Authors: Fiona Buckley
“Wha . . . what’s the matter, Dale? What time is it?”
“Not much past four of the clock, ma’am, and I’m sorry to disturb you but Roger says to come. Something’s going on down in the stable yard under our window.”
I was out of bed at once and Dale, setting the candle down, picked up my loose gown and threw it around
my shoulders. Seizing the candle again, she lit my way through to the little adjoining room where she and Brockley had been sleeping. Brockley was by the window, his silhouette showing dimly against a faint grayness outside. The casement was open a little, and a cold wind blew in, making the candle flame stream.
“I heard a horse whinny and it woke me,” he said in a low voice. Brockley was always alert to any disturbance involving horses. At heart, he was still more groom than manservant. Still speaking low, he said: “Put out the light, Fran. It mustn’t show. Madam, please to come over here.”
I did so. I heard the clop and scrape of restless hooves and the murmur of voices before I even reached the window. When I peered out, I saw that John Thursby and Henry Bycroft were both in the yard, John holding up a lantern and Henry at the head of a saddled horse while a third man tightened the saddle girths. They were all just outside the stable door, which was quite close, but because of the apple tree, which was also close though fortunately not between me and the stable, the Brockleys’ window was in deep shadow from the point of view of anyone below. Cautiously, I pushed the casement wider and leaned right out, straining my ears.
“. . . I know it’s a long way and it’s a bad time of year but I told you; your pay will take that into account. We trust you.” Thursby was talking to the man who was adjusting the girths. In the still, cold air before dawn, his voice floated up to me with reasonable clarity.
“You’re on my best mare and I don’t want her foundered, so it’s a matter of not too fast but fast
enough.” Thursby, as voluble as his wife, was fussing. “Ninian won’t leave until after breakfast; you’ll have a fair start. Just as well. He’s traveling as a clerk on his master’s business so he’ll not linger. He only stayed here yesterday because it was Sunday. You’ve to get to London ahead of him if you can.”
Bycroft, whose voice was deeper, rumbled something that sounded like: “Not so loud.” He said something else as well, but the horse chose that moment to snort and stamp and I couldn’t make out the words.
“The house is asleep,” said Thursby, though more softly. “Here’s the letter, Paul, and the token to help you deliver it. Keep them with you at all times till you’ve done our errand.”
With the girths now satisfactory, the man who had been tightening them turned and took something that his master was holding out to him and I recognized him as Paul Bisselthwaite, one of the Thursby grooms, the one, in fact, who was good at doctoring horses as long as he was paid extra. He was evidently being paid extra for a different kind of service now. He spoke to Thursby in a quiet voice, which again I couldn’t hear, but I could make out Thursby’s reply.
“Of course the token will work. There was only a difficulty that once, when you had to deal with a new servant. Cecil’s people didn’t give trouble at other times, did they? Not that it mattered even when they did; you persisted and got in to see him just the same. Of course you did. You’re a good man. I said we trust you.”
I had begun to shiver, and not just from cold. The Thursbys were sending a messenger to Cecil and were making sure that he got to southern England ahead of
Father Ninian. It wasn’t hard to interpret. They
had
been betraying the messengers who kept Mary Stuart in touch with her English and Continental adherents. At least, John Thursby had. I didn’t know about his wife. The Bycrofts were obviously involved as well, which was surprising, but there was Henry Bycroft in the stable yard, to prove it.
I still did not know if the Thursbys—or the Bycrofts, come to that—had had Edward murdered to keep their activities private, but the motive was there: no doubt of it. Thursby was holding the lantern up in order to watch Paul stow what he had been given inside his jacket. The light fell on the red Thursby cheeks and gappy smile but cast John’s eyes into shade. He didn’t look like Robin Goodfellow now, but like an evil goblin.
I drew back, slowly, carefully, and inched the window shut. “Did you hear any of that, Brockley?”
“No, madam. I was standing behind you. What’s happening?”
I said carefully: “They are sending word to Cecil—about something. I’m going back to bed now. But make sure I’m not late for breakfast, Dale. It could be important.”
I went back to bed and lay there in turmoil. Should I warn Father Ninian or not? I detested and feared him, for he was working to destroy Elizabeth, to bring about the ruin of the England I loved, but then, so had Matthew been. I had in the past saved Matthew from being caught, and although Ninian was a stranger to me, should I not also save him? Even if he was not thought worth a traitor’s death, he might still find himself imprisoned for years in a Tower dungeon once Cecil got
hold of him, and before he was finally locked up, he would be questioned. I knew what that would mean.
As a true subject of Queen Elizabeth, it was my duty to let him be taken. I should admire the Thursbys and the Bycrofts for what they were doing. I did not know what motives the Bycrofts had but they might well have their reasons. The Thursbys certainly had reasons, and normally would have had my sympathy. I too served Elizabeth, and in my time, I too had sent men to their deaths. I too loved my home and I had been saddened, as well, by their story of their kidnapped daughter. Why should they love Scotland? Why should they not do all they could to halt the ambitions of her queen?
But there was still Edward, my objectionable cousin who was nevertheless my cousin, and who had died so horribly.
Yes, there was still Edward. Then I fell asleep and woke an hour later to find that the migraine that had threatened me again last night had kept its abominable promise. I could scarcely lift my head from my pillow. I had feared that our hasty journey to the Thursbys would make Dale relapse, but I had done the relapsing instead. In the intensity of the pain, Father Ninian’s plight was wiped from my mind. By the time the onslaught had climaxed and the tide of agony had gone out, leaving me as wobbly as a newborn foal, Father Ninian had set out and was on his way to his betrayal.
I told the Brockleys then what I had heard in the night. Brockley considered the matter thoughtfully. “The illness came to stop you from warning him, I fancy, madam,” he said. “The queen and Cecil wouldn’t have wanted you to. You always keep faith with them,
even when they haven’t kept it with you. I’ve noticed that.”
“I sometimes feel like a pawn on Elizabeth’s private chessboard,” I agreed bitterly. “But if these people had my cousin murdered, then I am not prepared to be a pawn, even for her.”
“So—what now, madam?”
“As soon as I feel strong enough,” I said, “which at the moment I don’t, we must set off again. We must pretend to our good hosts that we are going home, but in fact, we must go back to Scotland. I’m ready now to report what I know to Rob Henderson. He may be able to find out the rest of the truth.”
I would leave it to Rob to question the Thursbys and Hamish Fraser and arrest them if he felt it right. If this were the answer to Edward’s death, then Rob could have the credit for finding it. Perhaps that would mend the breach between us.
We left St. Margaret’s the next day, a Tuesday, once more riding our own horses. We announced that we were off to London, waved good-bye, rode away, and as soon as we were well out of sight, turned north instead of south and made for Edinburgh. The weather stayed dry and we were there by midday on Thursday, which gave us time to look for lodgings. I didn’t wish to go back to Holyrood, nor did I think it right to lodge with the Keiths or Macnabs or even in the place where we had stayed before, because they all had links to the Thursbys. It would be best, I thought, if the Thursbys didn’t learn where I was. Brockley had duly tried to find out what he could about Hamish Fraser, and he said that Hamish was regarded by his fellow servants as a thoroughly dutiful steward. I didn’t want him creeping in at my window with a thoroughly dutiful blade in his hand.
We found lodgings in the house of a merchant. It
was as plainly furnished as most houses in Edinburgh seemed to be, except for Lady Simone Dougal’s, but the fires were good and our room had both a box bed and a four-poster. The Brockleys could have the box bed, I said.
I had to send Brockley to Holyrood anyway, because I wanted to see Rob Henderson. He came back, however, with a long face. “The queen’s gone to Stirling, madam, and Lord Darnley’s with her and Master Henderson, being part of his suite . . .”
“Has gone to Stirling too, I suppose,” I said. “Yes, I see.” The three of us were all together in our hired chamber, Dale, who was tired, resting on the box bed, with the door to it open, while I sat on the window seat, where I had been passing the time with a little embroidery until Brockley’s return. I had put it down on my lap while I listened to Brockley’s report and now, studying his face, it struck me that Brockley looked almost as tired as Dale. For the first time ever, I thought:
he’s growing older.
When I first met him, over four years ago now, his hair had been brown and wiry, with only a few silver threads at the temples. Now the silver had scattered itself all through the brown, and his hairline had receded still farther from his high forehead.
“Brockley,” I said on impulse, “how old are you?”
If the question surprised him, he didn’t show it. “I shall be forty-eight years old in May. Fran will be the same age in August.”
“Sit down,” I said, indicating a settle. “You look exhausted. I’m sorry, Brockley. I’ve been driving you too hard as well as Dale.”
“I’m fit enough, madam,” said Brockley, slightly aggrieved. “I wouldn’t like to join an army and go on campaign, I admit that, but I can still do whatever you’re likely to want of me.”
All servants grew nervous when their employers began to imply that they were past their best but neither Dale nor Brockley had anything to fear from me. I looked from Brockley, now seated on the settle, with one brown-hosed ankle over the other knee, to Dale, propped on her elbow on the box bed, and thought: it’s true what everyone has been telling me. I should give up this way of life and give my servants an easier time. And for their sakes and mine, I should find another husband.
I only wished that something in me didn’t shrink from the prospect. It wasn’t only because my bereaved heart had not yet healed from Matthew’s loss—or even, I sometimes thought, from the earlier loss of Gerald. There was something else. Meg’s birth had been difficult, and since then, I had had two failures, one of which had almost killed me. I did not want to face that battlefield again. There is a widespread belief that all women so passionately desire babies that they are indifferent to the dangers. It isn’t true. I was anything but indifferent.
“I will always look after you two,” I said gently. And then, of course, I added: “How far away is Stirling, I wonder?”
• • •
Our landlord’s name was Master Alexander Muir. He was a widower, though he had several children at
home. He was a well-fed, well-dressed man, and he made his living by importing furs from Norway and Sweden (a benefit to us because we had warm fur rugs for our beds). Later that afternoon, he invited me to his firelit parlor for what he called a welcoming dram, by which he meant a glass of the amber-colored spirit that the Scots call whiskey. During my time in Scotland, I got used to it, and I grant you that nothing warms you better on a cold day, but it was so fiery that I always coughed at the first mouthful. Having got over this stage, I seized the chance to ask him if he knew how to get to Stirling.
“Stirling? It’s away up at the head of the firth, thirty miles and a bit, as the crow flies. It’s a guid place for trade. I’ve a hoose there and I have my captains put in there as often as not. It’d tak ye no more nor a day to get there on horseback, or ye micht go by water . . .”
I opened my mouth to ask for more details, but before I could speak, a brisk hammering on the street door interrupted us. Master Muir looked annoyed. “Now who might that be? I’m expecting nae callers this afternoon. On Thursdays after dining, I work in ma coontin’ hoose, always, and mostly I’m still there at this hoor . . .”
A maidservant appeared at the parlor door and said something. She spoke broad Scots, and as so often, I couldn’t understand it, but Master Muir at once rose to his feet and said: “Well, bring him in, then!” The maidservant bobbed and disappeared, coming back a moment later with, to my surprise and disquiet, Sir Brian Dormbois.
Dormbois acknowledged Master Muir with a nod
and made straight for me, hands outstretched. “Madame de la Roche! I heard you were back in Edinburgh, for your man called at Holyrood today, did he not, inquiring for Master Henderson. One of my own men was by and realized who he was. But why are you here and not at Holyrood? The queen has received you; there’d be no difficulty . . .”
“Madame de la Roche?” said Master Muir, eyeing me with doubt. “I understood that ye were Mistress Blanchard.”
“I’ve been married twice,” I said. “I sometimes use my first husband’s name when I wish for privacy. I am in Edinburgh on a very private matter, which is also why I didn’t seek shelter at Holyrood.”
“This lady is known to and approved by Her Majesty Queen Mary,” said Dormbois brusquely. “And now, Master Muir, I wish to speak with her alone.”
Whereupon, Alexander Muir, substantial merchant (in every sense of the word), paterfamilias, and no doubt a prominent citizen of Edinburgh, quitted his own parlor like a meek lamb.
“You’ve just ordered him out of a room in his own house!” I said in amazement.
“He respects my reputation,” said Dormbois. “I am known to have a short temper, a ready fist, and a sharp blade always to hand. I also buy furs from him, and there’s no respect like that of a merchant for a good customer.” Dormbois favored me with one of his spectacular grins.