A Traitor's Tears (4 page)

Before I left Whitehall, Elizabeth also presented me with a small purse of money, which I used before starting for home, by visiting a cloth warehouse and buying a roll of lightweight worsted. It was a new type of cloth which I had already found ideal for making summer-weight cloaks and everyday dresses. I talked to the merchant across a counter in a congested room where the walls were covered all the way up to the ceiling by shelves full of fabric rolls. The higher shelves were only accessible from ladders. He said I was lucky that he actually had some worsted available.

‘It's hard to get. I've had to bring some in from abroad. The Guild of Weavers that make the old heavy cloth have been creating a to-do and saying this new stuff is affecting their business, and they've somehow got a regulation made about how many worsted weaving looms can be allowed in the country. I know all about it because one of the Guild officials is my brother-in-law and often dines with me.'

The merchant grinned. He was a small, bald man, with bright grey-green eyes in a wrinkled face. ‘Since he
is
a relative, in a way, I took the liberty of telling him not to be a noddy. If folk want this new kind of cloth, I said, they'll clamour till they get it. Your weaving shed's big enough to take an extra loom or two! Apply for a licence and put in a couple of worsted looms. King Canute couldn't turn the tide back and nor can you. But he wouldn't have it. Nice man, in his way, and good to my sister, but when it comes to business he can't see past the end of his nose.'

Turning round, he stepped nimbly on to a ladder, went up three steps and heaved a roll of cloth down to the counter below, where it landed with a thud. Stepping down again, he unrolled a length for my inspection.

‘This is good hardwearing cloth, if it being brown is all right with you. It'll take a black or dark blue dye if you want …'

I bought it and watched while he put a length of twine round it, and put it in a hamper. Then he came out of the warehouse with me and Brockley helped him to add it to the load on the extra packhorse. Sybil and I – and Dale, too – would have new dresses and cloaks out of that, and making them would keep us busy for a while.

The pause at the warehouse had delayed our start and it was late in the evening when the chimneys of Hawkswood at last came into view. We had been sighted, and found a welcome waiting for us in the courtyard. As we rode in, our two half-mastiffs, Hero and Hector, bounded joyfully towards us and there were our three grooms, and Tessie with Harry in her arms, and beside her was our tall grey-haired steward Adam Wilder, beaming, and there was Gladys, with the leer that with her did duty as a smile.

From an upstairs window, two of our maids, Phoebe and Netta, waved dusters to us and in the kitchen doorway stood John Hawthorn, the cook, big and impressive, arms akimbo, and there behind him were his assistants, Joan and Ben Flood, respectively clutching a long wooden spoon and a rolling pin. Savoury supper smells drifted past them to add to the greeting and my stomach rumbled.

‘It's good to be home,' I said to Sybil.

It was slightly less good when, as soon as we were indoors and had changed and come down to the big hall to eat the supper that smelt so appetising, Wilder presented me with a letter bearing the Cobbold seal.

‘It came yesterday, madam.'

‘Thank you, Wilder.' I broke the seal and undid the little scroll. It was an invitation to dine with the Cobbolds the following week. Anthony Cobbold understood, because of a chance meeting with Adam Wilder in Woking, that I had been to court but was likely to be home by then and it had been so long since I last visited. Please would I bring charming Mistress Jester and, of course, my two good servants the Brockleys. Master Cobbold awaited my reply with impatience.

‘I'm invited – or bidden – to Cobbold Hall for dinner next week,' I said to Wilder.

‘I guessed as much, madam. John Hawthorn saw his cousin, the one who works at Cobbold Hall, only yesterday.' Wilder smiled. ‘You have been in London with the queen, you see. Master Cobbold will surely want to hear your news.'

‘He'll hope that Her Majesty's power and influence will have rubbed off on me and that some of it will miraculously rub off on him!' I said candidly. ‘I don't suppose Jane Cobbold is overjoyed.'

‘I daresay she does her husband's bidding,' Wilder said mildly.

‘Just about,' said Brockley, who had just come in from the stable, where he had been rubbing his horse down. ‘Thin ice over very cold water, if you ask me.'

‘I'll have to accept,' I said, with regret.

S
ince my return to England the previous year, I had not dined with the Cobbolds, though I had met them twice at the home of Christina Ferris, their younger daughter, who had resolutely remained friendly to me. On a few occasions too, Anthony had made informal visits to Hawkswood, bringing a stiff and reluctant Jane with him.

Faced with this unwanted invitation, I too was reluctant, but as with the summons to see Norfolk die, I decided to make the best of it. Maintaining social contacts with my neighbours was a necessary part of my strategy for making myself and Harry acceptable.

Therefore, I and my companions dressed well for the visit, put smiles on our faces, and got out the old coach that had belonged to Hugh, so that Dale and Sybil and I could travel in style. Our usual coachman, Arthur Watts, who was also our head groom, had no more wish to visit Cobbold Hall than I had, and was happy enough to let Brockley take the reins for the day, so Brockley, dressed in his best black suit, did the driving.

Cobbold Hall was a pleasant house. It was smaller than Hawkswood, with fewer rooms, most of them less spacious than mine, but all comfortably furnished, and the grounds were quite extensive. There were formal gardens close to the house and further out were a shrubbery, an orchard, a vegetable garden, a park which included an extensive oak wood, three or four outlying cottages with their own gardens, and then a couple of smallholdings.

The path to the house led past one of the cottages, which was occupied by a solitary, middle-aged man called Jack Jarvis, who represented one of Jane Cobbold's charities. Jane might be, and was, thoroughly narrow-minded, regarding me as immoral and unwomanly, but she had her virtues nonetheless and she was generous to the poor. Jack Jarvis had fallen on hard times when the common land, where he had once grazed sheep, was enclosed for a landlord's benefit and anyone who wished to graze their animals there was thereafter charged for the privilege. Jarvis could not afford the charge and lost his livelihood.

The cottage and its garden had at that time been unoccupied and neglected. Jane Cobbold had persuaded Anthony to let Jarvis have the place for a modest rent, on the understanding that he would tidy it up and support himself by growing vegetables and keeping poultry.

Jarvis had done fairly well. I had heard – via John Hawthorn and his Cobbold Hall cousin – that the Lion Inn in Woking habitually bought not only vegetables, but also eggs and fowls for the table from him, and that he also regularly took his produce to market in Woking and rarely brought any of it back unsold.

The weather was sunny, and when we rode past he was working in his garden. He came to the gate to doff his battered straw hat to us. He was not a prepossessing individual, being skinny and scruffy, with large red ears poking through the lank grey hair that hung to his shoulders. The left ear had a white scar across it, as though he had been in a knife fight at some time. But he was mannerly enough, and I gave him a couple of coins, which he accepted without any false protests.

When I offered him a small gift as well, he accepted that too, with alacrity. Knowing that we might encounter him, I had brought him a belt of good polished leather, with a little ornamental chasing on the steel buckle. I think I did it as a means of hinting to Jane Cobbold that I, too, was a charitable lady, but when I saw how worn and old was the belt he was wearing, I was glad I had thought of it. He waved his awful straw headpiece to us as we rode on our way, and Brockley said: ‘Next time, madam, I recommend bringing him a hat.'

‘If there is a next time,' I said. ‘I expect Master Cobbold had hard work to talk his wife into inviting us even just this once.'

Anthony came out to welcome us in person. He was a tall, saturnine man, his dark eyes deep set under black, winged eyebrows, and Sybil always said he looked so demonic that he made her nervous. In fact, he was a pleasant and peace-loving man. Brockley, as always when possible, went with the grooms to see that the horses were properly cared for while Dale came into the house with Sybil and me, walking correctly just behind us.

We were led into the parlour, where Jane awaited us. She rose as we entered, and I saw that she too had made the best of things and dressed for the occasion, though her efforts hadn't been entirely successful. Jane had never been a very good-looking woman and she had put on weight since I last saw her, with the result that she was now almost ugly. Extra flesh had blurred the bone structure of her face and her elegantly embroidered sleeves, close-fitting from elbow to wrist, were strained into creases by the plump arms inside them. The rings that adorned her short, fat fingers looked too tight for comfort. She spoke a few formal words of welcome and remarked on the warmth of the day. We took seats, Dale choosing a low stool at a little distance from the rest of us. Wine was brought in by John Hawthorn's cousin, and conversation commenced.

Everyone was on their best behaviour. We began by discussing matters agricultural. Anthony Cobbold said they were having trouble this year in getting hold of the men who usually sheared their sheep. A neighbouring farm had increased the size of its flock and the men were having to stay there for longer than in previous years. However, it had been possible to cut the hay on the home farm in good time, and the yield had been satisfactory.

I responded by saying that on the Hawkswood home farm, haymaking was in progress and seemed promising. I hoped the good weather would hold.

‘I never look forward to haymaking!' Jane said. ‘It causes trouble indoors, believe it or not. Every year, one of my maids, as soon as haymaking time comes round, begins to sneeze and
sneeze
. I can't allow her to work in the kitchens or serve food until the end of August.'

The conversation moved on to the subject of food. Jane gave us an anecdote about a new recipe which her cook had tried and which had gone disastrously wrong. She made a long story of it; Jane was apt to be voluble. ‘We won't be offering you that for dinner, I assure you,' she said, reaching the end at last.

I replied with a similar anecdote; Sybil, whose deceased husband had kept a pie shop in Cambridge, guided the talk towards flavourings for various types of meat. Jane broke in with recommendations of her own. I slipped in a few inoffensive comments. It was all more than a little stilted and I found it a welcome diversion when Hawthorn's cousin (John Hawthorn only ever called him
my cousin
, while the Cobbolds addressed him as Hawthorn and to this day I don't know what his Christian name was) came to announce that dinner was served. We went into the next room, where a table was set and dishes were being placed upon it by several servants, none of whom was the girl with the sneezes.

There was freshly made bread, a cold fennel soup with almonds and ginger to flavour it, roast pork with an apple dressing and accompanying dishes of peas and fried beans, bread pudding with cinnamon in it, and spiced wine custard. There were suitable wines. The talk continued along its careful channels, like a well-regulated river.

The Cobbolds had two married daughters, Alison and Christina. I asked after them. Both were well, Jane said, and both had visited Cobbold Hall recently. The elder girl had made them the grandparents of twin boys, which was delightful.

Anthony nodded and said that although Christina had originally married against his wishes, he was now getting to like her husband. ‘Our two families were on bad terms for generations and it was time to put an end to it. When it came to the point, I found it much easier than I expected. Christina has just told us that she expects her first child soon. I hope for a little granddaughter.'

I expressed congratulations and Sybil praised the apple dressing with the pork. Jane thanked her. Anthony spoke of the excellent cuisine at the Lion in Woking and how pleased they were that their tenant Jack Jarvis now contributed to it. Jane agreed and said that Jarvis was proving a satisfactory tenant. Talking about good and bad tenants took us safely through second helpings of roast pork.

We were broaching the bread pudding and the spiced wine custard when Anthony observed that he had seen me recently, riding a horse he hadn't seen before. ‘You used to have a dapple grey, did you not, Mistress Stannard? Have you sold her?'

‘That was Roundel. No, I still have her, but she is out at grass as she has a foal. The black mare you saw me on is called Jewel. I bought her recently. She is a most comfortable ride.'

‘Ah. So last year, when you were away so long, you let Roundel be used for breeding.'

‘Yes, that's right. I put my instructions in a letter I sent to Adam Wilder.'

‘The foal is sweet,' said Sybil sentimentally. ‘It's the dearest thing I ever beheld.'

We could talk of the Cobbold grandsons and Roundel's foal but no one asked how my little boy was thriving. I didn't mention him, either.

Dessert came to an end. There was an odd hiatus, because servants should by now have been coming into the room to clear away the used dishes and offer a last round of wine, but there was no sign of them. Anthony began to frown. Jane murmured, ‘Where has everyone got to, I wonder?' and rose to her feet, presumably to enquire into the delay.

Before she reached the door, however, it was thrust open and there in the doorway stood Brockley. The sight of him brought us all to our feet. His receding hair was tangled and speckled with blood. A vivid red patch on his left cheekbone would soon darken into an ugly bruise and he was holding a reddened napkin to his nose. There were scarlet streaks all down his smart black doublet.