Authors: Fiona Buckley
“Would you assault a man for staying put in his own private parlor?”
“Aye, if necessary. But enough of that. May I sit?”
“Please do. It
is
Master Muir’s parlor, not mine.”
He sat down on a settle near me. “These lodgings are not too bad, I’m glad to see,” he remarked. “As comfortable as anywhere in Edinburgh, I fancy.”
“Yes, indeed.”
A silence fell. Outside, although sunset was more than an hour away, the sky was dimming with the approach of rain. The parlor faced north and was shadowy enough at the best of times; now it was so dark that only the firelight let me see Dormbois’s face. His eyes were fixed on me with a searching look, which I found so disturbing that when at length I felt that the silence had lasted long enough, I said: “What is it?”
“I’m wondering what words to use to ask a question and what you’ll say in answer.”
“Should you not just ask the question and see?” I said uneasily.
He gazed at me for a few more silent moments and then said: “God knows . . .” and stopped.
“God knows what, Sir Brian?”
“What’s going on in your mind and why I feel like this! About a woman like you! You’ve a tongue like the edge of a saw . . .”
Matthew had called me Saltspoon because he said my conversation had so much salt on it. In my head, I heard him whisper it as he had so often done in the darkness and intimacy of the night, and I was shaken to the depths of me.
Matthew. Oh, Matthew . . . !
Not for a sackful of gold would I have shared the darling secret of that pet name with Dormbois, who now said harshly: “You’re not listening!”
“I’m sorry. Please go on. I’ve a tongue like the edge of a saw . . . ?”
“Aye. You have. You can speak words to tear the spirit, and all said as sweet as if you were asking a guest to sit down and take a dram, while you help him off with his boots.”
“If you tried to drink whiskey while someone was pulling your boots off, I think you might spill it.”
“Hell and damnation! You’re doing it again! And every time you do it, my heart turns somersaults and I can scarcely keep my hands off you and I don’t know whether it’s to throttle or to . . . hold you to me till you melt right into me and we’re one for the rest of our lives. Will you wed wi’ me, Madame de la Roche?”
“Will I . . . ?”
“I’m offering you my hand in marriage and my name. You’ll be Lady Brian Dormbois, of Roderix Fort, and I’ll not keep you from your home in the south, either. We can go there each winter and keep Christmas there, if that’s what you’d like. I’ll treat your daughter as mine and find her a nobleman to marry when the time comes. There’s something else that I need to tell you, to show my good faith, but I hope it’ll not make a difference. I’m no longer Catholic. So far I’ve kept up a pretense of it at court, so as not to upset the queen, though I’m open about it outside of the court and she’ll find out sooner or later. That will all just have to take its course. A year or more ago, I heard a sermon by John Knox that changed my mind. It has its advantages,” he said, his grin taking on a ferocious tinge. “The queen’s brother Moray is ardent for the Reformed faith as are many of the lords of her council. Do you mind on the hawking party, when
you saw me come from the house, wrangling with my secretary, Father Bell?”
“Yes. You said he was reminding you of letters to be written, or something of that kind.”
“Aye. So I said, but the truth is, he was at me about my religion and my falling away, as he put it. He canna accept what I’ve done. He’s good to the Catholic folk on my land and he’s a good secretary so I keep him on, but there are times I get gey tired of listening to him, and more than once I’ve threatened to cast him off. He can marry us, though, if ye wish it, and minister to you with the mass and the like, once we are wed. I’ll not hinder your way of worship, never fear it. I’m no’ so extreme as Master Knox. I’ve not mentioned before that I was at the inquiry into your cousin’s death, since I’ve so far wanted you to think I was of your persuasion. But do you mind, at the inquiry, one of his friends pulled him down from the pulpit when he tried to take command?”
“Yes,” I said. “I thought, when we first met, that I’d seen you somewhere before. That was you, wasn’t it?”
“Aye. Knox can go too far, I grant you. He hates having a woman on the throne, too. I’ve no objection mysel’. To my mind, there’s a magic in women that can water a land, and make it prosper, if they use it right.”
I sat there blinking. Not knowing what to make of my silence, he added: “The time might come when I’d be glad of a home in the south, in Elizabeth’s country, maybe. It remains to be seen which way Scotland will go in the end, to the Romans or the Lutherans. But that’s a small thing and not why I’m seeking you in marriage. I’ve plenty to offer in return, to even up the balance, anyhow. I can give you jewels and fine clothes
and good horses, all you could wish. I want you in my bed, Ursula de la Roche. Now, how do you answer?”
I said all the right things. It was a serious proposal and this was no time for clever replies. I said that I recognized that he had paid me a compliment and that I thanked him for it and did not underestimate the benefits he was offering. I pointed out that although it was true that I had a Sussex manor house, and came of a family with a tradition of court service, I nevertheless had no noble connections, such as he had. I reminded him that I was only a natural child, with no known father.
He began to brush this aside as unimportant but I hastened on, saying I had had no idea of the depth of his feelings and apologizing for having accidentally inspired them. I had not meant to do so. I was sorry to give him pain.
But, I said earnestly, I couldn’t marry him. I wasn’t ready yet to marry again, and I wanted to go back to my home and stay there. I didn’t want a life divided between homes more than four hundred miles apart.
“I feared ye’d say that,” he said. “Ye wouldna wed me even to learn who’d pointed the finger at Erichs, though ye say ye’re after the blood of whoever killed your cousin. But what if I name the man who ordered the killing? Not the name of the fellow who did the deed, no—but I know who ordered it.”
The room had now become very dark indeed, except for the flicker of the firelight. The rain had begun, pattering at first and then blowing against the window as a north wind began to gust. “And,” I said, “you’ll tell me if I agree to marry you?”
“Aye. Another inducement. It could count as an extra emerald pendant, maybe?”
“I have no need of it. I think I already know who it was,” I said.
He let out his breath in a long sigh. “I might have guessed that you would. Yes, I see.”
“I’m sorry. I’m really very sorry. I hope you find some more suitable lady—a Scottish lady—who can share your life with you. Sir Brian, I think you should go now.”
A little to my surprise, without further demur, he went, walking obediently out into the rain.
At that moment I felt genuinely sorry for him.
• • •
“I know, Dale,” I said as we trotted along a stretch of track flanked by heathery hillside, traveling northwest, bending our heads against a keen wind and hoping that we were on the right road for Stirling. We had occasionally passed other riders and people trudging sturdily on foot, but not many, and just here, the road was empty apart from ourselves. “But I promise,” I said, “once I have seen Master Henderson, we’ll leave for home. I’ll let him finish the investigating and bring my cousin’s killers to justice—if there is any, in this country.”
“And then we’ll go home, ma’am?”
“Yes. We will. We’ll be riding south in a few days now, and we won’t hurry. We’ll go by easy stages. We’ll be home for the best of the spring. After that, I don’t intend to go traveling anymore. Now what are you shaking your head for?”
“I’m sorry, ma’am. I didn’t mean to shake my head. I didn’t mean anything by it.”
“You mean,” I said resignedly, “that you don’t believe me. That you are quite certain that I shan’t be at home five minutes before I’ll be off again on another mad adventure.” I looked at Brockley, who was jogging on the other side of me, wearing a very large hat and looking unusually broad of chest. “And you,” I said, “are wearing your old helmet under that hat, and your old breastplate under your jacket. I didn’t even know you had them with you!”
“Stuffed into my shoulder bag, madam, from the outset,” said Brockley. “I’ve always heard that the north was wild. Now that we’re seemingly on the track of your cousin’s killers, I felt it was a good time to put them on. As for Fran’s doubts—forgive me, but they’re hardly to be wondered at. In view of the past.”
“I was younger then. I’m beginning to feel more staid as time goes on and I realize that I often ask too much of you, both of you. When we reach Withysham, we’ll stay there.”
“I should like to. The sooner we’re back at Withysham, the happier I’ll be. As steward, I shall find plenty of work waiting for me,” Brockley said. “There always is in spring.”
“Yes, I know.” The three of us began to discuss Withysham, spring sowing, and an idea I had had for buying a new ram to improve our sheep flock. I spoke of my plan to find a tutor who could instruct Meg and myself in Greek, and a lady who could act as a companion for me. As we rode and talked, I scanned the terrain, wondering how many miles we still had to cover. We should
be riding parallel to the firth, which ought to be somewhere over to the right, but the road was lowlying and the distance was hidden by folds of heathery hillside.
The firth was surely there, though, for now and then seagulls glided over from that direction, and the mewing of gulls mingled with the croak of a pair of ravens disturbed by our hoofbeats. Despite the cold, I wished that we were using the firth, that we had hired a boat and were going by water instead, but Brockley had been worried about leaving the horses in a strange livery stable (“You never know how careless they’ll be if you’re not there to keep an eye on things, madam”) and I myself had wanted to set out southward, straight after leaving Stirling, rather than return to Edinburgh to collect our mounts.
I was however finding the ride unusually arduous. We were burdened with our luggage, which meant bulging saddle-and shoulder bags, and also, I had been sleeping badly again, to the point that on the previous evening, Dale had given me another small dose of the poppy draft.
Queen Mary had provided a generous amount and we still had enough for several doses. I had therefore slept well enough the night before, but the fact is that although sick headaches do no lasting harm, they can leave you unsteady for a while, and my two attacks had been vicious. Despite the eight drugged hours just behind me, I was feeling as weary as I knew the Brockleys were. My grip on my saddle pommels wasn’t as secure as usual.
Brockley was also glancing about him while he
talked, as if he too wanted to make out where the firth was. Then, in the midst of suggesting that the Withysham vicar ought to know Greek and might be able to recommend a tutor or even teach it himself, he suddenly stiffened and broke off, twisting in his saddle to look behind him. “There are riders behind us, madam, coming at a gallop. They’re catching up fast.”
“Perhaps they’ll know whether we’re really on the Stirling road. Better draw over to the side, though, in case they’re on urgent business and don’t slow down.”
“Madam, there’s something . . .”
His hand was on his sword hilt. “Careful!” I said. “There are at least a dozen of them. They’ll probably go straight past us . . .”
But Brockley had understood what I had not: that the approaching horsemen had their eyes on us. As they raced toward us, they divided, so as to sweep around us on both sides, bringing us perforce to a frightened halt inside a circle of fierce, bearded riders armed with swords and pikes and bestriding small shaggy mounts with thick manes and tails, which swirled in the wind. They sat still for a moment, and then one of them, who was riding a silver-gray pony with a dark mane and tail, rode forward, pulling off the hat that shadowed his face so that I could see him clearly.
“Sir Brian Dormbois!”
“Mistress Ursula Blanchard—or Madame de la Roche, whichever you prefer. I give you good morning.”
“I don’t understand . . . we’re on our way to Stirling, to where the queen is.” Mentioning the queen sounded more impressive than merely saying
that I wanted to see Rob Henderson. “Have you come to escort us? But who told you we were going?”
“Your landlord, sweetheart,” Dormbois informed me, smile broad and molars glittering. “I spoke with him this morning, no mair nor half an hour after you left him. But you’ll no’ be getting to Stirling this day. The hospitality of Roderix Fort awaits you and the place is no great distance away. Be pleased to come with us, my lady.”
I shouted: “
No!”
at Brockley as he drew his sword and rode forward. I could see what he was trying to do, which was to make a target of just one man and cleave a way out of the circle for us. Once out, we could indeed have stood a chance. The horses we had chosen for our ride to Scotland were built for stamina rather than speed but they still had longer legs than the hairy ponies that our assailants were riding. We might well have outdistanced them. Sir Brian had promised me “good horses,” but by the look of it, we had very different ideas of what a good horse was.
But there were too many of them and it was too dangerous. Brockley ignored my cry of warning and a pike took him in the chest, hurling him out of his saddle. Dale screamed. Dormbois seized my horse’s bridle, wrenching the reins from my grasp and whisking them over my horse’s head. I struck at him with my riding
whip, but he caught my arm, twisted the whip out of my hand, and threw it away. I heard him shout to his men to bring the tirewoman, saw Dale, her shoulder bag bumping from side to side, throw herself off her horse and go to Brockley, heard her despairing shriek of “
Roger!”
as someone scooped her up and put her in front of his saddle.