father’s name. If she hadn’t heard of my investigations, perhaps it would be kinder to say nothing.
‘Dear Mistress Stannard,’ she said, rising from her curtsey and holding her hands out to me. ‘Thank you for all you have tried to do. Mark Easton wrote and told me about it.’
‘What do you mean?’ Pen interrupted her, with frowning brows, and must have accidentally tightened her grip on her son, because he let out a protesting yell. She soothed him, but looked severely at Jane. ‘He had no business to write to you! Clem and I forbade it! Ursula, we have had an approach from a family we know near Bolton. They are interested in Jane as a wife for their son. He is heir to a good property, and he’s as personable a lad as you ever saw. He’s away with Lord Sussex just now, but when he’s home, we’ll arrange a meeting. If he takes to Jane, she’ll be a lucky girl and no one will be able to say that we haven’t done well by her. Why are you so ungrateful, Jane?’
‘I’m not ungrateful. But I see myself as betrothed to Mark, and he has written to me.’ Jane spoke mildly, but without apology. ‘He found a messenger among Lord Sussex’s men, who was bound for Carlisle but willing to pass this way, and he managed to get the letter to me.’
‘How? Has Agnes been conspiring with you again? Smuggling letters to you? If I have told her once, I’ve told her a dozen times—’
‘Pen,’ I said, and for a moment I was once again the guardian who was capable of being stern with her. ‘Pen, leave it. Go on, Jane.’
‘In the letter,’ said Jane, ‘he told me, Mistress Stannard, that you were trying to find out the truth of Master Hoxton’s death, that he had asked you to do so. He said you were being very kind and were doing your best. Have you news for me? Is that why you have come?’
‘I have news,’ I said, ‘but it isn’t what you want to hear, alas.’
As her face crumpled, I took her in my arms. Holding her, I contemplated Pen’s angry eyes and hard line of a mouth and shook my head at her. ‘Pen. I know Mark Easton,’ I said. ‘Has it never struck you that you may be doing him a grave injustice? Do you ever wonder if it is fair to burden the son with the sins of the father, if sins there truly were?’
‘You say you have bad news, mistress.’ Clem had come in with us. ‘Does that mean Gervase Easton did it?’
‘It means that I cannot prove he didn’t. That’s not the same thing,’ I said defiantly.
Pen turned away, joggling the baby in her arms. ‘Jane, why did you mention Mark? Mistress Stannard has barely come into the house, and before she has even taken a seat by the fire, or a glass of wine, you trouble us by talking of Mark and making us all angry. Why will you not let be?’
‘Because I think Mistress Stannard came here on his account!’ Jane said sadly. She drew herself away from me, and we both sat down. She looked at me. ‘I want to know whatever you can tell me. Please.’
‘Well, we do not!’ Pen refused to back down. ‘Jane, go and tell Agnes that we want wine and whatever refreshments she can find, and let this business of Mark alone.’
I intervened. ‘That can wait,’ I said. ‘Pen, I have indeed come to tell the tale of my researches to Jane. I may as well do it now.’
‘I’ll find Agnes, madam,’ said Brockley, and departed.
Pen looked exasperatedly at Clem, who said good-humouredly: ‘Ill news is better out than in, in my view. Best do it quick, and if it means tears, get them shed and dried. Let Mistress Stannard talk, my love.’
Clem’s greatest virtue was his common sense. Pen sank down on to a settle and said: ‘Oh, very well. But Jane, I am angry with you.’
‘You know something about being in love, Pen,’ I said. ‘Be a little tolerant. Now, Jane . . .’
I talked. The wine came, brought in by Agnes and Brockley and accompanied by some sweetmeats made of nuts and honey. I went on talking, for after all, it was a longish story.
At the end of it, Jane, who had listened in silence and with great attention, said: ‘In all this, Mistress Stannard, there has been one vital person who may still be there to be questioned, but has not been found.’
‘And who would that be, mistress?’ Brockley asked, surprised.
‘Why, that woman who said she saw Gervase Easton put something on Hoxton’s tray. Not the one called Madge, but the woman Susannah Lamb. Mistress Stannard, could you try and find her? Could you? Because Mark says his father didn’t do it, that he wouldn’t have lied on the point of death and that what he told Mark in his last letter has to be the truth. Yet this Susannah Lamb says she recognized him. There’s something there that needs explaining.’
She turned to Pen, her head high. ‘Sister, I love you and am grateful for your kindness in looking after me here, but there are things I can’t do even for you. I have said this before, and you didn’t listen. Now I say it again, with Mistress Stannard here as my witness. Please believe me. Unless I marry Mark, I marry no one. I mean it. I wed him and no other. I ask you, not for the first time, to say as much to the family near Bolton. I don’t want to meet their son, for his sake, in case he actually does take to me! I wouldn’t like to disappoint an honest young man.’
She spoke with calm resolution, but without aggression or defiance, as though, even at eighteen, she were already too adult, too sure of herself, to need such things. Again, I knew I had recognized what Mark had recognized: not just sweetness this time, but something beyond it, an honesty and a strength.
I found myself responding. The combination of our need to save Hawkswood, if we could, and the appeal in Jane’s eyes was powerful. ‘If you think it will help,’ I said, ignoring Pen’s attempts to shake her head at me. ‘I will look for Susannah.’
TWENTY-ONE
A Pretty Pope
Heavy rainstorms set in the next day; and anyway, our hard-worked horses again needed rest. We were obliged to stay two clear days at Tyesdale, just as we had at Carlisle. I tried to us
e the time well. I talked to Pen and Clem and to Jane herself, about Jane’s future.
Whenever the matter was raised, Jane, throughout, whether she were speaking to me or to her sister or brother-in-law, held to the statement she had wanted me to witness, and strengthened it. She would not, she said, marry Mark against her family’s wishes, but she would ally herself to no other and she would never change her mind.
It was plain enough that she would never do what Gerald Blanchard and I had once done, which was to elope at midnight. Such lawless actions were not in the nature of Jane Mason, and if they had been, I wouldn’t, nowadays, have encouraged them. I was in my mid-thirties. I was no longer the rebellious girl I had been at twenty.
It seemed to me, though, that her feelings for Mark were deep and strong, and I tried to explain them to Clem and Penelope. Clem was prepared to listen and agree that they should at least not try to thrust Jane into a betrothal she didn’t want. Pen, however, was obstinate.
‘Do you propose to force her into marriage?’ I asked her angrily, having called her to my room on the eve of our departure, in order to make one last try. ‘You were nearly forced into marriage once, against your will. How did you like it?’
Pen, standing before me in her dark-blue gown, her hands linked in front of her, every inch the dignified young housewife, suddenly flinched. For a moment she looked young and vulnerable. I felt compunction. The episode in question had arisen originally from a mission I had carried out for Elizabeth and had then been helped on its way, as it were, by a wayward love affair on Pen’s part. The whole debacle had ended in bloodshed and left a scar on her mind which I had no wish to prod.
It was as well that Brockley wasn’t present. Brockley had been so thoroughly exasperated by Pen on occasion that he had recommended me to treat her more harshly than I was willing to do. I knew too much about harsh treatment, having had it from Aunt Tabitha and Uncle Herbert. Had Brockley been there, he would have been more ruthless than I was.
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