‘It may be useless,’ I said. ‘I expect it is. But I will go with Philip and go on searching. There are still parts of the wood that I want to hunt through again. Where there’s undergrowth, and perhaps we missed a few secret places. We’ll take the dogs again.’
‘Very well,’ said Brockley.
‘I suggest,’ said Philip as we started out, ‘that we take the right-hand track, where I advised Harry to go. It’s the likeliest direction.’
‘All right,’ I said. But I knew, as we started out, that it was pointless. I was simply repeating what had become a habit. I had seen the menagerie at the Tower of London and I had seen lions restlessly pacing their cage, back and forth, without cessation. I was behaving like those lions. But I couldn’t help myself; anything was better than staying at home, trying to occupy myself with inspecting the work of the maids, or doing embroidery, or reading, or wandering round the rose garden that Hugh had loved so much.
Normally, at this time of year, I would be taking a keen interest in the roses, as they responded to an earlier pruning and began to put forth new growth. Now, I could not take an interest in anything.
The weather had turned sunny, as though the storm had never been. As Philip and I rode out, signs of spring were all around us. Many of the trees in the woodland were oaks, which were always slow to come into leaf, but there were also patches of beech and on them, the rain of the storm followed by warm sunshine had worked wonders. The woods were misted with green today and full of birdsong. Normally, I would have loved riding through them. Now, they might as well have been a desert.
Despondency lay heavily upon me. I would have to give up the search after this, I thought. I would have to leave it to Sir Edward Heron. I hoped he would be helpful. I didn’t like him, and neither did he like me.
For the moment, Philip and I rode with care, looking from side to side, making excursions now and then, off the paths and in among the trees, to see if a patch of bushes here, or a big tree bole there, was hiding anything. Remus and Goldie ranged round us, pursuing the secret invitations that the woodland offered to their sensitive nostrils. Before starting, we had, as before, given them some of Harry’s clothes to smell. If they found any trace of him, they would assuredly let us know.
The attack came so suddenly and so fast that I couldn’t believe it even while it was happening. One moment we were riding, at a walk, on a track through a patch of beech trees, with some bushes in between; the next, the bushes seemed to erupt into movement, sprouting men like crazy new branches. There were hands clutching at Jewel’s bridle and other hands on me, dragging me out of my saddle. There were faces, frightful faces, demons and jesters and idiot blankness, mummers’ masks of course but not the less terrifying for that.
Goldie and Remus had been running among the trees and now came rushing to my rescue, snarling. A man in a demon mask had been standing back, holding a crossbow. It spat, and Goldie rolled over, howling, with a bolt through his chest, and then collapsed. The same man drew a sword and as Remus sprang at him, used it. Remus died at once without even time to howl. He fell beside Goldie and his assailant put a foot on his body to pull the sword out more easily.
I cursed and screamed, but someone clapped a gloved hand over my mouth. Tears burst from my eyes. I was struggling wildly. I heard Philip shouting and from the corner of my eye I saw that he too had been wrenched out of his saddle and thrown onto the ground and I saw a man with a clown mask looming over him, raising a club. Another was driving his speckled mare away. Jewel was rearing and plunging and the man who had grabbed my rein let her go. I heard her frightened hooves receding, following her stablemate. I knew now what had so much frightened Mealy.
My wild resistance was pointless; there were too many of them. I was pushed down onto my back, and someone was twining a rope round my ankles. Ropes were being wound round me, binding my arms to my sides, and a scarf of some sort was being pushed into my mouth. Then I was being rolled over and rolled up, into what seemed to be a carpet. I was being lifted. I was being placed on something hard. There were muttered voices round me. Whatever I was lying on began to move. I was being taken away, on some kind of cart.
I could not see, could not cry out. I had no idea what had happened to Philip but that club had been fearsome; he could well be dead. The horses would probably bolt home. They would give the alarm. People would come. They would find Philip – find the dogs – this was surely what happened to Harry, but he had been alone. Our party had consisted of two people and two dogs; there must, surely, be traces this time. This time, a search would reveal where the attack had happened, where they must start seeking the spoor of my captors. If Philip did survive, he might tell them more. Rescue might come, I thought desperately. I would be rescued, surely. Perhaps Harry too. Perhaps I was going to Harry.
Thinking of that steadied me a little. I wondered where on earth I was being taken. Not only could I see nothing; I couldn’t hear much either, for the carpet muffled everything. But I could make out the sound of the cart’s wheels and I heard when they suddenly changed and so did the motion. I thought I was being wheeled over cobbles. A horse whinnied somewhere and were those voices? But it all faded away and the motion became smooth once more. If we had been in a village street, we had left it now. I seemed to have been on the cart, if that’s what it was, for a long time. I could hear plodding feet around me.
How much longer? The carpet was stifling, smelling of wool and dust and its fibres were scratching my face. I was aware of unseen objects bumping uncomfortably against me. I supposed that my captors didn’t intend to kill me; they could have done that already. But there were other things to fear. First with distress and then with alarm, I realized that I needed a privy. Oh, dear God, not that as well! Oh, please God, let me hold on until we get to wherever we’re going. Don’t let me lose control. Did this happen to Harry too?
There was a change. I could still see nothing, but we had slowed down and around me the sounds that I could hear had changed again. We were indoors, I thought. Then I was being heaved off my uncomfortable carriage. I was lowered to the floor and rolled over, so that my enveloping carpet fell away from me. Hands were busy at the ropes that bound me. I was being helped to sit up. I was in a room, dusty and untidy but furnished like a parlour, and the faces around me were no longer masked. Staring at them in fright and astonishment, I recognized the strolling players who had entertained us at Hawkswood, so recently.
The lanky, long-fingered man who had seemed to be their leader removed his cap and said, with astounding graciousness: ‘We must apologize for such rough treatment, Mistress Stannard. We had our reasons. Don’t be frightened. We hope we haven’t hurt you.’ He gave me what he evidently thought was a conciliating smile. ‘We did our best, in fact, to treat you like a queen. Queen Cleopatra of Egypt had herself brought to Julius Caesar wrapped in a carpet.’
‘That was her choice. She wasn’t kidnapped!’ I said, and then felt panicky, wondering how I had had the temerity to answer him back. He had said don’t be frightened but I was. I wanted to cry out But you’ve hurt Philip and killed my dogs but I didn’t venture to say it, or anything further. I just stared at him.
Whereupon this oddly apologetic ringleader, as though he had read my mind, said: ‘Your escort is not dead. We knocked him down but he was getting to his feet again when we saw him last. We are sorry about your dogs. We can only say that some things are more important than the lives of a couple of dogs. You will understand that shortly. For the moment, though …’
He beckoned to someone behind me, and the red-haired young woman came forward. She wore a cloak but as it swung partly open, I saw that she was once more wearing a crystal-sewn gown, though the gown itself was green this time, not turquoise. She helped me to my feet. I wobbled, hardly able to stand after being tied for so long. ‘I need a privy,’ I said to her.
The young woman promptly replied: ‘Come this way,’ and steered me to a door. It gave on to a cobbled yard. A glance round me
told me that this was a fair-sized house and that to the left was a shed of the sort that was often built behind houses for sanitary purposes.
‘Go in. You’ll find all you need,’ the woman said, and steadied me while I opened the shed door. I managed to totter in on my own. On a shelf there was indeed everything I might require for my personal needs. Someone had been very thoughtful.
I too felt thoughtful. Some years before, I had had to seek for a missing friend, Christopher Spelton. He was a royal messenger who sometimes undertook secret work, just as I did. He had a trick, if he felt he was in danger, and might mysteriously disappear, of leaving a red chalk sign where he hoped it might be found by anyone who came in search of him. It would give them a chance of rescuing him, if he were still alive; if not, to avenge him.
I found his sign and it alerted me to the presence of danger. Since then, I had myself taken to carrying a piece of red chalk about with me, though I had never had occasion to use it. It was my habit to wear open-fronted skirts and have a hidden pouch stitched inside them, where I could carry such things as picklocks, a small dagger, some coinage and anything else that might be useful in my unconventional existence. I had added the chalk to the list, putting it in a little cloth bag so that it couldn’t mark my clothing. I had it with me now.
Before I left the shed, I stooped to make a chalk mark on the wooden wall, near the floor. Christopher Spelton’s mark had been a circle quartered by a cross. I had decided on a square with a V inside it. This was the first time I had used it and it was quite difficult, on the rough timber of the outhouse wall, to make the mark clear but I managed reasonably well. I had told my friends about it, and it just might help them to find me, if I were held for long.
I wished I had thought of asking Christopher to help in the search for Harry, but he had left his work as Queen’s Messenger and agent to marry my former ward Kate Lake and live with her at West Leys, the farm she had inherited from her first husband. It was not so very far from Hawkswood but I had not wished to disturb them.
Relieved at last, and having drawn my sign, I came out to find the red-haired woman waiting to lead me back indoors where the male members of the party were awaiting us. I took the opportunity of glancing quickly at what I could see of the house from outside. It was built of dull red brick with two storeys and an attic floor above, where two gable windows protruded from a thatched roof. The windows were small casements with square leaded panes. It was all too commonplace to amount to much. I had no chance to linger for a closer inspection, anyway. My escort hurried me indoors.
A table had been set for a meal, with a cloth and some food and drink. No one looked threatening. I took courage at last and said: ‘Is Harry here? Is my son here?’
‘No,’ said the long-fingered ringleader. ‘But he is safe. All going well, you will eventually be reunited with him.’
‘Eventually? What does that mean?’
‘You will soon know. I hope you are more comfortable now, Mistress, and I invite you to join us in a meal. You probably need one. And then – then we will explain.’
SEVEN
The Dreadful Choice
I did need food and in any case, although my captors now seemed to want to be friendly, I was still too afraid of them to argue. Therefore, I ate. There was cold meat, I remember, and bread, and some sort of almond-flavoured pudding, and small ale to wash it down. But I couldn’t eat much, so the meal didn’t last long. I forced a slice of cold mutton and a piece of bread down my throat, nibbled at the pudding and then thrust my platter away and said: ‘Why have I been brought here? What is all this about? And where is Harry? Where is my son?’
The ringleader looked at me gravely and said: ‘First of all, we want you to know, to understand that we are honest folk, true English folk, who love this realm and are the loyal servants of her majesty Queen Elizabeth.’
Are you indeed? I didn’t say it aloud but my face said it, because he answered the question I hadn’t uttered. ‘Yes, Mistress Stannard, we are. We are representing ourselves as travelling players but it is only a disguise, though we have worked hard, for more than a year, ever since we formed our little company, to make ourselves convincing. Fortunately, one of us actually is a tumbler, which is very helpful, and several of us can sing, and two of us have been employed in big houses where masques were held, which they helped to plan. We learned a great deal about acting from them. We brought you here,’ he added, sounding quite rueful, ‘on our handcart. We were all out of breath by the time we got you here. You are not a big woman but the handcart was heavy enough already, what with our baggage and properties!’
‘And wrapped in a carpet and piled on the cart along with your luggage,’ I said bitterly, ‘and given that you’d taken those hideous masks off by then, I could be trundled openly through the main street of a town and no one would pay the least attention! But why?’
‘I promise you that we have a good reason for bringing you here. Like many others – many others – we worry about the future, for the times are dangerous. The danger never seems to grow less and sometimes seems to grow more. And the heart of that danger, of course, is Mary Stuart. We know that the queen keeps her close, but Mary is as cunning as a vixen and has secret supporters, here and abroad. We all know what she wants. So do you, Mistress.’
‘Yes, of course. That’s why the queen keeps her shut away. Mary Stuart wants to be restored to the throne of Scotland and also claims to be the rightful queen of England.’
‘Quite. She is Catholic and the Catholics do not accept that the old king’s marriage to Anne Boleyn was lawful. Therefore, they believe that Queen Elizabeth …’ He paused and I saw that his fingers – they were too long, I thought; there was something unnatural about them – were twisting together. I could almost have believed that he was blushing. ‘That Queen Elizabeth is not … was not born in wedlock.’
‘Mary has been accused of having ordered the murder of her husband Lord Darnley,’ I said. ‘Her name has never been cleared and she was foolish enough, after Darnley was killed, to marry the likeliest suspect. Few English people want such a woman for their queen.’
I was repeating the things I had mentioned to the queen and de Simier. The next speaker, who was a younger-looking, slightly built man, went on to repeat more of them. I recalled that at Hawkswood he was the one who had entertained us with tumbling and juggling. He was grave and serious now. He said: ‘Few indeed would want her. Which in one way makes things worse. Just because within England the support for Mary Stuart is scanty, she would if she could seek support from elsewhere. Probably from Spain. If she could, she would bring a Spanish army here. And we all know what that would mean.’
‘It would be followed by the Inquisition,’ said the woman and several of the others nodded emphatically. ‘There’s no doubt about that. And we suspect that Mary would rather have the throne of England than the throne of Scotland. She is a menace.’
‘But she’s a prisoner,’ I said. ‘I’m not sure where, at the moment, but …’
‘Sheffield Castle,’ said another man. He was big and fat and I remembered that he had taken a comic part in the little play that the group had performed at Hawkswood. He had made us all laugh and he had also sung. He had a good, resonant voice. ‘She’s in the charge of Sir George Talbot, Earl of Shrewsbury,’ he said. ‘It’s a good place because Sheffield Manor is close by, where she can be moved for a while whenever the castle has to be cleansed. She doesn’t have to be taken any distance, and the manor and castle are both part of the Shrewsbury estate.’
‘Well,’ I said, ‘wherever she is, I have always understood that she was kept safely. She doesn’t have visitors; she doesn’t have correspondence. She can’t conspire with anyone.’
‘She has servants,’ said the ringleader. ‘Quite a few of them, as it happens. They can’t be entirely prevented from leaving the castle now and then. There is little doubt that Mary can communicate with the outside world and almost certainly does. Yes, she is watched, in
her daily life inside the castle, but tell me, Mistress Stannard, if you were in her place, and someone had smuggled a letter to you, wouldn’t you manage to read it, even if you were watched day and night? You would, I feel sure, manage a few moments of privacy now and then. Wouldn’t you? Tell us how you would do it.’
I blinked at him. ‘Well … I suppose I might hide it in my skirts and I might read it … sitting on the privy perhaps. Or I might manage to slip it between the pages of a book. I expect she reads. I know I would, if allowed. Verses, psalms, travel, history, legends of fabulous beasts. They would all help to pass the time. I would need to be clever, to distract the attention of anyone I thought was watching, while I put the letter into the book but it might be done.’
‘Quite. I see that you understand us very well. Our fear,’ said the ringleader, ‘is that we shall wake up one morning to find a foreign army in England, intent on destroying our queen and imposing on us a religion that we don’t want. Mistress Stannard, the queen herself must fear it. And the Duke of Alençon and Anjou certainly does.’
‘The Duke of …’
‘Yes. There are hopes, are there not, of an alliance between our queen and the French duke, which will bring into being a treaty between the two countries, undertaking, on both sides, to stand together against any aggression from Spain. But the duke is reportedly holding back because of the danger imposed by Mary Stuart.’
They had managed to find out a lot, but there were still things they didn’t know, I thought. The queen was also holding back, and not just because of Mary Stuart. Elizabeth had her own private reasons. Also, as I had confirmed to Elizabeth, many people in England didn’t in the least want their queen to marry a French Catholic. These folk might want it, but they were probably a minority. A simpleminded and naive minority. I did not know what I myself hoped for. I only knew that Elizabeth was in doubt, and I pitied her.
The Reluctant Assassin Page 6
