The Fugitive Queen (24 page)

Like Cecily, Sir Francis said that York was the couple's most probable destination. “I truly feel for you,” he said. “This is a most distressing affair.”

“Tomorrow,” I said, when I had heard what all the other inquiries had brought forth, or rather, failed to bring forth, “we must ride to York. I'll make one of the party.”

But in the morning, I was in no condition to go on a journey anywhere. The migraine, which had threatened me once already, had arrived. I awoke with iron pincers gripping my temples and an invisible demon plying a hammer just above my left eye. Migraine does no permanent harm, leaves no traces, but this was a violent attack and until it subsided, I wouldn't even be able to get out of bed, let alone into a saddle.

 • • • 

“Bring Brockley here,” I said miserably to Dale. “He and Ryder will have to take charge of the hunt. It's got to go ahead, and at once. Even as things are, it's probably too late. What her mother is going to say . . .”

I tailed off, as the hammer blows increased in violence. “I'll make you a potion,” said Dale in alarm. “I haven't the makings of the one that Gladys used to make for you, but there's chamomile in that apology for a herb patch outside. That used to work sometimes. I can't abide this place, and that's the truth. I'll be glad to see us home again.”

“You're always glad to see us home again, wherever we go,” I said, trying to smile. “Make me a potion, yes. But send Brockley first.”

Brockley came in softly and stood beside the bed, looking concernedly down at me. Once more, I made an effort to smile.

My migraines always had anxiety of some kind behind them. This time, I knew it was guilt at my own failure, and my fear that I wouldn't be able to put it right. But more than once, Brockley had solved my dilemmas for me. For all his country accent and his life in service, he was an intelligent man and, as he had told me, he had had some schooling when he was a boy. He had been a soldier, too. He knew the world. I had a deep trust both in him and in Dale. They had been my constant companions for years. We had been in danger together; we had been afraid together; we had on occasion saved each other's lives. Such a bond is powerful, so powerful that we had no need of words to remind us that it was there.

Only one thing had ever imperiled it. Once, a long time ago now, Brockley and I had been so drawn to each other that we had come very near to crossing the line between mistress and servant and turning into lovers. We had drawn back from the brink but Dale had guessed and it was the reason why she didn't like our little shared jokes.

Matthew had guessed, as well. To Matthew, I had stoutly denied it. Dale, I had reassured by swearing that there had never been any such attraction between myself and Brockley (which was a lie), and that we had never been, and never intended to be, lovers (which was true).

Hugh had been a blessing, for, unlike Matthew, he never did things I couldn't bear—such as plotting the downfall of Elizabeth. I had no need to look for comfort elsewhere. But Hugh was
far away and now Brockley's calm, high brow, with its dusting of gold freckles, and his bland gray-blue gaze, was the most steadying sight in my world.

“Brockley,” I said, “if I don't get Pen back in time, I'll have let her mother down and let Pen down, too. I don't trust Tobias to be a good husband to her. Even if they're married when I catch up with them, I'll do my best to have it overturned. I hope if they do go through a ceremony, it's a thoroughly hole-in-the-corner affair with no witnesses and a dubious priest. Take Ryder with you and go to York. You'll have to inquire at inns and churches . . .”

“I'll do all I can, madam. I'll take Clem as well, if you agree—he's been to York before and knows the way. If we find a scent, we'll follow till we catch up with them.”

“Like hounds,” I said. I really did smile then and so did he. Dale wasn't by and we could afford one small shared jest.

“Exactly like hounds, madam,” Brockley said.

“Thank you, Brockley. Is Brown Berry still fit after yesterday's hard riding? This is demanding for the horses but we can't waste time.”

“Brown Berry will take me a fair way, madam. Clem says it's more than fifty miles from here but there are places where we can change horses. For the sake of speed, we'd better. I'll do my best, I promise. You must rest, madam. What Pen has done is not your fault.”

“Well, it is. I should have watched her more closely and not given her permission to ride out alone. She was clever,” I said grimly. “They both were. She didn't go far but they still found ways to meet.” The hammer swung furiously again and I wrinkled my brow in pain. “I was a fool not to guess she might be up to something.”

“You'd hardly have expected this from a modestly reared wench like Mistress Pen,” said Brockley. “She needs a bit of stick, and when you get her back, you'd best see she gets it.”

“I don't like doing that,” I told him. “I had enough of that kind of thing from my dear aunt Tabitha. You'd better go and saddle up.”

“The horses are being got ready now, madam. If you listen, you can hear the hooves down in the courtyard.”

“Dear Brockley. Always a step ahead, thank heavens. Sybil will give you whatever money you need. I know you'll do your best; you hardly need to promise that. Is that Dale with my potion?”

But the footsteps approaching my door were not those of Dale. The two who appeared in the doorway were Agnes Appletree, looking extremely flustered, with a face as crimson as a woodpecker's crest, and behind her, incredibly, was Magnus Whitely.

 • • • 

“You!”
said Brockley furiously. “What are you doing here?”

“Brockley . . .” I said weakly.

“He says he's got to see the mistress,” said Agnes. “He says he's got news of Mistress Pen!”

I had known it from the moment I set eyes on him. After all, Tobias
was
his cousin. Painfully, I hitched myself up on my pillows, gritting my teeth as the pain crashed through my skull. “Good day, Master Whitely. As you see, I am indisposed but I am capable of hearing news. What have you to tell me? Do you know where Penelope Mason is?”

“Not
exactly,
at this moment, Mistress Stannard,” said Whitely. He was as nondescript as ever in face and dress, but once again, if you looked at his clothing, you could see how good the materials were, and the cut. On the middle finger of his left hand, he wore a ruby ring. The sight of it made me want to grit my teeth even more. He came over to the bed and stood looking down at me. His expression wasn't sympathetic, which didn't surprise me.

“At this moment? What does that mean?” I asked him.

“It means, Mistress Stannard, that where she is
just
now is something I don't know. Better you don't know, my cousin Tobias said to me, then no one can bribe or beat it out of you. But where she'll be in a few days' time—that's
quite
another matter. That's for you to say. I'd like to speak to you in private.”

Brockley bristled and so did Agnes but I shook my head at them. I regretted this at once and hoped that the nauseous climax of migraine wouldn't happen in the presence of Tyesdale's odious ex-steward.

“I'll be within call, madam,” Brockley said as he marshaled Agnes out of the door. I hoped he would have the sense to put his ear to it. “Well?” I said, as soon as Whitely and I were apparently alone.

Uninvited, he sat down on the edge of my bed. “Penelope Mason is in the care of Tobias Littleton,” he said. “But they are not married. Nor will they be. I'm charged to tell you that Queen Mary of Scotland is in
deep
distress over her future. She . . .”

“Queen Mary? What has she to do with Pen?”

“A lot, if you'll hear me out, mistress. You'll have seen her lately and you'll have seen for yourself what I've only heard of from Tobias. He says she's been foolish in some way but he doesn't blame her because she's
ill,
poor soul, with fear for her good name and her freedom. This latest news—you know of it, I think—of words taken from honest letters and used to condemn her, has
broken
her, her heart and her hope. She knows now that she was in error to come to England; that Elizabeth would rather be in Moray's pocket than stand her cousin's friend. She should have gone to France in the first place.”

“I daresay.” Migraine is a very strange illness. If there comes a demand for action that is imperative enough, it will yield. I sensed such a demand in the offing. I had known when I woke that I could send others to York in my stead, but something was coming now that would need me in person—and suddenly the breakers of anguish in my head were less violent, as though the tide were turning. I straightened myself more firmly against my pillows.
“What has all this to do with Pen?”

“Simply this, mistress. Queen Mary's
friends,
among whom I and my cousin Tobias are
honored
to be numbered, have laid a plan to get her away from Bolton and off to France. It needs your help. If you give it, Penelope Mason will be returned to you
quite
unharmed—in all respects. She will no doubt,” said Whitely sententiously, “be the wiser for the experience, if a little sadder.”

I chose to ignore the moralizing. “And if I refuse?”

“The Thwaites badly want her as a wife for Andrew. They are not concerned in the plot to rescue the queen; we could not trust them for that. That family lost their taste for plots over thirty years ago when they lost half their land. But they are my friends. I have seen them and given them to understand that I
may
be able to bring her to them, and that they should have a priest ready. Tobias says that Mistress Pen has told him that she is afraid of the Thwaites and that they once tried to kidnap her. She even believes they had something to do with the death of one of your men. Nonsense, in my opinion—but marriage to Andrew wouldn't be to her taste.”

“You're taking a risk,” I said. “I might sacrifice her for the greater good.”

“Penelope herself begs you not to, for her sake and her mother's. She knows what is planned for her. When I saw her last, this morning—in a shepherd's hut on the moors, just before Tobias took her on to another hiding place—she was in tears.
Floods
of them,” said Whitely with satisfaction.

I regarded him with hatred.

“I believe you're fond of Queen Mary yourself,” he said. “Do you
like
to think of her ill and frightened, a prisoner maybe forever?”

I didn't. Even though I now knew more about Mary than was at all comfortable, I didn't like that, no. She had certainly been foolish, in a number of ways. She had been too much a woman and not enough of a queen. She had handed Darnley's fate to her nobles, because they were the strong men she instinctively wanted to rely on. She had tried to pretend that because she had not actually said
kill him,
she was not responsible when they did precisely that, and finally, she had become hysterical when the guilt came winging home to her.

Yet still I was sorry for her, caught as she was in a trap of her own making. As for Pen . . .

“You had better tell me,” I said, “what you want me to do.”

Whitely smiled. “One thing you'd best
not
do, mistress, is try to get in touch with Bolton—or the queen or Cecil, either, or
anyone else on their side. As for what
we
need from you—it doesn't amount to much. There is a
possibility
that Queen Mary may be allowed out of Bolton, under guard, to pay you a visit. Sir Francis is
extremely
worried about her health and
may
consent, against his better judgment—or his orders.”

Yes, so he might, I thought. He was loyal to Elizabeth, but Mary's magic had touched him and clung to him, like a persistent cough after a bad cold.

“She may stay for a night,” Whitely said. “This house has a spare bedchamber at the back. Give her that. It overlooks the moat—in fact the wall under the window goes almost straight down into the water. It's secure enough. No one will criticize you for putting her there. That is all. Meanwhile, you're to stay quiet in Tyesdale until you're called upon.”

The pain was unquestionably fading. It had sunk down now to a dull throb. I would have to meet this challenge, whatever the outcome and in the face of it, migraine would surrender. “I see,” I said. “And I have no time in which to decide? You want an answer now?”

“Yes.”

I closed my eyes and pressed my head back into the pillow, as though the pain were still intense and had weakened my will. “I don't understand why the Thwaites are so mad for Andrew to marry Pen, but I don't intend them to have her. She'd never forgive me and nor would her mother. As for Mary—I'm sorry for her, you're right there. Poor silly woman. I'll do it. And hope to God I don't end up fleeing for my life to spend the rest of it in exile. Now will you go away? I'm likely to be sick in a minute. You won't want to be here for that.”

Whitely got off the edge of my bed. “Best
not
try to deceive me, mistress. There'll be eyes watching Tyesdale. You won't see them but they'll be there.
No
messengers should leave the premises, if you please.
No one
is to ride beyond your boundaries. Once it's all over, and Her Grace is safe away, and Tobias and myself with her, you can do as you like. If you
really
fancy going to Sir Francis Knollys, or home to the queen and Sir William Cecil and confessing, then you'll be free to do so.”

“Just leave, Whitely, please.”

“I'll not say let's shake hands on it, mistress. We'll take
that
as done,” said Whitely, and bowed to me most graciously, and went.