Queen Without a Crown (18 page)

I stared. The hall windows had no shutters, and I could clearly see that not only was the hall still lit, but extra lights were being kindled. The chandeliers, in the usual way, had pulley ropes secured to rings on the wall. I could just make out that someone was unfastening one of the ropes. I saw him lower its burden and then use a nearby candle to light those in the ring of the chandelier. New light sprang up. He put his candle back in its holder, released the rope and hauled on the pulley, raising the assembly back to its proper place before knotting the rope into its ring once more. After that, he moved on to another chandelier. It was as though the hall were being prepared for a revel.

I could not see Brockley or Trelawny, but as I peered, trying to discover if they were there, I noticed that the people in the hall were not all men. A female figure had passed across one of the windows. For a moment, I thought: I see. How distasteful, and no wonder Blanche Winthorpe gets out of the way early in the evening. Then I realized that this figure was dignified, stately. Her ruff was vast, her profile lofty. This was no young girl. Nor was it Blanche; this woman was nothing like her. And whoever she was, she looked far more like the lady of a big house than Blanche did.

Somewhere inside me, there was a thud of excitement. Was it possible? Of course it was. Ramsfold was on that list. If I could only see that woman more closely, then I would know.

I was about to close my shutters again when I heard the sound I had been waiting for, that of footsteps going to the room occupied by Brockley and Trelawny. Ulverdale was apparently with them, but I heard him bid them goodnight, and then the sound of his feet retreating. Their door closed, and my ears picked up another small sound. They, too, were unshuttering their window.

The night was cold, and I put a cloak on before I left my room. I caught up my candle and hastened out to tap on their door. Trelawny opened it.

‘Something’s happening in the hall,’ I said shortly. ‘I heard you open your shutters. Did you see?’

‘We did indeed, madam,’ Brockley said as Trelawny drew me inside. ‘We didn’t learn anything from the men this evening,’ he added. ‘All the talk was of cards and hunting, hounds and horses. Then everyone said they were going to bed, and when we came up here, we found our shutters closed. But somehow . . .’

‘Ulverdale insisted on lighting us to bed,’ said Trelawny, ‘but when we left the hall, we noticed that no one seemed to be putting any lights out. We thought it odd, and when we got here, we looked out to see what was afoot. I scent unlawful doings. Treason, maybe.’

‘We need a better vantage point,’ I said.

‘The minstrels’ balcony,’ said Brockley. ‘We can probably see without being seen
and
hear, from up there.’

‘How do we get there?’ I said.

‘Back along this passage to the gallery where we went earlier, along the rear wing of the house, madam,’ said Brockley. ‘From the far end, there’s a door to the balcony.’

‘During the evening,’ explained Trelawny, ‘we both made excuses to leave the hall for calls of nature and managed to slip out without escorts. We both – er – missed our way in the process. You could say we did a little sniffing around. Literally.’

He grinned, with a flash of good white teeth from the midst of his beard and a wicked smile. ‘The men use a privy in the rear wing, under that gallery where Ulverdale caught us all earlier on. Brockley here found a stair up to the gallery and explored. He now has a good idea of its layout. All I – or my nose – discovered was the wine cellar. There’s a grating in the courtyard, and you can smell wine if you stand over it. The way down must be from the hall at the kitchen end – I saw servants coming up that way, with flagons. Odd, but this house has seen a good few alterations in its time, I fancy. Well, Brockley’s our guide now.’

‘Come on,’ said Brockley.

Quietly, we left the room. In a whisper, I enjoined caution. ‘Someone went this way earlier. I heard them and saw their light. We’d better blow our candles out or we might be seen. I hope no one is lying in wait in the minstrels’ balcony!’

The wide rear gallery had been created to give bygone ladies of the house somewhere to walk in bad weather. We could see our way without candles for the night was clear, if frosty, and there was a moon. It didn’t penetrate the passage outside our rooms, but here it cast pale rectangles of light across the floor. ‘This is a ghostly place,’ I whispered. ‘I’m glad I’m not alone.’

‘If we meet a ghost, Brockley and I will draw swords on it. Nothing like moonlit steel for separating real spooks from frauds,’ Trelawny whispered back.

Brockley murmured: ‘There’s torchlight ahead. I think it’s over a door to Mistress Blanche’s bedchamber. It’s a room above her parlour, anyway.’

We went warily, keeping to the shadows, but no one stopped us. The light was a flambeau in a wall bracket, illuminating a recessed door which, I noticed, was bolted on our side. ‘The little stair I found is just ahead,’ whispered Brockley, pointing. ‘And the way into the minstrels’ balcony is here on the left. Careful, now.’

‘If the balcony is empty,’ Trelawny said softly, ‘we’ll creep on to it. Pull your cloaks over your faces, and if anyone looks up at the gallery, shut your eyes. Eyes can glint in even the faintest light.’

He steered us to an archway on the left where we found another, smaller, recessed door. There was no flambeau here, and Trelawny had to feel for the latch. He lifted it noiselessly and inched the door open. ‘It’s clear,’ he breathed. ‘If anyone came this way, they went on down to the hall.’

Very quietly, we slipped inside. The hall below was well lit, by all three chandeliers plus numerous candles, and I was alarmed for a moment to see that the nearest chandelier cast a strong light on the middle of the balcony. Then I saw that we were at one end, and both ends were deep in shadow. If we made no noise, and no sudden moves which might catch the tail of someone’s eye, we would probably remain unseen.

Carefully, holding our cloaks over our faces, the three of us sank down to crouch behind the wooden railings which edged the balcony. We could see between them, without being dangerously close, and if we couldn’t hear as well as we would have liked, we could still hear enough.

What was happening down below was no revel. Those concerned were seated in businesslike fashion round the central table, and their faces were intent, brows furrowed and mouths unsmiling. Their dress was formal: ruffs and doublets; cloaks for warmth. There were six of them: the three men we had seen playing cards in the hall, Ulverdale, a man I recognized as the groom who had taken our horses and the woman I had glimpsed through the window earlier.

The woman was evidently in charge. She had her back to the balcony, but as we were well to one side, we could see part of her face, outlined against the light from a tall candlestick on her right. She was somewhere in early middle life, her head-carriage haughty and her dress imposing: green and gold brocade with a splendid ruff and a jewel-sewn headdress over crimped waves of pale-gold hair. Her voice carried, too; educated and commanding.

As we took our places, she had just interrupted the man on her left. ‘Cease repeating yourself, Robby. Obviously, we must choose our moment with care, and our friends across the border must be warned that that Protestant vixen in Windsor intends to send Lord Sussex into Scotland to hale the fugitives back. Ulverdale, where is that map?’

‘Here, Lady Anne.’ Ulverdale reached under his cloak and produced a scroll, which he handed to her.

Brockley, easing his cloak briefly away from his mouth, breathed: ‘Lady Anne who?’ into my ear.

I was almost sure I knew the answer to that. The woman below answered perfectly to the description I had been given of Northumberland’s wife. I could remember the wording clearly.
Tall, well dressed. Ash-pale hair, commanding manner; clear voice.
This had to be Lady Anne of Northumberland, who along with Jane Neville of Westmorland (whose description was
middle height, plain of face, nondescript brown hair and a shrew
) had been one of the driving forces behind the rebellion. Here was Lady Anne, still in England when she was supposed to be in Scotland. Rumour had spoken the truth.

I turned, meaning to whisper a reply to Brockley, and found that I had a foot caught up in my cloak hem. I edged it free, but as I did so, there was the faintest rustle and a tiny creak from the wooden balcony floor. The woman raised her head. ‘What was that? I heard something.’

She looked about her, and then, though only momentarily, up at the minstrels’ balcony. As her gaze came in our direction, I shut my eyes against the danger of a fugitive candle-beam and hoped the others had done the same. There in the darkness, we cowered, as still as though we had been turned to ice. Ulverdale said: ‘This place has rats, like everywhere else, and houses always creak at night. But I wish, my lady, if you will forgive me, that we had held this meeting in your tower or delayed it until these inconvenient travellers had left.’

‘We have urgent matters to discuss, and who knows how long our unwanted guests will stay? Also,’ said Lady Anne, quite petulantly, ‘I find it tedious to be confined to my tower. I’ve been there all this evening. One cannot even embroider in winter; candlelight isn’t good enough. Being a man, you wouldn’t know. I suffered from ennui. This is the second time we have had wayfarers in the house since I arrived. Why do folk journey about in the winter? Though they at least are free to roam. I pity Queen Mary, shut up in Tutbury. I tell you, I welcomed a change of scene tonight. Set the dogs to ratting in the morning. Now, the map.’

We had not been seen. We breathed easily again. Below us, the woman was unrolling the map on the table. Her voice came again. ‘Our friends across the border should be urged to seek sanctuary in this direction.’ Her left forefinger pointed to something on the map. I saw a wedding ring glint on the same hand. ‘They can perhaps then make their way south, get
behind
Sussex’s men, cross into England and come here. Blanche’s villagers can billet them if they overflow from this house.’

‘She won’t like it,’ said Ulverdale. ‘And she’s capable of betraying us if we don’t take care. There’s more of her mother in her than you realize, my lady of Northumberland. Have you met her mother?’

I felt Brockley twitch and, on the other side of me, thought I just detected Trelawny’s indrawn breath. They both knew who she was now, without my telling them. There was no doubt either about the nature of the meeting in the hall. It was a council of war.

‘I have not met Blanche’s mother, but it makes no matter,’ said Lady Anne coldly. ‘Blanche will do as she is bid or lose her home. She must be kept from private talk with these strangers, however, just in case she risks underhand dealings. One of them is from Elizabeth’s very court! Our supporters must not be taken by Sussex. They must return here and regroup . . .’

Ulverdale said something, in which the word
timing
was audible.

Anne made an impatient gesture. ‘Of
course
the right timing is crucial. We would be wise to wait until Elizabeth’s reprisals are over. They will work for us, if we let her have her head. Let the red mare,’ said Anne of Northumberland viciously, ‘gallop to her destruction. Let her thunder blindly on over the precipice. All these hangings will breed much bitterness, and that will bring us new support. Cumberland may change his mind and come in with us after all. We shall be upheld by the Pope; I have received word that he proposes to issue a Bull to that effect. That will encourage new recruits.

‘Once the north is quiet again and Elizabeth is off her guard, we shall be at our strongest, and then we shall strike. And Scotland will be wide open to Mary’s reinstatement. Our queen will have her crown again. Which brings us to item two on this agenda . . .’

‘Ah, yes,’ said Ulverdale. ‘I think we should send two messengers. The one who is to warn our fugitive supporters will have enough to do. The other must go to Archbishop Hamilton of St Andrews. He is the conduit for passing word to the chosen assassin. The sooner that Regent Moray is out of Queen Mary’s path, the better. A dead Regent of Scotland is what we want, not a displaced one.’

Up in the gallery, all three of us went rigid. We dared not turn our heads even by a fraction to look at each other, but we felt each other’s rigidity all the same. This was not just the scent, but the stench, of treason. The very air was stiff and noisome with shock.

With his forefinger still tracing lines on the map, Ulverdale said: ‘Who would be the best couriers?’

‘My two retainers,’ said Lady Anne. ‘They both come from the border and they both know southern Scotland better than anyone else here – and better than any of the village lads, either.’

‘Aye,’ said one of the other men. ‘The lads still left in the village are good Northumbrians, but none of them have been further than twenty miles from home in their lives. All the more experienced village men are over the border with the earl, along with most of the men who used to serve this house. Lady Anne’s lads will do better.’

‘Quite.’ Lady Anne nodded. ‘They had better set out at dawn. Yes, Hankin? You want to say something?’

The groom had cleared his throat. ‘They’ll have a hard ride,’ he said and pointed at the windows.

While we had been huddled in the minstrels’ gallery, the moonlight had vanished into cloud. A candle, shining from the sill, showed us that it was snowing. Big flakes, falling thickly.

Beside me, Trelawny breathed: ‘The ground will be three feet deep by morning.’

Most Hateful Task

I
saw, next morning, that although Trelawny’s forecast of snow three feet deep had been a little too pessimistic, there had certainly been a heavy fall in the night. I remembered what he had said about the wine cellar grating and hoped that someone had closed it; otherwise the cellar would have snow piled up on its floor by now.

We had waited until the meeting below was over, and then crept back through the long gallery, densely dark now that the moon had gone. We held a brief council in my room, but there was little to decide. Our course of action was obvious. The search for the portrait and our errand for the queen had both ended here in Ramsfold, and the presence of Anne of Northumberland must be reported as soon as possible. We must reach Carlisle, inform whoever was in charge there, ask where to find Lord Sussex and then bear the news to him in person. We had no time to lose.