A Traitor's Tears (24 page)

There was a silence. I could feel him hesitating, struggling to decide, his sense of duty battling against his fear. I waited. At last he answered me.

‘Very well, madam. Fran and I won't enter the city. We'll come with you to its outskirts and wait there. If I am taken,' Brockley said grimly, ‘well, I didn't kill Jane Cobbold but I think I might kill myself.'

‘Brockley, for the love of heaven! Well, that settles it. If I learn nothing to help you when I reach Walsingham – which I fear very much may be the case – then you must leave England at once.'

‘You'll find yourself selling Withysham,' said Brockley painfully.

‘It doesn't matter!'

‘And I know it does. But I can only thank you – and pray it won't be necessary.'

There was a stillness between us as we stood there in the midnight courtyard. It was a long time now since we had realized that our friendship was hurtful to Dale and that we must step away from each other, back into the persons of mistress and servant. Now I knew that the old bond had never broken; only been stretched. Here, in the mingled shadows and white moonlight, it had drawn us together again.
I love this man.

But I must not. And at that moment, to my alarm, I felt within me a treacherous jab of desire, something I had long since sworn I must
never
feel for Brockley, never again. I was within an inch of walking into his arms and at the same moment, he took half a step towards me.

We must not.

I stepped back. ‘Go back to bed,' I said. ‘That's an order, Brockley. Did you leave Dale asleep?'

‘Yes.'

‘If she wakes, she'll wonder where you are. Go back to her. Let her comfort you. I noticed an apothecary's shop here in Kenninghall when we arrived. Tomorrow, if he has the makings, I'll get him to make up a brew to help you sleep. I can give him one of Gladys's recipes. I know it by heart. Brockley, somehow, some way, I will one day have us all peacefully living at Hawkswood together. Even if you do have to spend some time in exile first. Go upstairs, Brockley. Now.'

We set off early the next morning, although we didn't leave Kenninghall quite as soon as we would have liked because first we had to stop at the apothecary's and then, just as we were passing a little shop where bronze and brassware were on view on tables set out in front, a young couple stepped out of it, arm in arm. The girl, who was carrying in her spare hand a basket with bronze dishes in it, glanced up at us and exclaimed: ‘Mistress Stannard!'

We pulled up. ‘Blanche!' I said, and then looked at the young man and recognized the tow-head, beaky nose, jutting cheekbones and intelligent hazel eyes. It was Gilbert Shore. They beamed at us and I gazed at Blanche in astonishment. Here before me was a girl who was happy and in love and the difference between her and the mousey, gawky Blanche I had met in Agnes Wyse's house was staggering. This girl was graceful and assured and even the hair in front of her linen hood now gleamed golden brown. ‘Blanche … Shore?' I said.

‘Blanche Shore,' said Gilbert proudly. ‘And we are buying things for our new home. I have begged a morning off by promising to make up the time by working late for a few days. I've rented a cottage in this street – that one.' He pointed. ‘I couldn't take Blanche to the cottage on the estate; I was sharing that with three other young men. Can you spare a little time to take some ale with us, at home? There's a stable at the back, for my cob, but there are empty stalls as well.'

They were longing to entertain, longing to show off their very first home. We could only say yes.

‘We heard from Mistress Wyse that you had married,' I said, when we were sipping ale in their tiny but cosy parlour.

‘I don't suppose she was happy about it,' said Blanche, without concern. ‘I never did understand what she really wanted for me, whether she hoped for a wealthier marriage than this, or no marriage at all so that I could go on being her companion. But either way, I prefer Gilbert!' She gave him a sparkling look and he grinned back.

‘I can tell you exactly what she wanted for you,' he said. ‘To be the unworldly, admiring little cousin, walking in the shadow of an oh-so elegant and fascinating older woman. You escaped and I hear she's furious. I find it a pleasant thought!'

‘You really did dislike her!' I said.

‘Dislike her?' Gilbert's Norfolk accent deepened under the influence of emotion. ‘I nearly never got born because of her!'

‘Er …' I said, not understanding.

‘I'm twenty-two,' said Gilbert. ‘Twenty-four years ago, my father was betrothed to my mother, but still living with his own parents and they were neighbours of Agnes Wyse, on visiting terms. She never took much heed of my future dad then.
Until
he was betrothed, and then sometimes my mother, just a young girl, would join him and her future in-laws when they went visiting. Agnes didn't like that! That woman can't bear to see a man more attracted to another woman than to her. Oh, she couldn't have shown it so openly if her husband had been there, but Robert Wyse was often away and then my lady was free to ogle.'

‘You mean she …?' said Brockley, looking as though he had just bitten into an unripe lemon.

‘Dunno whether it would ever have gone beyond ogling,' said Gilbert. ‘But she flattered my dad, who was no more then than a lad of nineteen, and offered him the best of the pasties she made with her own pretty hands –
so important that a young woman should cook well; can you cook, my dear?
That's what she said to my mother. As well as advising her on beauty, the kind of advice that makes it clear to a wench that she ain't beautiful enough as she is, and asking my dad if he was clever about repairing things – a chair of hers needed a new leg and there was a leak in her cottage roof; maybe he could come round some time and see to them.'

‘Good grief!' said Dale.

‘Oh, I know all about it,' Gilbert said. ‘My granddad – my father's father – told me. It was him put a stop to it. Seems my father was fair bemused by it all, and started going to see Agnes on his own and my mother's parents heard about it and came near to breaking the betrothal off. But they had the good sense to tell Granddad, and he said enough was enough and forbade any of his family to go near Mistress Fascinating Wyse. He hurried the marriage on –
and
saw to it that my parents went to live in another village, away from here. But it was a near thing. I came very close to never existing! Think of that, Blanche!'

‘I do, and it's a dreadful thought,' said Blanche. ‘All the same, she was kind to me in her way. She did take me in when I was orphaned.'

‘Just as well,' said Gilbert. ‘The likes of Mistress Wyse need
something
on the credit side of the Recording Angel's ledger! You're too soft-hearted, my love. That one's the sort as has to be queen of the hive, and women like that are dangerous.'

But as he looked at her, he was smiling, and she smiled back. They would be all right, I thought. Blanche had got away and Agnes had never had a hope of snaring Gilbert. She'd nearly kept his parents from marrying, and he clearly didn't mean to forgive that.

Blanche said, with laughter in her voice: ‘Her son, Roland, he made her cross once by speaking up for us. During the last visit he made, just after she'd found out that Gilbert was courting me. He met us out walking and talked to us and got on well with you, didn't he, Gilbert? Then, when he came back to the house he said to Cousin Agnes, how nice it was that I had a suitor, and that he approved of Gilbert. Oh, she didn't like that. Said she had other plans for me and would he please mind his own business. I wasn't in the room, but I overheard.'

‘He seemed a curious character,' Gilbert remarked. ‘I can't quite say why, but he did. But generous. Before he left, he quietly slipped Blanche and me a couple of gifts. He gave Blanche a pretty necklace of freshwater pearls, and he gave me a very handsome dagger. I'd never owned one before. That's it, up on the wall above the hearth.'

We all turned to look, and my stomach jolted, for I immediately recognized the silver hilt with its pattern of curving, interlinked lines. I had seen it last in unforgettable circumstances.

Jutting out of Jane Cobbold's heart.

‘It isn't that valuable, I understand,' Gilbert said. ‘The hilt's not solid silver or anything like that. But it's a handsome bit of work and daggers like that are popular among young men in London and at court, so Roland said. He said he'd bought several of them because they made such acceptable gifts – for Christmas and so forth.'

‘It doesn't prove anything,' I said to Brockley and Dale, as we made our way out of Kenninghall village. ‘Those daggers are common in London. Roland Wyse owned several, and such a dagger was used to kill Jane Cobbold, but that isn't evidence that it belonged to him.'

‘No,' Brockley said thoughtfully. ‘No, it proves nothing. But it's another pointer. Not a strong one, but …'

‘It's a straw in the wind,' Dale said emphatically. ‘It was him. I know it was! And somehow or other it's got to be proved.' Her protuberant blue gaze was turned towards me. ‘You'll find a way, won't you? You'll show the world the crime was done by Wyse, and set my Roger free?'

‘I'll try,' I said. ‘I'll try.'

I wished I knew how.

‘I really think,' I said fastidiously, as we stood holding our saddlebags and letting our shoulder satchels slide to the floor, ‘that it would be doing this place a great favour if the Spinners took it over! Whatever one can say about their honesty, they do know how to run an inn. They have
some
standards.'

I stared across the floor of the taproom in The Boar. As ever, there were mouse droppings in the straw and if the cobbles had ever been swept, let alone washed, it probably wasn't since the previous century. ‘I'm sorry to be leaving you in such a place, but I can get to Whitehall from here quite quickly. Brockley, will you see if there are rooms free? And what sort of supper we can have?'

Brockley went to find the landlord. Dale and I waited. The taproom was gloomy, with no lights as yet though the day was dull and evening was near. The room was crowded with its usual rough and ready clientele. The smell of unwashed humanity mingled with the reek of ale and old straw. I noticed, though, that the inn did have some customers of a better type, for when a serving boy with a tray of wine opened the door to the parlour that we had once used, I glimpsed a card table, lit by two branched candlesticks, and card-playing gentlemen with smart ruffs and slashed doublets, striped hose and polished riding boots.

Brockley came back, bringing tankards of ale and the news that yes, there were rooms for us. ‘And there's pigs' trotters or beef sausages for supper along with pottage, and some sort of fruit pudding to follow. It'll do. I said don't skimp the portions; we've been travelling and we're hungry.'

We drank our ale, went to look at our rooms and deposit our bags in them, and then went down again to find a table. The parlour now occupied by the card players was the only private room there was and clearly we couldn't use it this time. Our food arrived and with it, a flagon of wine. I poured for us all and sipped my own, which turned out to be horrible.

At the same moment, I noticed that another tray of wine had been taken into the parlour, and as I once more caught a glimpse of the fashionably clad occupants, I wondered – and doubted – if they were being fobbed off with the same sour vintage. Opposite me, Brockley had sipped at his own glass and was making a face. ‘Madam, this liquid is … is …'

‘Cat's piss,' said Dale inelegantly, having tried it in her turn and setting down her glass with a bang.

‘Brockley,' I said, ‘can you ask for a flagon of the same wine that has just gone into the parlour? If the gentlemen in there are meekly drinking this, I am Philip of Spain.'

Brockley obliged. After a short altercation with the landlord, he came back with a fresh flagon and glasses, and a sulky potboy who removed the first consignment. ‘That's better,' I said to the Brockleys, after trying out the fresh offering, which was a considerable improvement. ‘Now, we have things to talk about.'

Shortly before reaching The Boar we had stopped at the vicarage attached to a big church and asked the incumbent if he knew where the court was. He did. The queen was back from her summer progress and the court was at Whitehall. ‘Tomorrow I make straight for Whitehall,' I said, ‘and I must see Walsingham and ask to examine that cipher letter for myself. I shall want you to stay here and be as unobtrusive as you can.'

Privately, I had little hope that examining the cipher would bear any fruit; I was certain at heart that Walsingham had had it checked. But I must know for sure whether Wyse had been falsifying the evidence. It didn't seem probable that he could have done so undetected but no path, however faint, must be ignored. Not with Brockley's life at stake.

I would also tell Poole's story to Walsingham. It
did
link Jane, Jarvis and Wyse, however tenuously. I must plead Brockley's case somehow. I must also try to learn from Walsingham what friends, what interests, Wyse had. My fear for Brockley was steadily growing, and more swiftly than ever since he had talked of killing himself if he were taken back to Lewes. Nor could I hope that he and Dale would be happy in exile. Somehow or other, his name had to be cleared.

We had finished eating and were sipping the last of the wine, when the door of the parlour opened and one of the card players came out. He looked round, and then made straight for us. In the dull light, he was beside our table before we recognized him. Then Dale said: ‘Master Ryder!' and Brockley stood up, and so did I, reaching out a hand to the newcomer.

‘Whatever brings you here? But I'm very glad to see you,' I said.