The Fugitive Queen (25 page)

If Brockley had been listening at the door, he had taken himself quickly out of the way. Whitely found no one outside. As soon as I heard his feet going downstairs, I slid off the bed. My head gave a mild thud as I stood up, but I ignored it, knowing that the pain, now, would drain out of me like water through sand. I went to the window to look into the courtyard, and as I watched, Appletree brought Whitely's horse out, and Clem appeared, arms akimbo, to watch as well until my unpleasant visitor had mounted and ridden away.

I went to my bedchamber door and called. A moment later, Dale arrived with a beaker, exclaiming that here was my chamomile potion at last, and Sybil also appeared, with Meg. Since this was a Sunday, albeit a distracted one, they had been reading prayers together in Meg's room.

“Mother! You're better!” Meg cried.

“I'm thankful to say that I am, though I'll take the potion to be on the safe side. Come in here, all of you. I've something to tell you. Where's Brockley? Oh, here he is.” Brockley and Agnes were coming upstairs after Dale. “Come in, Brockley—yes, and you too, Agnes.”

“I know what's afoot, madam,” said Brockley. “I listened at the door though I made myself scarce before Whitely came out.”

“I thought you would,” I said. “Well, you know what's happening, but I want all of you to know. Listen, everyone.” They were silent and attentive while, sipping my beaker between sentences, I recounted my interview with Whitely.

“Well,” said Sybil at the end, “what do you wish us to do, Mistress Stannard?”

“We
have
to get word to Sir Francis,” I said. “Somehow! That goes without saying. Without risk to Pen, but it must be done. I
cannot
enter into a treasonable plot, even for her. Dear God, I must get her out of this muddle but not by that means.”

“Well,” said Dale, “it's a mercy that it's Sunday and we haven't got Bess Clipclop and Feeb here in the house. That
Whitely must know all the laborers' families. Maybe they're some of the eyes he was talking about—or ears.”

“But the girls will be here tomorrow,” I said, “possibly to spy on us. Even Feeb may not be as stupid as she looks. We shall have to be very careful!”

“You're recovering, I see, madam,” Brockley said to me. That fugitive smile of his was in his eyes again. “I never thought of Magnus Whitely as a physician before, I must say.”

“His treatment's not to be recommended, but it works, yes,” I said grimly. “Now then. How do I get to Bolton unseen?”

“Ah,” said Brockley.

“Brockley! You've got some ideas?”

“Hazy ones, madam, but after what I heard with my ear to the door, I started thinking. When I dodged downstairs to get out of the way when Whitely left you, I hid in the kitchen, and I heard the unctuous little brute saying good-bye to Clem in the courtyard and wishing Clem well in his new post.”

“Did he?”

“He did. Smooth as you please. It reminded me of something—or someone, rather. A too-smooth chaplain that one of my former employers had, a fellow no one else in the house could stand. Thinking about him put another idea in my head, about a way to protect Mistress Pen. Or partly protect her, anyway. It may not work, but I can try. I'll have to get away from Tyesdale to do it, though, and I won't be going to Bolton. So there's two of us that'll have to make themselves invisible so as to get out of the house, but as I said, I do have a notion about that, too . . .”

“It's the worst problem,” I said. “How
can
any of us get away from Tyesdale unseen?”

“Oh, I think it could be done,” said Brockley. “Whitely's a fool. How he or anyone else proposes to watch Tyesdale after dark, I can't imagine.”

I listened to what Brockley had to say and then added something of my own. “We need to know we can trust everyone in the house. We needn't worry about Cecil's men or Tom Smith, but—Agnes, fetch your husband. And Brockley, find Clem. The four of you are to come to the chapel. Sybil, you and Meg go back to your prayers—we may need them!”

I was first to reach the chapel. I still felt shaky, but the pain in my head had stopped and my stomach had settled. In my few moments of solitude before the others arrived, I knelt and said a private prayer.

I have never been sure that I believe in God. But I was so afraid for Pen that I wanted to pray for her and besides, I felt that I should be grateful to someone or something that I had learned the truth about Mary Stuart before I was faced with this. I would never have betrayed Elizabeth. Of that I am sure. But that morning, I was very glad that Mary's enchantment was gone and that I could shape my plans in the clean, plain light of day, untroubled by any goblin lures of magic.

A few moments later, Brockley, Clem, and the Appletrees came in, all together. I rose to my feet and took stock of them. Then I said: “You all saw Magnus Whitely. He brought news of Mistress Pen.”

“Brockley's told us,” Clem said.

I nodded, but briefly repeated it anyway. Jamie stood shaking his head in horrified disbelief. Clem's face was suffused with anger. “It's a disgrace, that's what it is. A decent young maid like Mistress Pen, used like . . . like just summat to bargain with! Aye, I know she walked into it, but she's young and too innocent to be wary of folk like that.”

“Quite. Exactly,” I said. “Now, listen carefully. The scheme in which Whitely wants to entangle me is treason. For me, it is doubly treason for I am attached to the court of Queen Elizabeth. I am also very frightened for Pen. She must not get into the hands of the Thwaites. She loathes them and for very good reasons. We all know
what
reasons.”

They nodded. “Therefore,” I said, “
somehow,
no matter how many watchers Whitely puts round Tyesdale, I have both to rescue Pen and to inform Sir Francis Knollys at Bolton of the plot. But first, let me be clear. I need not ask this of Brockley, but are you three, Clem, Agnes, Jamie, for me or against me?”

“High treason?” said Jamie Appletree in horror. “There's none of us want to get mixed up in owt of that kind! Or to do harm to Mistress Pen, neither! Besides, there was this young fellow of yours that lost his life on t'way here, that it seems these Thwaites spirited away!”

“Aye. That's right!” Agnes backed him up.

“I say the same,” said Clem. “Even if we do hear mass at home, we're honest English right enough. Religion's private, but t'queen's t'queen. Even if there weren't Mistress Pen to think of. Poor maid.”

“Very well,” I said. “But this is serious business, so serious that I have to be sure.” I moved to the lectern where the illuminated Latin Bible lay. “Come over here. I want you to swear.”

They did as I asked. It was a makeshift ceremony, in a chapel that, though it had now been swept and polished, still had a desolate air, lacking the candles and incense that usually solemnize rites held in such places. Yet the light and scent and the solemnity were there in another fashion, for a shaft of sunlight was streaming in from the bright August day outside, catching
the gold leaf cross on the front of the Bible, and the gravity of the oath they were taking created its own incense and was mirrored in their serious faces.

One by one, the Appletrees and Clem each laid a hand on the Bible and swore on it to be true subjects of Queen Elizabeth and to assist me as best they could both in foiling the present treasonous plot and saving Penelope from a detestable marriage. When all three had sworn, Brockley insisted not only on doing the same thing but also on fetching the other men and inviting them to take the oath. They did, which touched me.

“It makes us all one band, madam,” Brockley explained.

After that, we went to the hall and got down to practical details.

 • • • 

One thing still stood out as a mystery. Brockley commented on it.

“Why,” he said, “
are
the Thwaites so mad to marry their son to Pen? They snatched Meg in mistake for her. I'm sure that's true. The answer has to be in Tyesdale itself but
what
is it?”

No one, though, had any suggestions beyond the fact that Tyesdale was quite extensive and marched with Fernthorpe, and that the house, however much cleaning and repairing it needed, was a palace compared to the pigsty in which the Thwaites lived.

After a very short discussion, we gave up trying to solve the puzzle. Whatever the reason, Pen was in danger of being forcibly turned into a Thwaite and to prevent this we had somehow or other to get out of Tyesdale unseen.

 • • • 

“Eyes watching,” Brockley said, “but watching where? If Whitely and Littleton had an ounce of sense they'd put their watchers at the other end, near Bolton Castle, because that's where we'd be bound to go. But maybe they've not had as much experience of conspiracy as we have. They may just try to put a cordon
round Tyesdale. First of all, just how many pairs of eyes can they muster?”

“Possibly quite a few,” I said. “Whitely knows the people round here and I daresay he can pay, damn him!”

“Quite a few doesn't necessarily mean an army,” said Ryder. “What they're plotting is dangerous. Even if they don't explain the whole scheme to their hirelings, a lot of folk would be sharp enough to work out that it's something to do with Mary of Scotland, and they might be afraid to help. And some might wonder if Sir Francis Knollys wouldn't pay more for information than Whitely can pay for his scheming. Inexperienced or not, I fancy our friends won't want to drag too many people in.”

“And even if someone is posted at the Bolton end,” I said thoughtfully, “would it be all round the clock? In the depth of the night? Brockley, I think your idea is that we should try to get out after dark. I agree, and I think we should time our arrival at Bolton for just before daybreak. What about moonlight? The sky's clear at the moment.”

“There'll be a half-moon,” Clem said. “But it'll set before dawn.”

“So if they put someone near Bolton, all the watcher would see would be shadowy figures riding to the castle,” I said. “And that could happen at any time. The queen's messengers can arrive at any hour. There's always a guard at the castle, night and day, ready for such things. Once I'm there,” I added, “I should get admittance all right. They'll know my name and probably my face as well.”

“We can't worry about whether or not there'll be anyone posted at Bolton,” said Dick Dodd. “You've got to go there, whatever happens, mistress. Just before dawn is the likeliest time to avoid being recognized; you're right there. At Bolton, we'll have to trust to luck or the goodness of God. We should concentrate on getting out of here.”

Brockley turned to Appletree. “Jamie, if you let the dogs loose at dusk, will they warn us if anyone's hanging about close to the house?”

“Aye, they will that, unless I hush them. The which I shan't.”

“All right,” said Brockley. “It's risky just assuming things but I think we've got to. If Ryder here's right and they don't have that many people, they'll probably just guard the paths. They must have thought of us slipping out at night, but I think they'll expect us to use paths—westward ones. So we won't ride on tracks of any kind and we won't go westward, or not to start with. It'll take longer but it might work. All we need is someone to guide us who knows the land round here.”

“I knows the land but I'm no horseman,” said Jamie.

“Clem?” said Brockley.

“Aye. I reckon,” said Clem. “See here. Look at this.” And with that, grinning enthusiastically, he started to create a map on the hall table with the aid of the stray collection of objects that were lying on it: a hawking gauntlet, a chess set that Ryder and Brockley had been playing with, a book of verse, a pile of trenchers, and a few serving spoons that were used so often that we never put them away between meals.

“This,” said Clem, setting out a trencher, “is t'bit of woodland that you'd have passed when you rode here from Grimsdales', mistress. It's in a valley that leads away southwest. And this . . .”—he put a gauntlet down beside the trencher—“is t'hump of hillside that's between t'woodland and here. It's mostly barley fields and pasture, with a few stone walls. As soon as we're a little way out of the house, we'll turn across that and make for the wood, keeping by t'walls when we can. Here, near t'house, is t'proper track for Bolton, leading westward . . .”

A spoon supplied the proper track.

“But if we go through t'wood, we won't be going west. That's what you had in mind, weren't it, Master Brockley? Well, once we're through t'wood, we come out on t'moor a good few miles south o' t'track for Bolton and on a path that wanders off southward. Who'll think we're going to go that way, for a start? Anyhow, we won't stop on t'path once it's in the open. We'll strike straight across t'moor. I hope I'll not lead us astray in t'dark, but I know the landmarks round here pretty well.”

Another spoon supplied the line we would use. We would be riding across country, tiny figures lost in the night and the vast
moor, traveling west and parallel with the official track but well away from it.

Clem frowned, chewed his lip, and borrowed a pawn from the chess set. “That's a tree that we ought t'see if we're on t'right road, except that it won't be a road, just moorland. T'land dips down into that long vale that has Fernthorpe at t'other end—there's other farms there but they're scattered and we needn't go near—then t'moor climbs and we're into t'worst part in t'dark, for there's no landmarks. There's a place where t'ground drops away to t'south, over a steepish fall. See it in daylight, it's sheer, almost—gray rock walls wi' moorland above and a river full o' boulders down below.” Carefully, he placed another trencher. “There's t'river valley. We don't want to ride over t'edge o' that in t'dark. Maybe we'll be glad o' t'moonlight after all.”