To Ruin A Queen: An Ursula Blanchard Mystery at Queen Elizabeth I's Court (18 page)

“We have done nothing wrong, you know,” I said to Pugh once. “Lady Thomasine knows that. Surely she explained?”

But all he said was: “Indeed she did, madam,” and then closed his mouth as though it were a trap.

Brockley, Dale, and I did at length manage a little conversation among ourselves. I told Dale that we had spent the night sitting up on straw, and Dale, who knew from experience what the inside of a dungeon was like, was full of commiseration. She had seen us being taken to the dungeon, she said, and then Lady Thomasine had come and said we would all be going away in the morning. “But she locked me in and there I stayed till Pugh came to fetch me. I didn’t sleep, I was so worried for you.” Once she added: “And I’m worn-out now, I don’t mind saying. I can’t abide missing my sleep.”

I saw with anxiety how pale she was, and I knew that Brockley was also stealing worried glances at her. I
could only hope that this ride wouldn’t go on too long.

We paused a few times to eat and drink and rest the horses. Pugh and Evans always chose lonely places. They had bread, cheese, and cold meat in their saddlebags, and also carried water bottles and ready-filled nosebags for our mounts. My hopes of a short journey were not fulfilled for it showed no sign of ending. The day wore on. Toward evening, the rain at last ceased and we could see clearly that mountains were ahead of us, towering so high that their heads showed above the drifts of cloud, as though they were floating in the sky.

I was now exhausted and Dale was drooping miserably. If ever we got out of this, I thought—if ever I returned safely to Meg, to Matthew, to Château Blanchepierre—it would be for good. There should be an end to all adventures. Once Meg was with me in France, she could no longer be used as bait to drag me back to danger and discomfort.

I also thought, silently, that Matthew had been right to warn me that I was too close to Brockley. When I returned to France, Brockley and Dale must not come with me. I must send them away, for all our sakes, no matter what it cost me, or them.

I came out of my reverie to observe that the descending sun had sunk below the cloud and was casting a red sunset over the land. The track was now winding upward into the mountains, amid lonely slopes of grass and heather, hunted by kite and kestrel. Sheep and small, shaggy cattle grazed here and there but some of the hillsides plunged so dizzily that only a goat could have kept a foothold on them. It was wilder land than I had ever seen before.

As dusk drew near, we turned onto a path which was little more than a sheep trail. We followed this up a heathery slope onto a shoulder of hill, and then altered course to ride along the crest of the shoulder, still climbing, nearing the cloud which hung about the higher ground.

I was by now not only tired out but in pain. I had tried to protect my legs from the stirrup leathers by wrapping my skirts around them, but the skirts often slipped out of place and after so many hours, I had acquired raw patches on both calves.

My pony, tough little beast though he was, was also showing signs of exasperation. Twice he balked and had to be dragged onward by Pugh, and when, as if from nowhere, a straggle of sheep scampered across our path, and a frisky lamb kicked up its heels right under my mount’s nose, he showed his resentment by bucking. My saddle had a high pommel and cantle and I should have been secure enough, but my tiredness and my sore calves made gripping difficult. I fell off.

Brockley was out of his own saddle and down beside me at once. “Madam! Mistress Blanchard! Are you hurt?”

“No, I don’t think so. It’s all right, Brockley.” With his help, I got to my feet, partly winded and slightly bruised but not seriously damaged, and found myself face-to-face with a round-eyed shepherd boy, no more than ten years old, and a hairy black-and-white dog.

Evans, redder in the face than ever with anger, rode up and poured a stream of angry Welsh over the boy’s head, presumably recommending that he get himself and his flock of sheep out of our way. The lad tried to say
something, also in Welsh, but dodged away with a cry as Evans struck out with his whip.

“Don’t!” I protested. “He was only moving his sheep! I expect he didn’t see us in time.” I gave the boy a smile, to assure him that I wasn’t much hurt. I doubted if he understood English.

“Not deaf or blind, is he?” Evans was still furious. “He should have heard the hooves, seen us moving; not dark yet, is it? Be off!” He made another swipe at the unfortunate shepherd boy, who sprang away from us in fear, calling and whistling to his animals. Together with his dog and sheep, he disappeared down the mountainside. Pugh had caught my pony and brought him to me. Brockley got me into the saddle. For a moment, as I felt the warmth and strength of his hands, I remembered our shared warmth during the night. But I must forget last night, and so must he.

“Is it much farther?” I asked. “We’re all so tired.”

“Another hour, maybe,” Pugh said briefly. “You are all right? You can keep in your saddle now?”

“I trust so,” I said coldly, folding my skirts around my rasped legs once again. “I’d still like to know where we’re going.”

“To shelter,” said Pugh. “And we should hurry.”

The cloud came rolling down to meet us as we rode on, cutting off the sunset. Like phantoms we moved through a sharp-smelling mist, which blew past us on a cold wind but did not lift. Behind me, I heard Pugh say to Evans: “Are you sure we’re not lost?”

“My mam came from the Black Mountains. We used to visit her kinfolk here. I know my way. There’s a
big old rock coming up in a minute. We turn right just after that.”

The rock, a huge boulder lying beside the path, emerged from the mist a moment later. Beyond it the track forked, and Evans duly led us to the right. The darkness was falling rapidly now. Then Pugh said: “Ah! We’re there,” and pushing his pony past me, rode ahead. As we followed, the blowing vapors parted a little and the very last of the light showed us a stone cottage, small but solid-looking, the kind of place that shepherds use in the hills.

“Get down,” said Pugh.

It was an order. We all dismounted, stiff and cold. Dale’s knees gave way and Brockley reached out quickly to support her. Evans and Pugh took the ponies’ bridles. “The place isn’t locked,” Pugh said. “Go on in. There’s a shack for the animals at the back. We’ll see to them and join you. We’ll all have to camp in the cottage together tonight. You should find fuel in there—get a fire lit.”

The cottage door had a couple of bolts, but the main fastening was a huge oaken bar, as thick as a pony’s neck, which went through staples on the door and the wall. Brockley pulled it out, propping it against the wall, and then the three of us went inside. The interior was very dark, but one tiny window let in a trace of light and we could just make out a fireplace on the opposite wall.

“But where’s the fuel?” Brockley said. “That hearth’s empty.”

We advanced to investigate further and behind us, the door slammed. As we spun around, the bolts were
shot and we heard the grinding sound of the timber bar being thrust into place. We all rushed to the door and pounded on it, shouting, but no one answered. We heard hooves receding.

Dale said shakily: “There’s no fuel, not as much as a twig. And there’s nothing to sleep on, not even straw.”

The hoofbeats faded. We stood listening to the silence. It was cold. We had no firewood, no bedding, and nothing to eat or drink. Our last stop had been several hours before and the rations given to us none too generous even then. We were damp, for our woolen cloaks had absorbed the rain and let some wetness through.

“Isabel and Rhodri,” I said.

“What, madam?” Brockley for once sounded completely overset.

“Isabel and Rhodri,” I said bleakly. “They were shut in the haunted tower to die. Except that this is a cottage instead of a tower, I think Lady Thomasine’s done exactly the same thing to us.”

I was too tired and shaken to watch my words. I just blurted it out and Dale promptly panicked. She rushed shrieking to the door and pounded on it again. “It can’t be true! They wouldn’t do that! Let us out! Come back! Let us out!”

Brockley got hold of her and pulled her away. “That’s no use, Fran. Easy, now. I’m here.” His voice was kind and comforting and I longed so much for the same kind of comfort that I had to turn my back and appear to be interested in standing on tiptoe to peer through the window. Dale meanwhile, refused to be calmed.

“It’s a mistake, a muddle! They’ve got to come back! I want something to eat. I want to sleep! Oh, my God, what are we to do? Can’t we get out through the window?”

Brockley sat down on the floor, drawing her down
with him, and cradled her, murmuring to her as though he were soothing a child. I made myself concentrate on the window. It was nothing but a little square hole in the stonework, only a foot high and less than that across. No one could possibly have got out of it. Outside, darkness had almost fallen, but I could make out that the fog seemed to be lifting. Vaguely, I could see the vapors dissolving, and after a moment I made out a dim skyline. I could hear the hissing of the wind, too, and when I pushed a hand through, I found that once again, it was raining. “I’m afraid the window’s too small,” I said. “Besides, we don’t know where we are.”

“In the Black Mountains,” Brockley said. “I heard Pugh say so. But it doesn’t help much, that’s true enough.”

I had been the one who had cried out that we had been treated like Isabel and her lover, but until now I hadn’t quite understood what that meant. After all, we were indoors, in shelter of a sort, and it was the month of May. But it was still as cold as winter, up in this high and lonely place. Without food, warmth, or a way out, our shelter was a lethal prison. As I stood there peering through the window, listening to the wind, I realized that Dale was right to be terrified. But before I could give way to terror myself, Brockley said calmly: “We must break the door down if we can. It’s true that we can’t go anywhere now. I’ve an idea it’s raining again—I think I can hear it …”

“You can. It is,” I said shakily.

“Then we’d do better to stay here than go out wandering the mountains at night. But we’ve got to make sure that we can get out when we’re ready. We need food
and sleep even now, but we’ll be that much weaker in the morning. Once it’s daylight and we can see where we’re going, then we’ll try our luck outside—only we must force a way out
now,
while we still have some strength.”

If the weather didn’t clear properly, we might in the morning find ourselves lost in cloud again; day might be as bad as night. But I didn’t say so. “What can we use as a battering ram?” I said.

In the darkness, we groped around the walls of the single room which was all the cottage contained. Dale helped, pulling herself together as best she could. On a ledge by the hearth, she found a long-handled frying pan and a half-used candle. They were hardly suitable implements for breaking down a door, and there was nothing else, nothing whatsoever.

“All right,” said Brockley. “Shoulders and feet it will have to be. A thousand pities it isn’t fastened with a lock, madam. You could get that open with your lock picks.”

“I know. But they’re no use here. Well, we must try what strength will do.”

Tired though we were, one can summon up a lot of strength when the situation is desperate. But it wasn’t enough. We ran at the door, throwing our shoulders against it; we took running kicks at it. It shook but it wouldn’t give. The bar outside was heavy and the hinges were on the other side of a massive doorpost. In fact, when we came in, I had noticed vaguely that whole door looked as though it had originally belonged to some quite different building. There wasn’t much wood up here, after all. An old door from, say, a ruined castle might well have been pressed into use, brought up here on a donkey and fixed into place.

Doors originally made for Norman castles tended to be sturdy. My cousins’ tutor might have given us only limited information on Eleanor of Aquitaine, but he really had known his history, and one of the interesting details he had told us concerned the way to construct a door for defensive purposes. It was done by using two layers of oak planks, one layer set upright and the other one set crossways. Such a door wouldn’t split even under ax blows. It was meant to withstand even the battering ram we hadn’t got. Mere kicking and shouldering would get us nowhere. We gave up at last, gasping and bruised.

“I’m not even carrying a dagger,” Brockley said. He produced a small belt knife, however, and made an attempt to lever the doorpost loose, but this too repelled his efforts. It had been bolted to the stone, and the bolts were in good condition.

Dale said miserably: “Haven’t you got your tinderbox? Couldn’t we light the candle? Just for a bit of light?”

“Light!” I said. “Someone might see it! Here’s Brockley’s tinderbox—I’ve been carrying it all this time.” I brought it out. “Let’s try signaling for help by putting a light in that window!”

“Why should it bring anyone?” Brockley clearly didn’t want us to raise our hopes too much. “They would just think that someone was using the hut. That’s what it’s for, after all.”

“Someone might come and find us anyway. Tomorrow if not today,” pleaded Dale. “If people use the place, then they
come
here—they must! What about that boy we saw? Perhaps he’ll come up here.”

“Perhaps,” said Brockley kindly. From his tone, I knew what he was thinking. The boy had been taking his charges downhill. We had not seen any sheep farther up. The local flocks were not yet being grazed on the high pastures.

“All the same,” I said, “the night’s clearer now. A light would be seen for some way. I did say
signal
. It might attract attention if we did something to make it unusual—kept on moving it in and out of the window, for instance.”

“We could try,” said Brockley. “Give me the tinderbox.”

The candle made us feel better. We were cold and exhausted and hunger and thirst were making themselves felt, but we looked as greedily at that single flame as though it could end all our misery. Brockley held it up to look at the ceiling, in case there were any hope of escape that way. It wasn’t thatch, but was made of planks, nailed to rafters. We might have broken through it if we could have reached it, and if, again, we had had anything to use as a ram. But as things were, the ceiling offered no more hope than the door. Brockley also attempted to get up the chimney, but it was too narrow and there were no holds for hands or feet. The thin chance offered by signaling with the candle was all that remained.